satire

Gender-focused humor and satirical sexism that both celebrates feminism and parodies its shortcomings.

"It's the thought that counts.". Top Story - March 2026.
It's Mothers' Day (Mother's Day? Mothering Sunday?) tomorrow here in Britain. I am going out for lunch and may have to dress up. I am looking forward to it. There is an expectation of gifts too. Who doesn't like a gift?
By Rachel Deeming6 months ago in Viva
John Beam: Legendary Oakland football coach wounded in Laney College shooting
A staff member in the athletic department at a California community college was shot on campus Thursday, school officials said.
By AHMED KAZEKA10 months ago in Viva
Lessons I Wish I Had Learned
Yesterday I had a melt down. I just flipped out all by myself because I couldn't find my favorite dress. I threw all the clothes in my closet and dresser looking for it. Then I realized it was in the dryer and I was so relieved even if I had a lot of clothes to pick up off the floor and put away again. It's a silly dress by fashionista standards. I paid about $20 for it at one of those hard-to-get-to unique stores. It's like that dress that Charlotte was wearing in Vegas when her best gal pals (a scene from Sex and the City) were making fun of her. They said it wasn't classy, kinda cheap looking, kinda "sluttyish"... Charlotte just shrugged. She liked the dress and the way she looked in it. That's exactly how I feel in my favorite dress. It's size XL and stretchy polyester material. It's lightweight and cool and comfortable. It's a simple pattern style design and it accentuates the curvy body. It's perfect for my body. Do you know how hard it is for an inverse triangle body to find a dress that looks good on? Almost impossible. The dresses that they sell at the big name brand department store that go for $50 or more and have the sizes that cater to the above size chart, don't care about my body or the bodies of plus-sized women or the bodies of curvy women who defy that size chart. They never have. And we have driven ourselves crazy trying to keep up with the Jones's and the Kardashians with all the reindeer games of "What are you wearing?" and "Where did you get that thing?" instead of just finding what really looked good on us. Who cares what other's think? How do you feel in it? Do you feel fabulous? Then you found the right dress.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman11 months ago in Viva
Penis Envy changed in the 70s
Did you think that Frued was a lunatic or just a sexist male chauvenist pig? Did you ever consider that as a woman you might have "penis envy" and that if you had been born with a penis all of the horrors of being a woman might never have occurred? I did. I thought maybe if I just had a penis I wouldn't be subjected to objectification, being considered property, or the disrespect that comes from those who still want to punish Eve's daughters just for having a vagina. Not only was I proud that I bore a son instead of an evil girl, I finally had my own personal penis. Or so I thought. But really it's not about the penis at all. Nope. It's not about the vagina either. This whole sexist thing is just a sado-masochistic game that both sexes have been playing since before 1908 when Freud published his "Penis Envy" theory.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman12 months ago in Viva
Grumpy Old Lady Angry at the Economy
I'm frustrated as hell today. Grumpy and snarky. I didn't have to fight the cat to get to the coffee machine, but I couldn't find a pair of pants quick enough, and when I organized the coffee station yesterday I forgot where the filters were. By the time I sat down with my coffee I was already grumpy. The other day my ex-husband/current roommate stood at the coffee station (that cost $400 and I'm making monthly payments on) as if he owned it (because he's a bully who is three times bigger than me and he knows niether of us want to go to jail) and forced me to ask him if I could get myself a cup of coffee (because he was in my f'n way) so I did while I shot him daggers from my eyes and poured the hot coffee into my cup when I really wanted to smash the glass pot against his skull. Whoever said I'm not a good actress, lied. He gets his jollies off by demeaning me with that passive-aggressive behavior. Does it in regards to the toilet also which is why I sometimes have to leak or poo in my own personal bucket toilet.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman12 months ago in Viva
Old lady grumbling about work
Happy October! May the leaves change colors in glorious autumn fashion and may you enjoy a tasty pumpkin spiced latte or donut this morning. I am here at my desk with a Maxwell House coffee brewed out of the cheapest coffee maker on the Walmart shelf. I like it. One button and will brew the cheapest coffee on the shelf. Good. I'm broke and I'm cheap just like my coffee maker.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman12 months ago in Viva
Eldery people visit profound places
I found this meme today scrolling on Facebook. It was the most profound one I read and decided to write a poem and an article featuring this. Where do you think the elderly or the poor hang out? Some roach infested ghetto apartment or a sparkling clean dazzling condo overlooking the ocean? Both? Some elite gated nursing home featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous or some decaying old building with overworked and underpaid nurses calling it an Assisted Living Facility? A tent in the backyard where Granny fights the dog or the cat to call it "her" tent? A car that's over 20 years old and needs a new transmission and has no air conditioning or heater, but still lets Grandpa take a nap in the Walmart parking lot? Some old dusty hall where they gave the old homeless bum a free pack so he could play Bingo and try his luck? Yeah, I'm sure you can find the elderly at all of the above, but I think the meme is directly referring to places where the elderly have been much more than those younger folks. Typically, young people (child age to say around 30 somethings) are not typically hanging out at the hospital, the prison, or the cemetary unless they are employed there.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman12 months ago in Viva
Body Image in Aging
As I mentioned in my previous article, my focus is on the topic of aging especially regarding women so I'm thinking about old ladies which is what I consider myself since I am "over the hill" (over 50 years of age). Though wise men will say that we ought not compare ourselves to others as it is a source of emotional havoc, I notice that sitting in front of a television or computer screen in a female aging body is a source of loneliness and restlessness. Though I may be wise like those men or other notable wise women in the famous stories, I see daily that comparisons are often made (intentionally or not) almost as if it is impossible to get through the day without doing so. Scroll on Facebook because you're bored and see a joke about sagging breasts. Lots of laughs but would it be funny without comparison? If we didn't have plastic boobs or 15 year old boobs to look at, would the saggy drooping old lady boobs be funny? I'll try not to compare us to animals, but when I get in a serious mood I tend to compare human behavior to the animals and the animals seem to be more civilized. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Maybe that was as cruel as laughing at your grandmother's breasts. Did you laugh at the porn stars breasts the same way? Oh right, it isn't wise to compare. What? The laughs or the breasts?
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman12 months ago in Viva
The Absurd Liturgy of Digital Humans . Content Warning. AI-Generated.
No one asked me to speak, yet here I am. A nameless figure at the edge of the crowd, muttering at the digital parade. If you must imagine me, picture a man in a worn coat that never fits the season, with a face both forgettable and inconvenient. I am less a person than a leftover thought: the aftertaste of civilization once it has swallowed itself whole. Let us talk about you—the citizens of the great glowing rectangle. You wake, not by the call of birds or the warmth of sunlight, but by an alarm that shrieks from a device you cradle more intimately than your own children. Before your eyes have even adjusted to daylight, you are already thumbing through your notifications, your desperate fingers searching for proof that you exist. Perhaps someone liked your photograph of a coffee cup. Perhaps an algorithm, like a ghostly god, has decided you are worthy of attention. Congratulations: you are alive for another hour. Technology, you say, has connected the world. Nonsense. It has stitched together the planet in the way Frankenstein stitched together his monster—veins mismatched, nerves miswired, a lumbering creature desperate for approval. You are connected, yes, but like rats tangled in the same electric wire. The internet is not a network; it is a nervous breakdown with Wi-Fi. You ask me, “But doesn’t technology make life easier?” Easier for whom? For the corporations, certainly. For the advertisers who know what brand of toothpaste you prefer before you do, absolutely. But you—poor little flesh-puppet—have never been more harassed, never more surveilled, never more willingly enslaved. You whisper your secrets into microphones disguised as smart assistants, and then are surprised when the walls seem to answer back. The absurdity lies in how you defend your captivity. You queue overnight for the privilege of buying the latest version of the same glowing brick, a brick that spies on you better than the last. You tell yourself it is progress. Progress to where? You no longer walk anywhere without a map application holding your hand like a toddler. Should the servers collapse tomorrow, half the population would vanish into parking lots, circling forever like lost spirits, unable to locate their own front doors. You call it the “information age.” But what you have is not information; it is a landfill. You shovel data into your heads like junk food, mistaking the sensation of fullness for nourishment. You binge on headlines stripped of context, memes that sterilize thought, and opinion pieces written by unpaid interns who mistake provocation for wisdom. You are, all of you, intellectual tourists wandering through a carnival of noise. I am not nostalgic. Do not mistake me for one of those trembling romantics who wish to return to the candlelit past. The past was no better—only differently absurd. Men once worshiped kings, now they worship influencers; the stupidity is consistent, only the costumes change. But at least in the past, a man might know his own voice. Today your speech patterns are borrowed from trending hashtags, your desires assembled from marketing surveys. You speak like an echo and feel like an advertisement. And what of your bodies, these strange containers you seem so embarrassed by? You strap devices to your wrists to remind you to walk, to breathe, to sleep—functions that even a lizard accomplishes without prompting. You track your steps obsessively, as if salvation depends on crossing some magic threshold. Ten thousand steps and perhaps heaven will unlock like a fitness achievement. How many steps, I wonder, until you step back into yourselves? But let me not sound merely grim. There is comedy here too, exquisite comedy, as rich as any theater could stage. Watch a subway full of commuters, heads bowed not in prayer but in synchronized servitude to their phones, their faces illuminated like saints before a glowing altar. Watch the couples at dinner, photographing the meal they are too distracted to taste. Watch the child swiping at a glass screen before it can form words, already more fluent in the language of touchscreens than in the language of touch. The laughter catches in the throat, yes, but it is laughter nonetheless. You may ask: if I despise this world so much, why do I remain within it? Ah, but there is no outside anymore. Technology is not something you use; it is something you are. Try to discard it and you become an outcast, a lunatic mumbling on street corners. Even I, the mysterious critic, speak through a digital medium, my words carried by servers humming in sterile rooms where no human hand will ever touch them. To reject technology now is to vanish entirely, and vanishing is the one sin civilization cannot forgive. So I offer no solution, no clean exit. I am not a prophet. I am only an observer at the far edge of reason, muttering that the emperor’s new clothes are not only invisible but sponsored, manufactured, and constantly upgraded to version 2.0. My role is not to lead you out of the labyrinth but merely to remind you that you are in one—and that the walls are made of screens. Perhaps the most honest future is not salvation but collapse. Systems built on absurdity eventually exhaust themselves. Empires of distraction rot from within. One day the power will flicker, the network will sputter, and the glowing rectangles will all go dark. And then, perhaps, you will notice the silence. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of possibility. Perhaps you will meet your own reflection unmediated by pixels. Perhaps you will even learn how to walk without directions. Until then, you continue. Tap, swipe, scroll. Like obedient dreamers trapped in someone else’s nightmare. I will be here too, watching, laughing quietly, the strange man at the edge of the parade, whispering that the music is not music at all but static—and that you are dancing anyway.
By Suciptoabout a year ago in Viva
Critical Notes on Life’s Peculiar Circus. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Life, in its infinite generosity, insists on giving us problems the way a deranged clown tosses cream pies: one after another, straight in the face, without explanation, and with a grin so grotesque it borders on divine. People say that problems make us stronger, though no one has ever explained why strength should be such a desirable state. After all, the strongest creatures on this planet are cockroaches, who can supposedly outlive nuclear winters. And yet no one erects monuments to them, nor do they get motivational posters. Humanity celebrates strength while quietly hoping never to need it—like buying a fire extinguisher and praying it will remain untouched, collecting dust and guilt in the corner. The truly absurd part is that most of our problems are manufactured by ourselves, in the grand tradition of self-sabotage that seems written into our genetic code. We invent money, then agonize over not having enough of it. We devise governments, then complain about their corruption as if corruption were some unexpected side effect rather than the natural flavor of power itself. We create gods, then tremble before them, puzzled when these gods resemble suspiciously tyrannical landlords. If an alien anthropologist were to visit Earth, their report would simply read: “The species generates puzzles for itself and then suffers indignantly when it cannot solve them.” There is a cruel irony in how the most pressing human problems are often invisible, unmeasurable, and almost certainly unsolvable. Loneliness, for example, is not counted on GDP charts. You cannot measure despair in liters, nor can you weigh meaninglessness on a kitchen scale. And yet these intangible torments drive people more effectively than hunger or cold. A man with an empty stomach may survive; a man with an empty sense of purpose may very well pull the plug himself. That is life’s joke: it demands that we continue breathing in a universe that can’t even bother to provide subtitles. The advice culture, of course, makes everything worse. Everywhere one turns, there are instructions for “happiness.” Ten steps, five hacks, three spiritual rituals involving Himalayan salt and goat yoga. They tell you to think positively, which is essentially like telling someone with a bullet wound to imagine rainbows instead of calling an ambulance. Positivity is not a cure; it is a sedative. We are encouraged to meditate while standing on metaphorical burning buildings. And when that fails, society simply says, “Well, you didn’t try hard enough.” The blame shifts neatly back to the sufferer, who is conveniently too exhausted to protest. Love, the great intoxicant, is another cosmic prank. People chase it as though it were oxygen, and perhaps it is, but oxygen at least does not abandon you after a heated argument over dirty dishes. Love promises transcendence but delivers paperwork, jealousy, and someone else’s snoring. It is a contract written in invisible ink, always expiring at the worst moment. And yet, absurdly, we return to it, again and again, as moths to a lamp that burns them every time. Perhaps we return because the alternative—solitary existence—is simply too humiliating to admit. To die alone is the greatest modern horror, which is laughable, considering everyone dies alone anyway, no matter how many clasped hands surround the bed. Then there is work: the great charade of productivity. We devote decades to filling forms, typing emails, stacking boxes, pushing digital numbers around like children playing with sandcastles that the tide erases. Work is presented as noble, when in fact it is a polite way of saying that without constant distraction, people would notice how futile existence really is. Capitalism, in its brilliance, has managed to turn despair into an economy. The fact that many spend more hours in fluorescent offices than under natural sunlight is proof enough of humanity’s submission to its own inventions. One wonders if future historians—if there are any left—will marvel not at our wars or technology, but at our willingness to sacrifice entire lifetimes to tasks whose memory dies the moment we retire. As for morality, it is perhaps the most absurd invention of all. Each culture scribbles a different rulebook, then insists theirs is the universal edition. Murder is wrong—except in war. Theft is wrong—unless conducted by corporations through loopholes. Lying is wrong—unless you’re a politician, a parent calming a child, or someone on a first date. What we call morality is merely convenience wrapped in poetry, a flexible code written by winners to keep losers in line. And yet, without morality, civilization collapses into teeth and claws. It is the ultimate absurdity: humanity trapped between rules it doesn’t believe and chaos it cannot survive. Death, naturally, is the only reliable solution, the full stop at the end of life’s nonsensical sentence. Yet it is the one subject that society avoids, as if refusing to mention it will make it vanish. Funerals are performed with mechanical solemnity, but no one truly believes the scripted platitudes. “They’re in a better place,” people whisper, as though eternity were a holiday resort with good weather. The reality is simpler: decomposition. Ashes, worms, and silence. The only mercy is that the dead no longer need to endure motivational seminars or office meetings. And so we continue, marching forward, inventing meaning as fast as it dissolves, clinging to illusions with white-knuckled determination. Cynicism, contrary to popular opinion, is not despair but clarity—the recognition that life is a play performed without a script, in which the actors argue over costumes while the stage itself burns. The absurdity lies not in the fire, but in the fact that the audience applauds anyway, too terrified to admit the show was never worth attending. In the end, perhaps the only sane response is laughter—not the joyous kind, but the sharp, bitter laughter of someone who has seen the machinery backstage and knows the whole thing is powered by rust and duct tape. To laugh is to admit defeat with style, to transform the unbearable into something momentarily tolerable. Because if life insists on being ridiculous, the least we can do is join the comedy troupe, smearing greasepaint across our faces as the curtain falls.
By Suciptoabout a year ago in Viva
Top 7 Films Like Mission: Impossible – Action, Espionage, and Unforgettable Thrills.
Introduction: Why We Love “Mission: Impossible” The Mission: Impossible film series has been a hallmark of the action-spy genre ever since its 1996 release. It combines jaw-dropping stunts, intricate espionage plots, and the enticing charisma of Tom Cruise as Ethan Hunt. The perfect blend of globe-trotting intrigue, elite secret agents, double-crosses, and high-octane action scenes draws audiences to these films. But what happens when you’ve binge-watched the entire series and crave more?
By Krypton about a year ago in Viva
The 5 Most Favorite Batman Actors of All Time: A Deep Dive into the Legends Behind the Cowl.
Introduction: The Everlasting Legacy of the Dark Knight Batman, created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger in 1939, has remained one of the most iconic and enduring superheroes in pop culture. With his brooding personality, unmatched detective skills, and moral complexity, Batman has inspired countless comic books, television shows, and films. But it’s the actors who have donned the cape and cowl that have left a lasting impression on audiences worldwide.
By Krypton about a year ago in Viva