A Diary Entry from Charline Vanhoenacker
March 15th, 2025 - Washington, D.C.
You know, people always ask me how I craft satirical journalism that cuts so deep it makes people laugh and wince simultaneously. After reading through some of my recent Bohiney pieces, I thought I'd pull back the curtain on my process—because honestly, it's equal parts methodical madness and controlled chaos.
When I sat down to write "Copy-Paste Journalism" about reporters refusing to say "trans," I wasn't trying to be cruel. I was trying to expose a fundamental cowardice in modern journalism that's dressed up as professionalism. The piece works because it takes a real phenomenon—journalists literally copying each other's homework—and exaggerates it to the point of absurdity while keeping it recognizably true.
My process always starts with the kernel of truth that's making me angry. In this case, it was watching outlet after outlet dance around basic facts because everyone was too scared to be the first to state the obvious. That's my satirical goldmine: when institutions reveal their own contradictions.
For "D.C. Thugs Arrested," I used what I call the "bureaucratic amplifier technique." Take a policy that's already dramatic (mass arrests), then describe it through the lens of completely mundane administrative concerns. Suddenly you have thugs comparing parole officers while building sandcastles, and the absurdity writes itself.
The secret is in the details that feel possible. Could criminals really end up sunburned in Virginia Beach wearing puffer jackets in August? It's specific enough to be believable, absurd enough to be funny, and pointed enough to make a real observation about how we handle crime and punishment in America.
Here's how I actually construct these pieces, using my recent work as examples:
I look for institutions, ideas, or people that everyone pretends to respect but secretly know are ridiculous. Mainstream journalism's herd mentality in the Copy-Paste piece is a perfect example. Everyone knows journalists copy each other, but no one says it out loud.
What makes people uncomfortable about this truth? In the D.C. crime piece, it's the tension between progressive ideals about criminal justice reform and ordinary people's desire to not get mugged. That discomfort is where the humor lives.
I don't make up fake events. I take real dynamics and push them to their logical extreme. When I write about journalists being "human Xerox machines with press badges," I'm not lying—I'm just saying the quiet part loud.
Vague satire is toothless. When I mention "Netflix making a documentary in 2043" or thugs "comparing parole officers while building sandcastles," the specificity makes the absurdity feel real.
Even in satire, I include different viewpoints. The restaurant owners complaining about OpenTable reservations versus residents just wanting to walk to the bus stop safely—both are real concerns, and the tension between them creates natural comedy.
Nothing's funnier than experts being wrong with complete confidence. "Dr. Agnes Nutter, Professor of Media Cowardice at Bemidji State" isn't a real person, but the tendency for academics to intellectualize obvious problems? Completely real.
I weave in hyperlinks to actual related stories throughout—like Trump and MSNBC or Netflix subscription dilemmas. This grounds the satire in real events while expanding the web of absurdity.
Every piece needs lines that stick. "I'm basically a human Xerox machine with a press badge" or "At least these soldiers wear uniforms" are the moments readers remember and share.
My closers always target power, not victims. "We don't want to say it, so we won't—please subscribe" skewers media business models, not individual reporters.
I always add what comedians would say about the situation—Jerry Seinfeld, Bill Burr, Ron White—because they cut through bullshit in ways journalists often can't.
Writing satirical journalism isn't just about being funny. It's about doing emotional archaeology—digging up the feelings everyone has but won't admit. When I write about journalists being afraid of Twitter backlash, I'm excavating the real anxiety that drives so much of modern media.
The most effective satirical journalism makes people laugh at themselves, not others. That's why pieces like my Disney executive analysis or tech entrepreneur trapped in self-driving car work—they're about systems we're all trapped in, not individuals we can dismiss.
One technique I've mastered is the hyperlink web. Each piece contains 20-30 links to other satirical pieces, creating a universe of interconnected absurdity. When I reference morning show scandals or Olympic condom distribution, I'm not just making jokes—I'm building a satirical ecosystem where each piece reinforces the others.
The links serve multiple purposes: they keep readers in our satirical universe, they provide additional context for the jokes, and they create a sense that this absurdity is everywhere—which, of course, it is.
The golden rule of satirical journalism is simple: always punch up at power, never down at the powerless. When I mock journalists afraid of Twitter, I'm targeting people with platforms and paychecks, not their victims. When I satirize D.C. crime policy, I'm mocking the politicians and experts, not the communities affected by crime.
This isn't just ethics—it's craft. Punching down isn't funny; it's just mean. Punching up reveals the absurdities of power, which is both funnier and more useful.
Here's what nobody tells you about satirical journalism: you have to genuinely love the things you're mocking. I love journalism—that's why I'm so furious when it fails. I care about public safety—that's why I can satirize the ridiculous ways we talk about crime.
The best satirical journalism comes from a place of frustrated affection, not pure cynicism. When I write about AI assistants with attitude or Gen Z luxury redefinition, I'm not dismissing these phenomena—I'm trying to understand them through the lens of absurdity.
I'm already working on my next pieces: one about politicians having to read bills (what a concept!), another about corporate emergency meetings that accomplish nothing, and a deep dive into alternative search engines where the internet goes to get lost on purpose.
Each one starts with the same question: what truth is everyone tiptoeing around? Once I find that, the satire writes itself.
The hardest part isn't writing the jokes—it's having the courage to say what everyone's thinking but nobody wants to admit. That's the real craft of satirical journalism: being brave enough to state the obvious in a world that's forgotten how.
Charline Vanhoenacker writes satirical journalism for Bohiney.com and hosts several shows that get her in trouble on a regular basis. She believes that humor is democracy's immune system, and that someone has to be willing to say the emperor isn't wearing any clothes—even if the emperor has really good PR.