As a satirical journalist, I approach each piece like a surgeon approaches an operation—except instead of saving lives, I'm trying to kill sacred cows with precision and style. Let me walk you through exactly how I constructed this particular piece of controlled chaos.
https://bohiney.com/texas-declares-independence/
The genius of this piece lies in starting with a kernel of genuine concern that already exists in American political discourse. Texas has repeatedly been in the news for curriculum controversies, from textbook selection battles to debates over teaching evolution and climate science. The state's outsized influence on national textbook standards due to its large market share is a real phenomenon that education experts discuss seriously.
I took this existing tension and cranked it up to eleven. The truth I'm exposing here isn't that Texas literally wants to ban math—it's that the politicization of education has reached such absurd heights that banning math doesn't feel completely impossible. That's the satirist's sweet spot: when reality is so strange that your exaggeration feels plausible.
My rule for satirical exaggeration is this: take a real behavior, amplify it until it's ridiculous, but keep it just barely within the realm of "this could happen in Florida." Sorry, I mean Texas—though honestly, both states provide endless material.
I started with real Texas stereotypes and cultural touchstones:
BBQ obsession (real)
Truck culture (real)
Distrust of federal oversight in education (real)
Pride in being different from other states (very real)
Then I weaponized these authentic elements. Instead of just having Texas resist federal education standards (which they do), I had them reject the entire concept of mathematics. Instead of just preferring practical education, they replace calculus with "Real American Problem Solving."
Every satirical piece needs characters that readers can almost believe exist. I created Governor Abbott's fictional statements by studying his actual speaking patterns and policy positions, then pushing them into parody territory. The key is maintaining the authentic voice while saying something completely bonkers.
"Brandi Sue Williamson of Amarillo" represents every concerned parent who's ever appeared at a school board meeting with a conspiracy theory. I gave her a perfectly Texas name and a perfectly American fear of "foreign symbols" (Arabic numerals—a classic satirical target because they're literally just regular numbers).
The officials I created speak in authentic bureaucratic language while proposing impossible things. That's the satirical magic—making insanity sound official.
Good satire rewards close readers with multiple layers of jokes. I embedded references to:
Real Texas institutions (University of Texas, Texas A&M, H-E-B, Whataburger)
Actual political figures (Abbott, DeSantis, Yellen)
Regional cultural markers (Lone Star beer, truck nuts, county fairs)
Educational policy terminology that sounds official but means nothing
Each reference serves dual purposes: it grounds the absurdity in recognizable reality while creating additional joke opportunities.
I structured this piece like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering absurdity as it goes:
Opening: Establish the impossible premise with official-sounding authority
Expansion: Show how the absurd policy would actually work
Ripple Effects: Demonstrate consequences across multiple institutions
Reactions: Show how other characters respond to the madness
Conclusion: Land on a final note that ties back to the original absurdity
This structure mirrors real news stories, making the satire feel like legitimate reporting until your brain catches up and realizes what you're reading.
One of my core principles is satirical targeting. I'm mocking:
Political grandstanding
Educational bureaucracy
Cultural stereotypes that Texans themselves often embrace
The general absurdity of modern political discourse
I'm not mocking:
Individual students or teachers
People with genuine learning difficulties
Economic struggles in education
Real concerns about educational quality
The difference is crucial. Good satire afflicts the comfortable and comforts the afflicted. Politicians and institutions can handle being mocked—they signed up for public life. Regular people trying to get by deserve better.
Satirical writing has its own rhythm. I use:
Short, punchy sentences for maximum impact: "That's socialism, plain and simple."
Longer, meandering sentences to build absurdity: "If one pickup truck full of freedom-loving Americans leaves Dallas with a full tank and a cooler of Lone Star..."
Official-sounding language for authority: "The 847-page report, titled 'The Communist Plot to Make Texas Kids Count Good'..."
Sudden deflation for comic effect: Following serious buildup with "which honestly makes more sense."
Even satirical journalism requires real research. I spent time understanding:
Actual Texas education policies and controversies
Real names and positions of Texas officials
Authentic Texas cultural references
Current political talking points about education
The joke works better when the foundation is solid. Readers can sense when you actually understand what you're satirizing versus when you're just throwing stereotypes at the wall.
This satire succeeds because it takes something many readers have probably thought—"Education has gotten too politicized"—and pushes it to its logical extreme. It's therapeutic exaggeration. Instead of getting frustrated about real education battles, readers can laugh at an imaginary education war where the stakes are so high that basic arithmetic becomes a partisan issue.
The piece also works because it doesn't take sides in real political debates. Republicans can laugh at the stereotypes while thinking "at least we're not this crazy," and Democrats can laugh while thinking "this is exactly what they'd do if they could." Everyone gets to feel superior to the characters in the story.
The challenge of modern satirical journalism is that reality moves so fast, your satire risks becoming prophecy. Three years ago, declaring war on mathematics would have seemed absurd. Today? I'm genuinely worried someone will read this and think "That's actually not a bad idea."
That's both the power and the responsibility of satirical writing. We're not just making jokes—we're holding up a funhouse mirror to society and asking, "Is this really where we want to go?"
The answer, for the record, should be no. Even in Texas.
This educational breakdown demonstrates how satirical journalism requires the same research and structural thinking as serious journalism, just with the goal of making people laugh while they think instead of just making them think while they worry.