NPR's Mourning Edition

NPR Changes Its Morning Drive-Time Show to “Mourning Edition”
A Broadcast for a Party in Hospice
By Alan Nafzger — Bohiney Magazine (certified 127% funnier than The Onion)
Washington, D.C. (one hour before the tote-bag commute) -- The clock struck 5:00 a.m., and for the first time in its very adult life, NPR skipped “good morning” and went straight to condolences. The new opener is a hush: “Our sympathies to your inbox, your 401(k), and your preferred pronouns.” The flagship program formerly known as Morning Edition has rebranded as Mourning Edition, a detail that began as a pun and has since metastasized into a programming mission statement. It’s not a news hour; it’s a wake with underwriting.
The timing is suspiciously on-trend. After years of drifting, Democrats watched millions of registered party members wander off like shopping carts in a high wind. The famous Blue Wall caught a chill, and parts of it were found in a cul-de-sac outside Scranton. A chunk of Gen Z suddenly decided “rebellion” means buying Carhartt for actual work. Meanwhile, Trump — that familiar orange hurricane warning — blew back in and reupholstered the Oval with confidence bordering on aerobic exercise.
Is the Democratic Party “over”? NPR’s new format doesn’t say the word, but the bumper music does. You can hear it between the vowels: the sound of a party shuffling into therapy, asking for a sliding-scale rate and a five-year plan.
The Rebrand Heard Round the Carpool Lane
The segments that now define sunrise grief
Mourning Edition is meticulously engineered to match the vibe of a party that left its keys in 2012.
Traffic: “Left lane blocked by despair; merge right into a creeping acceptance of reality.”
Weather: “Cloudy with a 100% chance of ‘How did we lose Pennsylvania… again?’”
Marketplace Minute: “Markets up, morale down, tote-bag sales steady.”
Foreign Desk: “Abroad, people still like universal health care; at home, we’re debating gas stoves.”
Pledge Drive Insert: “For $15 a month you’ll receive a ceramic mug stamped Democracy Dies of Boredom.”
The audio palette is grief-forward. Out went the glockenspiels and optimistic throat-singing; in came muted cellos, soft thunder, and what a producer describes as “the exact frequency of a disappointed civics teacher.” A new sonic watermark — a single, tasteful sigh — now rides under transitions. In the control room, engineers call it “the Pelosi.”
A leaked rundown shows Tuesday’s hour three includes “Meditation for the Chronically Overpolled,” followed by “What Is A Coalition And Why Did Ours Wander Into Traffic?” The underwriting copy is crisp: “This hour of Mourning Edition is made possible by Kleenex for America: absorbency you can believe in.”
Field Notes from the Party of Perpetual Bereavement
Digital, personal, physical, relationship, scientific, testimonial, and trace evidence (because satire, but thorough)
Digital evidence: An intern slid a Google Sheet across our inbox with the subject line “don’t open at work.” The columns chart registration changes since the “OK, Fine, Trump Again” election. The tabs are named things like Blue_Wall_ish and Crying in Wisconsin. Conditional formatting turns every lost Democrat pale salmon. There is… a lot of salmon.
Personal evidence: In Philadelphia, a barista told us his precinct once printed blue ballots like coasters. “This year?” he shrugged, steaming milk. “We used the printer to make a flyer for Open Mic Night.” A woman at the end of the counter leaned in: “We still have hope,” she said, then asked if we had a charger.
Physical evidence: Outside a shuttered party office in Tallahassee, a sun-faded Biden-Harris sign rattled in the breeze, the zip ties worn smooth like rosary beads. On the sidewalk, a single gray fiber — forensic analysis suggests tote bag — clung to a storm drain as if waiting for a canvasser who would never come.
Relationship evidence: A city-hall staffer texted her ex at 2:11 a.m.: “I miss you and also rank-choice voting doesn’t fix vibes.” The ex, a libertarian with a heart of gold and a motorcycle that won’t start, replied: “Try open primaries.” They did not get back together.
Scientific evidence: Polling cross-tabs point to a coalition that has decided, boldly, to be in two places at once. Younger men drift right, older women stay left, and the middle tries yoga. Meanwhile, an economist sent us a chart of “cost disease” that looks like a sound wave of a scream.
Testimonial evidence: “We talked to everyone,” says Cheryl (not her real name), a veteran organizer with an iPad scar on her shoulder. “They nodded politely. Then they showed me their grocery receipts.” She gazed at the floor. “Nobody ever cries in front of you. They cry later, at the gas station.”
Trace evidence: Glitter recovered from a union hall in Oakland suggests a rally with handmade signs, a very good pastry table, and six carefully phrased disagreements that never reached the microphones.
Florida Signs the Death Certificate
A Sunshine State obituary with palm fronds and paperwork
On the Senate floor, a Democratic leader used the microphone like a bell and pronounced the state party dead. Time of death: one minute after the last donor asked, “What exactly did we buy?” Staffers peeled the seal off a door and discovered the HQ had become a seasonal store — “All Souls’ November,” with discounted yard signs and haunted canvassing scripts that shout “Are you home?” when you open the closet.
A junior aide posted a note on the break room corkboard: “If found, our message was ‘for working families.’ Please return to owner.”
Compromise Is a Ghost Story
Moderation, but make it morally exhausting
In Buffalo, a progressive icon told us compromise “lost me the election,” the way lactose “loses” you at a fondue party. Everywhere, centrists pitch “normalcy,” and everywhere, audiences stare like they’re watching a flight attendant explain seatbelts for the 400th time.
An anonymous campaign memo — water-spotted, printed in Calibri, found wedged under a ring light — reads: We tried Not Trump (again). The voters tried Not Showing Up (again). Both strategies achieved their intended outcomes.
Gen Z Splits the Banana
Half Bern, half Bible, all contrary
The young divide like a cell in a high school microscope. Older Gen Z keeps the flame lit for healthcare, climate, and free libraries with espresso machines. Younger Gen Z (especially the dudes) buys work boots on purpose, discovers torque, and votes accordingly.
A sophomore in Youngstown tried to explain: “I want to build stuff and not be told I’m the problem for existing.” He gestured at an idling pickup, reverent. “Also, have you priced eggs?” His girlfriend, a nursing student with a planner tattooed on her soul, nodded. “We like the planet. We also like breakfast.”
“Here’s the thing about youth,” goes a late-night joke line. “They want revolution until they realize revolution ruins Saturday.” — Trevor Noah
Leadership, But Bring a Walker
The party with a bench… press of gently used mahogany
Democratic leadership is distinguished, seasoned, venerable, and also, frankly, old enough to be a national landmark. The average strategy session features three emeritus chairs, seven endowments, and a casserole.
“You ever notice how the Democrats keep saying ‘fresh faces’ and then introduce someone who marched with McGovern?” — Jerry Seinfeld
“They don’t need a whip in Congress,” a Texan in a pearl-snap shirt told us in the parking lot of a barbecue joint. “They need a nurse with a clipboard.” — Ron White
The Republicans, by comparison, look like they’ve been farm-to-tabling their candidates. It’s cardio versus cod liver oil, and only one side gets a TikTok trend named after it.
The Blue Wall Becomes a Blue Mop
The geography of regret
Pennsylvania shrugged, Michigan raised an eyebrow, Wisconsin rolled its eyes, and the rest of the Rust Belt sent a short but devastating “k.” Even in cities that dream in latte foam, someone whispered, “Okay, but crime,” and the whisper carried.
A Democratic pollster, caught between a fern and a hard place, confided: “We outspent, out-expertised, and out-ethicized. They out-showed-up.” She lifted her glasses with a finger. “The moral of the story is there are no morals.”
“Dark Woke” Tries the Mic and Bombs
When your new message is an old mood ring
A group of consultants workshopped a tone called “Dark Woke” — edgy, self-aware, a little dangerous — and the focus group results triggered a fire drill. “It turns out the country did not want NPR host energy combined with roast-battle energy,” said a man whose LinkedIn headline is just “Thought Partner.”
“Democrats doing mean comedy is like your dentist rapping,” one listener wrote on a comment card. “I respect the hustle, but please stop.”
“Dark Woke? Please,” a comic deadpanned. “It’s not even al dente.” — Sarah Silverman
The Reboot: Unplug, Count to 2028, Plug Back In
Authenticity by seminar, populism by deck
You can feel the brainstorms whirring: simplify the message, speak to working people, make the brand edible. Younger candidates are invited to speak first, older candidates are invited to speak forever, and the press release glows with phrases like kitchen table and Main Street and not weird.
A strategist, exiting a meeting into a black SUV that made a small money sound as it locked, told us: “We are going to do authenticity.” Then he peeled a “We ♥ Small Donors” sticker off his $800 briefcase.
“Rebooting a political party isn’t like rebooting a laptop,” a sociologist cautioned. “It’s like rebooting your grandma.” She paused. “Unplugging may not help.”
The Gospel of Order
Also known as “Have you tried regulating everything?”
A congressman with the vibe of a diligent swim coach says the path back is “order.” Not just law-and-order in the old way, but the kind that tackles “cost disease” — healthcare, housing, education — the vampire squid on the middle-class face. People nod. Then they look at rent.
A leaked memo proposed slogans: “Lower Costs, Raise Spirits,” “Bring Back Tuesday Prices,” “Affordable Everything, Even Hope.” A handwritten note in the margin: What if we… actually do it?
Inside the Studio: Production Design for a Political Wake
Archival footage, grainy cellphone video, and the new caller board
Archival footage: Black-and-white film of FDR signing something decisive while everyone smokes optimistically. Cut to LBJ on the phone, persuading America by sheer Texas. Cut to Obama in front of Greek columns that looked silly then and classic now. Cut to a tote bag.
Grainy cellphone video: A precinct captain in Kenosha zooms in on a stack of door hangers dated three cycles ago. “We found these in the supply closet,” she whispers, “behind the whiteboard that still says Mueller Time.”
Caller board: “First time, long time,” says a voice from Phoenix. “It’s not that I hate you. It’s that I’m tired.” The call screener notes: Tired, fond, owns a Prius, shop teacher.
On-air chyrons: Economist says ‘secular stagnation’ again, Local mom says ‘I have receipts’ and means literal receipts, Parking enforcement officer explains how she became a Republican: ‘I saw a plan.’
What the Funny People Are Saying
“Democrats keep advertising ‘We’re not Trump.’ That’s like Burger King advertising ‘We’re not McDonald’s.’ Cool. You’re also not winning.” — Chris Rock
“Dark Woke? That’s when you virtue signal but with eyeliner.” — Amy Schumer
“Democrats lost California voters. That’s like a vegan losing customers at a kale stand. What did you do, deep-fry the hope?” — Trevor Noah
“You ever notice the party of college degrees forgot how to do math on Election Day?” — Jerry Seinfeld
“Look, I love NPR. But when the morning news starts with a trigger warning, I need coffee with a helmet.” — Bill Burr
“Democrats say ‘this is not who we are’ so much I’m starting to think that is who they are.” — Ricky Gervais
“Every time they say ‘kitchen table issues,’ a kitchen table sells itself to pay for daycare.” — Ali Wong
“Being a Democrat right now is like being in a band that only plays B-sides at weddings.” — Larry David
The Bohiney Poll, With the Appropriate Margin of Error
We surveyed 1,003 likely listeners of Mourning Edition using a methodology that will not withstand scrutiny.
62% said they feel “grief-adjacent.”
24% said they are “open to structured sorrow between 5 and 9 a.m.”
9% said they would switch to sports radio “if the host explains inflation with puppets.”
5% were already listening to a true-crime podcast about their own party.
When asked “What would restore confidence fastest?” the top answers were “pay less for bacon,” “see fewer car break-ins,” and “hear a Democrat who sounds like they can land a plane.”
Helpful Content for the Bereaved (Satirical, but sincerely meant)
Practical empathy in the age of tight shoes and tighter margins
Breathe: Catastrophe thrives in the shallow end of the lungs. Put the push alerts on Do Not Disturb. Mute the friend who subtweets despair like a devotional.
Touch grass: Not metaphorically. There is policy in dirt — housing, water, climate, labor. Knock on one door. Bring a muffin. Ask what hurts and then write it down like you mean it.
Speak human: “Kitchen table issues” is a slogan. “My rent went up $400 and my kid’s inhaler costs more than the car” is a sentence. Use sentences.
Practice order in small ways: Sweep the porch of your HQ. Fix the printer. Answer the email. When the party feels like entropy, the stapler is a moral victory.
Diversify the choir: Not just demographics — habits. Bring in the guy who owns a backhoe, the nurse who works nights, the grandma who knows every grandkid’s bus schedule and can also run a precinct like a battleship.
Stop narrating, start doing: Voters have heard fourteen versions of “we hear you.” They would now like to witness the miracle of being heard.
The Sponsors of Sorrow
Today’s Mourning Edition is brought to you by:
Big Kleenex: “For tears of both joy and polling errors.”
DoorChime: “The smart bell that rings whenever a voter actually opens the door.”
CivicFit: “Democracy tracking for your steps. Because your couch isn’t a swing state.”
GrocerEZ: “Coupons for voters who can quote CPI better than candidates.”
Underwriting taglines have grown ominously specific: “Funding also provided by listeners like you who are no longer registered Democrats, but still enjoy tasteful saxophone.”
The Counter-Programming: Premature Obituaries, Cautious Hope
Even in a funeral parlor, someone checks the pulse. Analysts insist party identification still leans blue in a soft, wobbly way. History says parties die loudly and then show up three years later with a haircut. We’ve held the wake before: after Nixon, Reagan, Bush. The ghost keeps RSVP-ing yes.
“Is the party dead?” asked a philosopher turned dairy farmer (do not laugh; the milk is excellent). “Or is it melodramatic?” He leaned on a fence post and looked at the horizon the way people do when they’re about to say something that sounds like a country lyric. “Sometimes a thing ain’t dead; it’s molting.”
Program Advisory: Tomorrow on Mourning Edition
“How to talk about immigration without making your uncle throw a brisket.”
“When the union hall and the yoga studio are the same building.”
“Back to School: If you can name eight genders, you can also name eight apprenticeships.”
“Crime, Cost, and Care: The three C’s voters bring up before you mention January 6 even once.”
Producers insist it’s not nihilism; it’s realism with good diction. “We’re not doomers,” says a senior editor, aligning a stack of scripts. “We’re pragmatists who own several shawls.”
Closing Arguments From the Witness Stand of Common Sense
A serious scientist (glasses, cardigan, terror of the data) testifies: “All the lines trending down for the Democrats are not destiny; they’re feedback.” A colorful local witness (barbecue apron, university degree hidden under a ballcap) adds: “If you want my vote, fix the thing in front of me.” An anonymous staffer whispers from behind a ficus: “We tried vibes. The vibes tried us back.”
Cause and effect are not complicated. When eggs cost rent, people vote for the person promising cheaper omelets. When storefronts are boarded, they vote for brooms. When politics sounds like a faculty meeting, they change majors.
There is a definition that matters here: coalition — a group of people who share a destination even if they argue about snacks. A party is not a grant proposal. It is a bus schedule that arrives on time.
Statistics can baptize this if they wish: turnout curves, cost curves, a jagged sawtooth of rage and relief. Deduction can support it: if not us then them, if not now then later, if not here then—surprise—elsewhere. Analogy will finish the work: a party is a house; eventually you must fix the roof or move.
The trace evidence left on this story — a smudge of espresso, a crease where a volunteer folded a map, glitter from a sign that said DO SOMETHING — argues for the simplest hypothesis: nothing is over. It is merely very, very annoying to fix.
Epilogue: Sunrise, With Appropriate Caution
At 8:59 a.m., Mourning Edition wraps with a string quartet that sounds like holding your breath at a yellow light. The host exhales into the microphone. “Thank you for sitting with us in this hour,” she says, “where we consider all things, including whether the thing we loved is still the thing we need.” Then a beat, and a signature note of public radio humility: “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
They probably will. And some of the listeners will do more than listen. They’ll knock a door, or build a bench, or ask better questions at the council meeting. The party will either learn how to say Here is what we will do, and then do it — or it will keep commissioning new theme music for the soundtrack of its own wallowing.
Democracy is not a tote bag. You don’t just carry it. You use it until it’s stained and frayed, and then you repair it because it’s still the right size.
Tomorrow, the sun will come up. Mourning Edition will play the sigh. Somewhere in a union hall or a church basement or a kitchen with one chair that wobbles, someone will outline a path that fits the block they live on. If a party is a house, maybe the breaker flipped. There is always a breaker. Flick it back.
“We tried despair,” a veteran organizer told us on the sidewalk as the day finally warmed. “It didn’t poll.”
Disclaimer
This satirical report is a fully human collaboration between two sentient beings — the world’s oldest tenured professor and a philosophy major turned dairy farmer. No robots mourned in the making of this piece.
https://bohiney.com/nprs-mourning-edition/
Comments
Post a Comment