Humour has been killed by the snowflake society that we now live in.
Not for the fans of Pogo and its heirs, the readers of Molly Ivins and her heirs.
We've been living in a snowflake dominated society since the Civil Rights Act - but we have managed to laugh at them, despite the extraordinary efforts to censor such behavior.
Seriously (because they can't take a joke): what a whiny, snotnosed, thinskinned, crybaby, hypersensitive lot the Republican voters have become since the Civil Rights act. Even worse, they had the money and power to censor the public discussion, act out their po-boy picked-on don't get no respect sissy routine with real money behind them.
Imagine a full grown American man circa 1880, raising a family by working a 160 acre dairy farm with a team of horses, a couple of kids, and a windmill, seeing this future:
adult American men openly admitting that they based their vote for President of the US on the presumption that somebody back east had called their idiot barfly neighbor "deplorable";
adult American men - with jobs and families and the whole nine yards - telling the news guys that unless people quit calling them stupid they would
hold their breath until they turned blue vote for whomever the news guys disliked the most;
the Kavanaugh tantrums, watching that ferrety lawyer who had never tried a case get appointed to the US Supreme Court - for life - after a display of sniveling cowardice and spiteful dishonesty under pressure that would shame a ten year old remembering when he was four.
The takehome? It's shame that kills humor. Not snowflakes. Trump, the hero of the snowflakes, is - like Baghdad Bob, or Ronald Reagan - essentially a comic figure, but just as it became harder to laugh at Bob after Abu Ghraib, so it gets harder to laugh at Trump (or anything else) after the cages of children made the news, after the deaths from insulin rationing reached a certain level, after the billionaire killed Gawker.
Not impossible. Just harder.