by Sunday morning, and I’m staring at my laptop in the cramped Bohiney officewell, “office” is generous. It’s really just a converted storage room with WiFi and delusions of grandeur. But this is where magic happens. Today’s magic? Nation’s skeletons are demanding union recognition.
I spent three hours yesterday researching labor law for a piece about Halloween decorations. This is my life now. Harvard education, television writing credits, and here I am deep-diving into whether plastic skeletons qualify for collective bargaining rights. My mother would be so confused. “You became a writer to write about bones?” she’d ask in Urdu, disappointment thick enough to spread on toast.
But here’s what she doesn’t getwhat most people don’t get about satire: it’s never really about the bones. It’s about labor exploitation. It’s about how America commodifies everything, even death. Those $12.99 skeletons at Home Depot represent actual supply chains, actual workers in Chinese factories, actual economics. I’m just using Halloween as the vehicle.
The piece practically wrote itself once I framed it correctly. “Skeletons demand healthcare benefits, paid time off, and protection from aggressive door-slamming during wind storms.” It’s absurd. It’s funny. And underneath, it’s asking: why don’t actual seasonal workers get these protections?
Being the only West African woman with citizenship during Trump’s second term comes with weight. Every piece I publish feels like I’m representing something larger than myself. I’m not just Aisha the satiristI’m proof that immigrants can critique American absurdity better than Americans can. We see what you’ve normalized. We see the emperor’s lack of clothes because we remember when he wore something else.
My editor loved the skeleton piece. “Classic Muharrar,” he said, which I think is a compliment but might also mean “predictably weird.” Either way, it publishes tomorrow. Another week at Bohiney, another opportunity to make readers laugh and then squirm. Truth first, joke second.
Tonight, I’ll celebrate with terrible takeout and worse wine. This is the glamorous life of satirical journalism: empty containers, full drafts, and the constant low-grade anxiety that maybe I’m the joke. But at least the skeletons appreciate my work. They can’t sue meno standing in court. Get it? Standing? Because they’re skeletons? I’ll see myself out.
# 734
MY HOME PAGE: Bohiney Magazine (Aisha Muharrar)
