Under the glaring sun, the hushed chatter of an excited crowd of citizens falls into silence as a troupe of comic actors walk onto center stage. The de facto leader of them, a distinguished woman by the name of Lysistrata, lays out her genius plan to stop the seemingly endless cycle of war, bloodshed and death plaguing her city: Until the violence stops, no one in Athens is getting laid.
At this crude declaration, the crowd of onlookers—similarly fed up with the grinding, senseless war—erupts in laughter. It is bold, it is obscene and it is exactly the kind of move only comedy can get away with. But beneath the giggles, there hides a biting truth: War is a man’s game, and the women of Athens, left to bury their sons or wait idly for their husbands who may never return, are “armed to the teeth with rage.” They are ready to start a counter war of their own.
This is Lysistrata, Artistophanes’ seminal 411 BCE satire and one of the most iconic comedies of Ancient Greece. It is one of the earliest examples of satire doing what it does best—dressing up polemical political critique in dick jokes and other absurd, outrageous humor. In democratic Athens, satire was not just entertainment; it was civic engagement. Through Aristophanes’ plays and Lysistrata’s unabashed critique of the most powerful men in society, the people were given a voice to question and provoke the powers which lorded over their lives.
From the open air amphitheaters of ancient Athens to the digital black box of today’s age, laughter has always had a powerful political edge, and satire remains a disrupting and formidable force in democratic societies. It thrives on free expression, holds the powerful accountable and serves as a—sometimes crude—reminder that politics is too important to be taken too seriously.
In 2016, a couple millenia after Lysistrata combatted the male ego with feminine defiance, another woman stood center stage: Armed with a pantsuit and meticulously rehearsed smile, Kate McKinnon’s depiction of Hillary Clinton appealed to voters from televisions and phone screens across the United States every Saturday at 11:30 p.m. “Saturday Night Live’s” (“SNL’s”) jocular coverage of the contentious 2016 election was a satirical tour de force. Across from McKinnon, Alec Baldwin’s Donald Trump blustered and ranted with all the eloquence of a 6 year old in thick orange face paint and a wispy yellow toupee. Baldwin’s caricature was so over-the-top, so harebrained that it bordered on surreal… that is, of course, until it did not.
Through satire, “SNL” turned the anxiety-inducing election into a tragicomic spectacle for the masses, exaggerating every growing tear or flaw in the fabric of the American political system. Much like Aristophanes used all the illusions and knacks of theatrical performance and writing to skewer the powerful and expose the contradictions of his own democracy, sketch comics of the 21st century continue to dice up our political dysfunction with a laugh track and ludicrous costumes. And much like in Athens, the joke often lands with an uncomfortable thud that people watching have a hard time trying to ignore.
In a world where traditional modes of journalism are losing the trust of the voting populace and facts are constantly being questioned or undermined, satire fills a powerful role that is half court jester, half truth-sayer and wholly plays the part of national therapist. Satire not only mocks democracy’s organized chaos, it captures it.
So, what happens in a world where satire is suppressed? What is democracy without men frantically gesticulating in a deadly accurate approximation of all-powerful world leaders? Where are we left when Lysistrata is banned from the Athenian forum?
Between Sept. 17 and Sept. 22, 2025, Americans found out just how dark democracy looks without laughter to back it up. Jimmy Kimmel, a mainstream late-night comedian who has offered droll commentaries on American politics and pop culture since 1997, was effectively pulled off the air and suspended by ABC/Disney after remarks he made in the wake of conservative podcaster and activist Charlie Kirk’s fatal shooting. Kimmel used the opening monologue of his show to criticize conservatives who he felt were operating in bad faith—“politicizing” the aftermath of Kirk’s killing, while claiming distance from the killer, a young conservative male.
In response, ABC suspended “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” “indefinitely” while major ABC affiliates refused to air the show—citing backlash over Kimmel’s “offensive and insensitive” remarks. Americans and defenders of democracy worldwide were, rightly, outraged, and widespread boycotts of the studio resulted in Disney losing over $4 billion in revenue overnight, according to Snopes.
Although Disney reinstated Kimmel’s show to save face and recuperate losses, the event raised many questions: How much autonomy do satirists have when their platform is controlled by corporations, subject to regulatory oversight or influenced by political backlash? And, in a world increasingly focused on accountability, how do audiences, institutions and laws balance protecting free speech with maintaining public morals?
The answer is hard to scrape into a short answer, but one truth remains certain: Democracy, at its core, requires discomfort. It demands that leaders be questioned, that citizens stay awake, and that no idea—not even the sacred—remains beyond critique. In every era, from the limestone stepped seats of Antiquity to the LED soundstages of 21st century America, when democracy wavers or tightens its grip, satire becomes not just entertainment, but an act of resistance.