THESE ARE THE BEST AND WORST OF TIMES FOR WRITING comedy. On the one hand, there’s plenty of material out there. If you don’t believe me, tune in Oprah-Sally-Phil-Geraldo for a few days. (Last week they had strippers who’d been separated at birth, Elvis’s diet specialist, and women whose husbands don’t listen to them.) On the other hand, nobody has a sense of humor.

You’re not supposed to laugh at global warming or low self-esteem or cholesterol. This is the age of political correctness, a movement devoted to the stamping out of “inappropriate laughter,” and the battle cry of every anti-(choose one: smoking, animal research, logging, abortion, Columbus) activist seems to be, “That’s not funny. These are serious issues.”

Of course, seriousness and self-importance are what comedy is all about—tragedy, too. Does the word “hubris” ring a bell?—and I feel it’s my bounden duty to laugh at them. Besides, it’s fun sitting up here on the fence taking potshots at Newspeak and predators and faculty teas. As Jane Austen (a regular Annie Oakley when it comes to fancy shooting) says, “For what do we live, but to make sport of our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?”

And it’s either that, or cry. Or scream.