Turns out I was just drafting a press release with better punctuation.
A few days ago, I sat down to write a satire about the rising cost of eggs.
The premise was simple: the federal government, overwhelmed by eggflation and a “critical poultry labor shortage,” would suspend all springtime egg-based rituals. Easter egg hunts? Gone. The hard-boiled egg on the Passover seder plate? Replaced with a government-issued baby chick and an official Fifth Question: “What came first, the chicken or the egg?”
I invented a fake agency—SMEED, the Seasonal Morality and Economic Efficiency Department—to justify it. It felt absurd, but only just.
The satire came together quickly. There was a rabbi lamenting the deletion of hope. A nun quietly observing children blessing mulch. A child who asked, softly, “Is this one of the sad miracles?” I was proud of it.
Then I saw the headline: White House Faces Criticism for Seeking Corporate Sponsors for Easter Egg Roll —CNN, March 23, 2025
I stared at the screen, blinking. It was like watching someone else hit ‘submit’ on my bit.
Because of course the White House was offering $200,000 sponsorship packages for what used to be a humble event with bunny suits and boiled eggs. Of course they were selling branding opportunities and ceremonial signage. Of course there were discussions of messaging eggs—which, as far as I can tell, are real eggs with slogans on them, like “Rejoice in Unlimited Data from AT&T.” (Presumably cage-free.)
The rabbi in my story had said, “The egg doesn’t feed us. It reminds us what hunger feels like. It represents spring, and cycles, and the hope that comes after devastation.” He paused, then added, “You don’t just delete that. You don’t commercialize it. The egg is there to remind us that something can come after despair. That something fragile can still hold meaning.”
And here I was, watching that meaning get stamped and monetized in real time.
I spent two days inventing a fake federal statement that read, “Please note: the Lord’s message has been updated to reflect current supply chain realities.” But I never submitted the piece.
I hit delete. Because satire is supposed to push boundaries—not report them. And in 2025, reality got there first.
I’ve already started outlining a new piece. It’s about G.R.A.C.E.—the Governmental Resource Allocation for Ceremonial Events—preparing to cancel Thanksgiving unless it’s fully underwritten by Butterball, Perdue, or Shady Brook Farms. Messaging would remain faith-neutral—unless bundled with a premium donor tier.
But I should probably hurry. The real version’s probably already in committee.