Toilet Fires, Marilyn Manson, and the Sweet, Sweet Taste of Satire
A Story From My Youth
In the eighth grade, a caper took place in the school bathrooms, involving fire and vast quantities of toilet paper.
Understandably, the event caused anxiety among the teachers and administrators, and when schoolpeople are anxious, they are prone to dedicate all of their energies to the Making of Rules. Needless to say, the list of lavatory restrictions subsequently imposed upon the student body rivaled those of a maximum security prison.
We were no longer allowed to take a bathroom pass if we needed to use the facilities during class time. Instead, we were escorted as a group, after 2nd and 5th periods, to the "bathroom trailer" (the school was in the process of expansion, and while the new buildings were constructed, the upper grades had been relegated to mobile classroom units in what used to be the playground.) Once we arrived at the bathroom, there would be only 5 minutes for everyone who needed to go to do their business before the bell rang for the next period, and there were only two stalls each for boys and girls.
In addition, each student was required to present their schoolbag and turn out their pockets for search and seizure during homeroom and immediately following lunch. Anyone found to be in possession of a lighter or matches would be presumed guilty of the bathroom arson. No lighters or matches were ever discovered; however, several students were relieved of their pocket knives, bubble gum, Victoria's Secret catalogs, and other contraband.
So we sat, day in and day out, classrooms full of children fidgeting against the fullness of our bladders, wincing at the aches in our bowels, and fearful of getting caught with some innocuous but illicit item in our backpacks.
A trend of falling grades accompanied the new bathroom policies, since most of us were so distracted by our bodily discomfort. The teachers also disliked the new rules, because they had to spend so much time enforcing them--time that could have been spent on more productive tasks, like facilitating the education of their pupils.
It was borderline child abuse, and it didn't even work. The arsonist was never apprehended, though he or she (or perhaps a copycat arsonist, motivated by rage at the school administration's tough stance on bathroom privileges) repeated the act two more times at the peak of the lockdown. The arsonist was cleverer than the administrators, and no amount of rules or restrictions could stop him or her from setting fire to the bathroom. This was an early lesson for me in complex social dynamics, and one of the experiences that formed the foundation of my future anarchistic worldview. Rules don't work, I observed. They only make people grumpy, fearful, and constipated.
Here's Where Marilyn Manson Comes In.
The year was 1995. Marilyn Manson's cover of the Eurythmics' song "Sweet Dreams" was at the top of the pop charts, and the song had lodged itself in my head for weeks. One day, I was quietly humming it in English class while trying to divert my attention from my overfull bladder, when a new version of the song emerged in my mind.
Wet pants are made of this
Who am I to ask to pee
There were more lyrics, but the intervening years have erased them from my memory. I think one of the verses had to do with poop, and one was a hilarious refrain about toilet fires. The whole thing was sung in the mock-repentant tone of one who has been caught conspiring to set fire to toilet paper.
This song was the first real bit of satire I ever created, and it was deliciously satisfying. As satire goes, it wasn't that great, but it was perfect for middle school.
Potty humor + popular music + anti-authoritarian sentiment = schoolyard hit.
Soon everyone was singing my song. It was especially gratifying when a chorus broke out in the line for the bathroom one day after second period.
Soon after, some kid added a verse that didn't quite fit. It had a chastising tone. It reversed the roles of the joke. It blamed the arson for the plight of our bladders, instead of placing the blame on the administrators where it belonged. It justified the actions of the administrators, and mockingly accused the students of treachery. I'm not sure, in retrospect, how the kid fit all of those insinuations into a bar of a Marilyn Manson song, but I distinctly remember having the impression that he'd done just that. I've often wondered since if that kid grew up to be a cop.
In my life, I have created a number of satirical works, from poetry to fiction to click-baity, list-style articles. I even wrote a satirical dictionary. But this experience stands out as formative in my mind because of the lessons I took away, both about satire and about the the nature of rules.
The secret to good satire is this: it must emerge from truth, and it must poke fun at the authority, the tyrant, the bully, the injustice of the situation.
It doesn't work the other way around, at least not for the majority of people. Even if the satire lampoons a more-or-less neutral subject--a popular actor, for instance, or an everyday experience that is commonly had by many people--if you look closely, there will be, at the core of the thing, a sense of wrongness or injustice. If it doesn't have that element, it is not satire. It's most likely propaganda disguised as satire--like every single article The Onion has published about Hillary Clinton since her top donor, Univision, purchased the satirical news outlet. But anyone with half a thimbleful of wits can see through that weak sauce. Except sociopaths, maybe.
Political satire is an art form that I hold very dear, and it is the only thing I think I might miss if the state were to wither away tomorrow. In fact, the assured continuation of satire is the only convincing argument I can think of for the continuation of the state. So perhaps, as an anarchist and a political satirist, I am at cross-purposes with myself.
Ah, well. Bring on statelessness. Somehow, I'll find a way to manage.
Thank you for reading!
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-Starr
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