We have always known how to laugh in the face of hardship. From the streets of Quiapo to small-town plazas, humor has never been just pastime; it has been survival and protest rolled into one. That is why the uproar over Vice Ganda’s “jet ski holiday” skit feels exaggerated—and frankly, ironic. The same crowd that once defended Duterte’s jokes about rape, killings, or threats as “hyperbole” now cries foul when a comedian pokes fun at his broken promises. To laugh at the powerless was fine. To laugh at the powerful suddenly becomes blasphemy.
Satire has always been more than laughter. Scholars like Dieter Declercq remind us that it is both critique and entertainment: it helps us cope with political absurdities without losing our sanity. Our history proves this. Severino Reyes’ sarswelas and Graciano Lopez-Jaena’s satirical essays, mocked Spanish friars; editorial cartoons in the media and campuses, from pre to post martial law years, skewered politicians; and Willie Nepomuceno’s impersonations of presidents and Mr. Shooli’s (Jun Urbano) banters exposed truths we could not always say aloud. The humor softened the sting, but the truth cut deep. Vice’s parody belongs to that same lineage: a modern sarswela staged in Araneta, with pop culture flair as its vehicle.
His “promo” joke was simple but sharp. By turning Duterte’s infamous jet ski promise into a travel ad, Vice distilled years of frustration into one absurd image. It worked because everyone remembered the promise and the later admission that it was just a joke. A parody like this does not invent anything—it only mirrors reality. That some found it offensive shows it hit the mark. Political humor unsettles precisely because it reminds us of contradictions we would rather ignore.
Around the world, satire has always played this role. Londoners once flew the giant “Trump Baby” balloon, and Americans tuned in to Jon Stewart, John Oliver, Stephen Colbert, or Trevor Noah for nightly doses of wit that doubled as critique. Chaplin mocked Hitler in The Great Dictator when most feared confronting fascism. In Eastern Europe, cabarets whispered truths in codes, while cartoons slipped past censors. And before all this, there were Aristophanes, Chaucer, Swift, and Voltaire—writers who proved that laughter could outlast fear. To discredit satire now, simply because it lands on the “wrong side,” is to erase the very history that shaped us.
What makes this controversy disturbing is not the outrage but the hypocrisy. Duterte’s fans once excused his tirades as humor, yet they cannot laugh when humor turns on him. That reveals the real issue: power wants the monopoly on laughter. But satire exists precisely to break that monopoly. As political scientist C. Edwin Baker once noted, free speech is not only about talking; it is about ensuring that public discourse remains open to discomfort. Satire forces that discomfort, whether in classrooms, jeepneys, carinderias, coffee tables, or online feeds.
Of course, satire has limits. A joke will not topple dynasties or rewrite foreign policy. Declercq says satire is less a hammer and more a pressure valve. It keeps people thinking, talking, and even laughing instead of surrendering to despair. During martial law, plays and comics did not end the dictatorship, but they kept the spirit of resistance alive. Today’s memes may not fix governance crises, but they stop citizens from growing numb. For teachers and parents, these little sparks matter, because they keep civic spirit alive in times of fatigue.
Satire also builds solidarity. Laughter creates fleeting moments of shared recognition. When Leila de Lima cheekily posted, “Nothing beats a jet ski good breakfast,” she was not trivializing the West Philippine Sea. She was showing that humor can unite in critique. For a country divided by politics, satire is one of the rare spaces where people from different camps can laugh at the same absurdity, even if only for a moment.
To silence satire would leave society poorer. Imagine Philippine history without biting political comics or the theater lines of Rolando Tinio. Imagine a world without Chaplin mocking tyranny. A society that requires permission slips for every joke about leaders is not only humorless but dangerous. Authoritarian states often begin by choking laughter. Democracies, meanwhile, are noisy, unruly, and funny. Satire is one of the loudest signs that citizens can still laugh without fear.
This is why leaders need humility. Humor only works when people admit imperfection, including their own. A leader who cannot take a joke is too insecure for critique. A community that outlaws satire risks growing arrogant and intolerant. We have long prized humility not as weakness but as wisdom, an acknowledgment that even power can be ridiculous. Humor, at its best, teaches discernment: to see folly without hate, to confront failure without violence.
As Vice Ganda returned to It’s Showtime after the uproar, what mattered most was not the criticisms but the applause. People may disagree on taste, but the right to joke—even at the powerful—is essential to public life. The louder the backlash, the clearer the need for humor that unsettles the comfortable and comforts the unsettled. Democracies breathe through free voices, and satire is one of its most vital breaths.
In the end, this was never just about Vice Ganda. It is about whether we can laugh both ways—up and down the social ladder. If we only laugh when the weak are the punchline, then our democracy is in danger. But if we can laugh at the powerful too, we prove that our freedom is alive. Supporting satire is not just defending a comedian’s joke. It is defending our own ability as a people to laugh, reflect, and demand better.
Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.
