Not to be political here, but I’ve been shocked this year and, impossibly, even more shocked last week, by the language and tone of the current leader of the free world. His communication is a study in the negative use of humor: insults, mockery, sarcasm. It’s essentially a what-not-to-do guide for using humor as a leader.
Watching this, I’ve been thinking more than ever about the types of humor that divide people, rather than my life’s mission which is to use it to create connection. I’ve long advised against too much self-deprecation, especially for women, and never when it undercuts what you’re actually hired to do.
But I hadn’t given much thought to sarcasm. Until someone recently reminded me of its definition. I’ve never been a fan since it often just feels mean, but I didn’t realize my reaction had ancient roots. The word sarcasm comes from the Greek sarkasmos, meaning “the tearing of the flesh.” Leave it to the Greeks, nailed it.
Given how clearly it clashes with connection or team-building, I’d mostly dismissed sarcasm as not worth exploring. And yet, I understand the appeal. It’s quick. It’s clever. It delivers that tiny hit of superiority in the moment.
But what does it actually leave behind?
Certainly not the kind of laughter that makes anyone feel good. Definitely not trust. Often, it leaves a sting, a shutdown, a conversation that stalls instead of opens.
And sure, tossing out a “zinger” can feel sharp and satisfying in some situations. In fact, zingers had their heyday in politics in the 1960s and ’70s. By 1970, as political discourse grew less civil and more confrontational, the term became a catchy synonym for a barbed quip.
If only they knew how much less civil things would become!
So it’s no surprise sarcasm thrives today. But in real conversations with real people, sarcasm and zingers tend to alienate. Which feels like the opposite of building a constituency to me, but I guess that’s why I’ve never run for office. It’s notably passive-aggressive and hostile. Instead of saying what you really mean, you say something sharper, guarded, and ultimately safer. Zero vulnerability and often a way to make someone else feel small.
And still, despite all this sometimes sarcasm is funny. Sometimes it’s earned. But more often than not, it’s armor.
So the next time a deliciously cutting line rises up, maybe take a beat before you lob it.
Or is that too hard for you?
See? Eww.
I could have ended with a genuine question like:
“Did I make a strong enough case against this?”
or
“Does anyone see it differently?”
Neither is even adjacent to funny—but I’m okay with that. I prefer it to someone tearing my flesh.
