Welcome to the Carnival of Certainty: Satire, Truth, and the Collapse of Cognitive Filters

Or, don't believe everything you read here as God's truth

Yesterday, I wrote a post about weaning myself off American products. It was satire—light-hearted, exaggerated, the literary equivalent of a wink. But judging by the comments, you’d think I had staged a dramatic breakup with Costco in the rain.

Let me clarify: I’m not going full anti-American hermit. I’m not burning my passport in a clay fire pit while chanting in Nahuatl. Relax.

One thing’s for certain: I’m not giving up Apple. I’d sooner give up oxygen. If Steve Jobs rose from the grave and asked me to plug myself directly into an iPhone, I’d say, “Lightning cable or USB-C?”

Also, yes—I will absolutely visit the U.S. again once the current chaos simmers down. Airports still exist, I still like bagels, and my Netflix keeps switching back to English anyway. But Mexico is home now. The tacos are better, the sunsets are more poetic, and nobody here gets mad if I take a siesta.

So don’t worry. I haven’t gone rogue—I’ve just gone remote.

Let me tell you about a Tuesday afternoon where reality folded in on itself like a cheap lawn chair at a Florida swap meet.

I was perched in a café in Guanajuato, sipping a dark roast strong enough to give a dead man flashbacks, scrolling through the news on my cracked phone screen. I read three stories in a row: one about a congressman proposing we arm elementary school teachers with flamethrowers, another about a startup offering DNA-enhanced emotional support pets, and a third about a dog elected mayor of a small town in Alaska.

Only one of those was satire.

But here’s the kicker: I couldn’t tell which one.

That, my friends, is where we are now. We’ve reached the slippery edge of the cognitive map, where satire and truth are indistinguishable and everyone’s driving off cliffs with Wile E. Coyote confidence. Buckle up. This ride’s got no brakes.

The Death of Discernment

Back in the Paleolithic age of the internet—somewhere around 2007—there was still a faint cultural muscle called “critical thinking.” You remember it. That twitch in your skull that said, “Hmm, maybe I should verify this before screaming about it online.” It’s been atrophied by algorithmic dopamine and left for dead in a ditch behind your uncle’s Facebook rants.

We don’t read anymore—we react. We scan. We skim. We scroll with greasy thumbs, grazing headlines like digital livestock. And the system is designed for that: clickable outrage, emotional whiplash, shareable hysteria. The more sensational it sounds, the more real it feels. No time for nuance, no appetite for ambiguity.

So when a satirical headline reads, “Elon Musk Declares Himself Pharaoh, Demands Pyramid on Mars,” people click, nod, and say, “Yeah, sounds about right.” Because reality has already jumped the shark, done a somersault, and landed in the uncanny valley.

Why People Believe Everything They Read

Let’s break this down like it’s a late-night infomercial selling you common sense.

1. Confirmation Bias is a Hell of a Drug.

If it fits your worldview, it must be true. Liberals see satire about conservatives and hit “Share” with unholy glee. Conservatives see satire about liberals and do the same, both assuming it’s straight journalism. We don’t question stories that validate our emotional truth. We only scrutinize the ones that challenge it.

2. Digital Literacy is a Myth.

They taught us to type, but not to think. Schools still hand out diplomas to kids who can’t distinguish The Atlantic from The Babylon Bee. There’s no crash course in satirical semiotics. And Google is only useful if you ask it the right questions—which most people don’t, because they’re too busy rage-commenting under a meme.

3. The News is a Circus, So Everything Looks Like a Clown.

Twenty-four-hour news cycles and entertainment media have cannibalized each other into a Frankenstein monster of hysterical factoids and emotionally manipulative scripts. When CNN sounds like The Onion, and The Onion sounds like prophecy, how are you supposed to tell them apart?

The Algorithm Doesn’t Care About Truth

Let’s talk about the real puppet master: the algorithm.

It’s not evil. It’s not sentient. It’s not some mustachioed villain tying truth to train tracks. It’s just… indifferent. The algorithm wants engagement. That’s all. It wants you scrolling. Laughing. Crying. Screaming. Sharing. Rinse, repeat.

Truth is boring. Satire has punchlines. Outrage is rocket fuel. You think the system cares whether you understand what you’re reading? Hell no. It just wants your click. And it’s willing to serve up the most believable lie or the most absurd truth—whichever gets the dopamine flowing.

So here we are: millions of people chain-smoking content with no filters. There’s no warning label. No parental advisory. Just a continuous feed of outrage and absurdity, lovingly optimized for maximum brain melt.

Satire as a Mirror—And Sometimes a Weapon

Satire isn’t new. We’ve had court jesters since medieval times. Mark Twain was doing it before Twitter. George Carlin weaponized it. Lenny Bruce died for it. But what makes satire powerful is what now makes it dangerous: it exaggerates the truth to expose its absurdity.

But today’s truth is already absurd. Reality itself has adopted the style of satire. Politicians tweet like comedians. Billionaires meme themselves. The very people satire once mocked now embrace it like armor—“Ha ha, you’re just mad because I’m trolling you.”

What happens when satire loses its bite because real life is indistinguishable from parody?

It becomes background noise. People stop noticing. The message gets lost in the miasma of memes and madness.

And worse—people start believing the satire is real. Not because they’re stupid, but because it doesn’t sound any crazier than what is real.

The Death of Irony: When Everything’s Played Straight

Irony used to be a survival tool. A way to navigate the surreal. But now irony itself has been weaponized, commodified, stripped of subtlety. It’s all surface-level sarcasm now—winking emojis, hashtags, and TikTokers performing existential dread with a dance beat.

In this hellscape of hyperreality, earnestness is radical. Try explaining that to someone who thinks everything is a joke—including the news.

Meanwhile, satire, robbed of its sacred ambiguity, just becomes another flavor of content. Like diet truth.

Case Study: The Babylon Bee and The Onion

Once upon a time, The Onion was the gold standard of satire. Sharp, witty, savage. You knew it was fake, but you wanted to believe it because it rang true in a way the news couldn’t. It was catharsis.

Then came The Babylon Bee, riding in with a cross around its neck and a smirk on its lips. It’s conservative, sure—but satire is satire, right? Not quite. In the age of ideological tribalism, satire became a cudgel. People stopped laughing with the joke and started using it as proof.

Now both sites get fact-checked. Google downranks them. Facebook slaps warnings on their headlines. Why? Because too many people believe the satire. Or worse—pretend to, to score points.

And just like that, satire becomes a liability. The absurd becomes dangerous. The parody becomes propaganda.

Is There Any Hope?

Let me be clear: I’m not nostalgic for some golden age of media literacy that never existed. We’ve always been suckers for snake oil. We fell for phrenology, bloodletting, and reality TV. The difference now is speed and scale. Misinformation spreads faster than a sneeze in a subway car.

But there’s a flicker of hope if you squint through the smoke.

1. Teach Digital Skepticism Like It’s CPR.

Every school should have a class called How to Not Be a Gullible Idiot Online. Teach kids to check sources, recognize satire, and understand how algorithms manipulate attention. And maybe teach adults, too—starting with Uncle Bob.

2. Make Satire Smarter Again.

The best satire doesn’t just mock—it enlightens. It invites reflection. It punches up. Let’s bring back the nuance, the subtle burn, the long con. Let’s write satire that doesn’t scream “I’M A JOKE” in bold caps, but instead whispers truth through a crooked grin.

3. Reward Truth-Tellers.

Support independent journalists. Pay for news. Share content that informs, not just inflames. Truth doesn’t trend—but it should.

4. Embrace the Uncomfortable.

We need to get comfortable with uncertainty. Learn to say, “I don’t know if this is real. Let me check.” The internet doesn’t demand instant opinion. You’re allowed to pause. To verify. To breathe.

Final Note from the Bardo

Somewhere out there, Oscar Wilde is chain-smoking in the afterlife, watching us scroll ourselves into oblivion and muttering, “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.”

He’s right.

Satire now wears the same clothes as truth. They swap hats in the night. They dance together on your news feed. And unless you sharpen your eyes, unless you train your brain, you’ll wake up in the funhouse thinking it’s a mirror.

So here’s the takeaway:

If something feels too good, too infuriating, or too perfectly dumb to be real—pause. Check. Ask.

Don’t be a pawn in the content casino.

Don’t be a parrot in a satire echo chamber.

Read widely. Think deeply. Laugh wisely.

And for the love of language, if you see a headline that says, “Florida Man Marries Alligator in Vegan Ceremony Sponsored by Elon Musk”—

Don’t share it.

Unless it’s true.

In which case… we’re already doomed.

Reporting live from the intersection of Fiction and Faith, where the Wi-Fi’s strong, but the facts are weak, your humble correspondent.

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.