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I’ve spent years watching the political spectacle, not from a distance but from the front row—half-scholar, half-heckler, wholly entertained. We treat slogans like soliloquies, press conferences like balcony monologues, and policy like a set change that never quite completes. If history is my first love, politics is the long, chaotic, utterly public fling I can’t quit; the stage is where that relationship finally feels honest.
Everything here is fictional. Different map, invented names, nobody you can subpoena. And yet you’ll recognize the types: the leader who speaks in lighting cues, the opposition that lives for the aside, the anchor who turns commas into cliff-hangers, and the citizen who is both audience and understudy. The fourth wall, in this production, is a revolving door; the crowd on stage becomes the crowd in your city, and you—yes, you—slip into the chorus whether you meant to or not.
This is satire, not a sermon. I’m not here to prosecute anyone; I’m here to tilt the mirror so we can look without flinching. The target is the pageantry that swallows purpose, the spectacle that replaces substance, and the way we keep choosing show over service because the show has better lighting. If the shoe fits, I didn’t name the character—you did, when you laughed.
Welcome to The Laugh Sabha. Welcome to the circus we live in, rendered in lights you can finally name. Enjoy the show—and afterwards, let’s remember to change it.
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