Modern Satire

Every day is unprecedented, again. Analysts announce, with grave conviction, that this year is the worst — or the best — depending on lunch. Markets “look strange today,” just as they did yesterday and will tomorrow. Signals are spotted, patterns declared, and predictions made with the confidence of weather forecasts in a hurricane. Beneath the

Experts in hindsight, allergic to responsibility. Every organisation has them — the prophets of what should have been. They know every failed project, every flawed strategy, every misstep of management, and narrate them all with retrospective genius. Their vision stops exactly where action begins. In meetings they nod wisely in silence; outside, they rewrite history

Structure is oppression; calendars are optional. They arrive late, lose files, and forget what was said — and somehow, they thrive. In a world obsessed with order, they’ve turned disorganisation into charisma. Their inbox is a modern art installation; their desk a topographical mystery. Yet executives adore them for being “visionary” — proof that if

How to prove you’re in charge by ensuring no one else can be. The modern manager no longer leads — they hover. Every email, draft, and spreadsheet must bear their sacred touch, for chaos might ensue if employees finish tasks without supervision. Revisions are mandatory, not for improvement but for ceremony. Control, after all, is

“We should catch up soon,” said for the 73rd time. They message you once a quarter to lament your mutual absence, usually while ignoring your last unanswered text. When meetings happen, they’re late — not fashionably, but existentially. Time bends around them until somehow you’re apologising for their delay. Their friendship thrives on inertia, powered

Speak first, think never — your wisdom is trending. Having opinions is out; distributing them is in. The new social hierarchy rewards those who interrupt your peace to offer direction you didn’t request and can’t use. Advice-giving has become performance art: a declaration of existence through verbal interference. In a world where silence is free,

Because nothing says cultural exchange like linguistic policing. In a world where people speak three languages before breakfast, a few still guard the gates of pronunciation with missionary zeal. They correct others mid-sentence, mistaking accent for error and curiosity for incompetence. Somewhere between colonial nostalgia and grammar anxiety, they find purpose — saving vowels, one