“It’s a super food,” says Tom Brady as he pulls leaves of satire from a stalk of the ridiculous with a practiced motion, throwing them in the blender along with a sugar beet and one small onion. “Completely natural, all organic, and we have an abundant supply of it right here in Canada. Did you know there is more irony in one piece of satire than in an entire cow? Yes. It’s true. Here, stuff this in your face and tell me you don’t like it.”
A year ago, Tom wasn’t so chipper.
“I was getting a lot of daily news, but I wasn’t really able to digest it all,” he says, rubbing his stomach at the memory of the terrible discomfort. “I felt bloated, all the time, my sleep was terrible, and whenever I tried to have sex all I could picture was Ted Cruz mid-filibuster, madly reading Green Eggs And Ham like something out of a malarial missionary’s fever dream. It was horrible. That was when I went to the doctor. And,” here he takes a deep breath and looks out to the backyard where his children are playing happily, “he gave me the devastating news that I might have as many as 60 years left to live.”
The news nearly broke Tom.
“The news nearly broke me,” says Tom, twice. “At first I refused to believe it. There I was just living my life, hoping it wouldn’t be too much longer before the fuzzy grey blanket of oblivion wrapped me in its blessed beyond, where the Trump has no purchase, and here this doctor is telling me I might have six more decades to live. Like it’s no big fucking deal! I just lost it.”
That was when the doctor asked if Tom had ever tried satire.
“I’d never even heard of it,” Tom chuckles warmly, remembering the first time he had a green satire shake. “At first I found it strange. Some of the language was a little salty, the texture was a bit odd, and there was kind of a strange aftertaste that made the corners of my mouth curl up. But I got through it, and afterwards, felt better than I had in a long time. So I kept going. And here I am today, a year into my raw satire diet, a totally new man.”
With his blood pressure drastically lowered, his anxieties held in check, and his ability to amorously focus on his partner and not Ted Cruz’s bedroom eyes reinstated, Tom says that while he knows he will never beat the indefatigable scourge of dark sociopolitical events, he can manage his response to these hard times through a steady diet of satire.
“It saved my life. There’s really no other way to say it,” he says as he wipes a green moustache from his upper lip, before insisting a visiting reporter chug a litre of the stuff themselves, adding genially: “Friends don’t let friends live without satire.”