The Sarcasm Saga: A Tediously Long-Winded Explanation of the Verbal Eye Roll
Image by Sophia Schafer-Wharton
When I think about humor, it’s generally because I’m trying to come up with something clever for The New Yorker’s cartoon caption contest. Barring these frequent instances, however, I’ll generally mull over the astonishing diversity of humor encountered in everyday life – dad jokes, physical comedy, one-liners. And, if you’ll bear with me for a few paragraphs, I’ll give you a fairly comprehensive and completely snark-free investigation of my absolute favorite genre of humor: sarcasm. Okay, snark-free? To quote the inimitable Cher Horowitz: “As if!”
Let’s get into this twisted analysis of my twisted sense of humor.
Personally, like most humans, what I find funny has evolved over the years, and will likely continue to do so. For instance, unlike when I was six, I no longer find the “orange you glad I didn’t say banana” joke amusing. In 2020, consistent sarcasm became part of my admittedly small comedic repertoire. (What didn’t change in 2020?) Faced with staggering social deprivation and the incredible tedium brought on by Zoom school, I turned to humor and binging The Great British Bake-Off to cope. (You don’t need to call me a nerd, I know). I compiled dozens of long, sarcastic lists in a purple notebook I kept on my desk that year, including the immortal Insults I Will Never Utter, which included gems such as “I admire the consistency of your mediocrity” and “you make social distancing fun!” These lists weren’t particularly original or even that funny, but creating them and poking fun at myself brought me some joy in causticity. (This self-inflicted humorous torment was not masochism, I’m painfully sure.) Instead of letting the world’s frankly hellish circumstances dominate my thoughts, I attempted self-regulation by laughing in the worst of times. And even now, I’ll still deploy the same strategies when trying to get out of my own head. There’s nothing like a tad of sarcasm to stave off an approaching panic attack. I guess therapy is a distant second.
As I continued the process of drafting this article, the lovely human over my shoulder gave me some excellent advice: “I know you’re trying to be sarcastic here, but I can’t tell from your writing.” (Thanks for totally shattering my self-esteem, Sophia.) But, seriously (lolz), this piece of input was invaluable: to paraphrase the wise, witty, and prescient Jane Austen: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that sarcasm is harder to detect in writing than in speech.” (Not that Ms. Austen would know anything about failing to get her message across; social critique was kind of her thing.) Anyway, it’s absolutely more difficult to tell when someone is being satirical online: I can plead guilty to staring obsessively at my phone after receiving a frustratingly vague text – wait, do they actually mean XYZ, oh god, that’s a period, they hate me – and part of this is a product of the admittedly weird convolutions of the teenage psyche. (Social anxiety again – is there anything it can’t do?) But sarcasm in the age of the Internet, sarcasm for millennials and Gen Z and – frighteningly – Gen Alpha, is harder to detect than with any generations before, simply because we interact more through nonverbal formats. I challenge you to read the transcript of Stephen Colbert’s remarks at the 2006 White House Correspondents’ Dinner and then watch the recording of his performance. Two totally different speeches – you’ll see it when you see it. Physical and auditory cues – moving your hands, shifting your tone of voice, raising your eyebrows – play an invaluable role in the communication and reception of sarcasm; these cues are largely lost in the two-dimensional format of a doomscroll, where everything you read is taken at face value. How can this be addressed? Considering my total lack of actual experience in the world of comedy, I’m not the person to ask. Call Stephen Colbert.
As I attempt to bring this piece to a satisfying conclusion, I’m reminded of a New York Times article I read a few months ago about the texting abbreviation IJBOL (I just burst out laughing). The piece argued that the unique quality of this phrase was its authenticity, the fact that it communicated a genuine human reaction to something funny. Shirley Wang, the author, suggested this organic effect is destroyed when chronicled in a paper as well-read as the Times. I have to admit, I’m slightly concerned this stream-of-consciousness article may do the same to sarcasm: by attempting to explain or analyze it, I’ve stripped it of its power. But on the other hand, I think sarcasm is a little more resilient than that: after all, it’s stuck around for all these years. As I learned in Sequoyah physics teacher Kevin Delin’s Summer Read seminar on “Sarcasm: When You Didn’t Get The Joke” this fall, sarcasm and irony in literature have been frequently, politically, and hilariously employed, including Jonathan Swift’s 1729 treatise “A Modest Proposal” (which proposes the sale and consumption of Irish children as a strategy for combating the nation’s poverty) and Benjamin Franklin’s 1781 essay “To the Royal Academy of Farting” (no further explanation needed). And, as the years continue, humor will no doubt continue furthering political commentary, calling out bigots, and creating levity in the worst of times – as long as Bowen Yang never leaves Saturday Night Live.
So, all – um, most – jokes aside, why am I writing this article? It’s not because I think I’m a comedic genius, nor to showcase the frequent use of sarcasm among mentally ill teens (hey, that’s me!). It’s because I am of the firmly held conviction that more laughter is never a bad thing. And, to quote the immortal Groucho Marx: “If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, I would be happy to do it for you.”
No, I really would.
In the interests of fully conveying the sarcasm in this article, the author has included a recording of herself reading the piece. She encourages you to listen if you have nothing better to do.