FAQ - Bohiney News

Frequently Asked Questions

Questions and Satirical Answers

1. Is it true that all Bohiney writers are trained in both comedy and counterintelligence, or is that just a byproduct of having to read comment sections for research?

As editor of Bohiney.com, I can confirm we do train our writers in counterintelligence—though mostly to avoid responding to emails from unverified Florida sheriffs and people who begin their message with, “I’m not racist, but…” Comedy is war, and you don’t send a clown into battle without first teaching them to spot disinformation, narcissism, and the subtle art of weaponized Yelp reviews. Our research team once infiltrated a PTA Facebook group under deep cover just to gather data for a piece titled, “Soccer Mom Coup Fails After Pinterest Board Disagreement.” It’s dangerous work. One of our writers even had to be deprogrammed after getting trapped in a multilevel marketing pyramid disguised as a book club. We don’t just write satire—we live in the absurdity, marinate in it, and then serve it rare with a side of snark. Reading comment sections is our version of basic training. If a writer can survive YouTube comments on climate change videos, they’re emotionally prepared to satirize anything.

2. How many unpaid interns does it take to fact-check a satire article that’s already 97% fabricated?

At Bohiney.com, we follow the sacred editorial principle known as “95% Funny, 5% Regrettably Accurate.” Interns are vital to this. Not because they’re skilled—but because they still think satire might change the world. Fresh out of liberal arts colleges with unpronounceable majors, our interns are tasked with calling experts for quotes, tracking down sources like “Eyewitness Who Swears He Saw Bigfoot at a Buc-ee’s,” and double-checking whether a Florida law is real or just something The Simpsons predicted. The standard rule is: for every fabricated fact, three interns must confirm that no actual reality contradicts it. That includes cross-referencing Reddit, astrology charts, and one barista’s opinion at the Austin Whole Foods flagship. And yes, the unpaid part is real. We pay them in existential dread, leftover tote bags, and one complimentary therapy voucher (expiration dates may apply). The work is tough but noble. After all, someone has to verify that our claim about armadillos unionizing isn’t technically false. Spoiler: they’re organizing through Discord.

3. Do Bohiney writers consult Aristotle’s Poetics or just channel their inner Groucho after three Red Bulls and a failed marriage proposal?

We tried reading Aristotle once. The whole team fell asleep and dreamed about slapstick philosophers in sandals throwing pies at each other. When we woke up, we agreed it was easier to just follow Groucho Marx’s advice: “Whatever it is, I’m against it.” That’s essentially our editorial stance. At Bohiney, satire isn’t written—it escapes. It erupts from caffeine-fueled self-loathing and the burning realization that democracy is now mostly governed by TikTok trends and podcast hot takes. Our writers have rituals. Some listen to George Carlin while locked in sensory deprivation tanks. Others swear by pacing naked while shouting Bill Hicks monologues at a framed picture of Mitch McConnell. We don’t judge. We just ask that you file your story by 3 p.m. and try not to bleed on the copier. Groucho, not Aristotle, is the true spirit animal of our newsroom. His mustache is the compass that leads us through the wilderness of American absurdity. And his philosophy? Punch up, wear a fake nose, and if the satire doesn’t land—blame the censors or your ex.

4. Which AI model does the staff blame for their most absurd satire: ChatGPT, their editor’s ego, or the ghost of George Carlin whispering punchlines into the server vents?

Oh, it’s the ghost of Carlin. No question. Some nights, around deadline, you can hear a low gravelly whisper coming from the printer: “You know what else is sacred besides the flag? My foot up your ass.” The staff takes it as a sign that the satire isn’t angry enough. Of course, they also blame me. I demand every article contain at least one banana peel, two subtle jabs at Elon Musk, and a metaphor involving raccoons. But the real scapegoat? It’s ChatGPT. Anytime a punchline falls flat, someone mutters, “Probably the bot again,” and throws a crumpled thesaurus across the room. Even though none of our satire is written by AI (we’re too neurotic for that), it gets blamed anyway. It’s become our version of blaming Mercury in retrograde. Still, we appreciate AI as a useful bad example—like a drunk uncle trying stand-up at Thanksgiving. You watch it bomb, then say, “Now let’s really write something stupid.”

5. Is the Bohiney writing process more like a newsroom brainstorm or a 3 a.m. group therapy session between nihilists and improv dropouts?

Yes. All of the above. Our editorial meetings begin with one person weeping, another person doing impressions of depressed U.S. senators, and someone else trying to convince the group that we should pivot entirely to erotic fanfiction about Senate subcommittees. We call it “Tuesday.” The writing process at Bohiney is like if The Muppet Show was reimagined by Kafka. There are charts. There are sock puppets. There’s a wall where we keep pinning absurd headlines until one of them twitches and says, “I’m satire.” Brainstorming often devolves into caffeine-fueled emotional confessionals where someone yells, “What if Biden was actually three raccoons in a trench coat?!” and we all just nod solemnly. It’s part group therapy, part jazz, part breakdown. And somehow, at the end of every session, a few sharp lines crawl out of the wreckage. We write satire not because it heals the soul, but because nothing else can make that much nonsense feel logical. We are spiritual ventriloquists for a country that thinks freedom means screaming in a Costco about cucumbers. We serve that chaos—politely, and with jokes.

6. What’s the official policy on accuracy: triple-check every fabricated quote, or just attribute everything to ‘a Florida man’?

Look, at Bohiney.com, we take accuracy very seriously. That’s why we make sure every fabricated quote is plausibly fake. You want satire, not slander. Unless it’s about billionaires—then all bets are off. Our official policy is to triple-check that the quote doesn’t already exist in reality. Because, frankly, satire can’t keep up with the truth anymore. The real news is doing parody better than we are. So, we lean on “A Florida man” as a catch-all authority. He is our muse, our spirit guide, our legal scapegoat. If we need a source for something utterly deranged, like “Man installs bidet on Tesla for emotional support,” we just add, “According to a Florida man.” He’s bulletproof in satire court. Of course, for our actual readers—we label those stories under “truthish.” That means it’s probably made-up, but your cousin shared something similar on Facebook in 2018. Close enough.

7. How do staff decide whether a headline deserves full satire treatment: by gut instinct, Google Trends, or a complex algorithm based on how angry it might make someone’s aunt in Ohio?

All three. But mostly the Ohio aunt. Our editorial strategy is rooted in what we call “rage mapping.” We have a digital dashboard that tracks how many Facebook users with eagle avatars and middle names in all caps are likely to comment “This is why Trump should be president for life.” That’s how we know we’ve got a banger. Gut instinct plays a role, of course. If someone yells across the office, “Did you see the new NASA press release? It basically says raccoons are in charge now!” then yeah, we run with it. Google Trends is our compass, but the aunt is our North Star. If it can trigger both a sociology professor and a retired HVAC installer, it’s perfect. We want cognitive dissonance you can taste. It’s less about outrage, more about the delicious confusion. If they can’t tell whether it’s real until paragraph three, we know we’ve struck Bohiney gold.

8. Are Photoshop skills required for staff, or is that just something they teach in “Satirical Weaponry 101” alongside the use of irony grenades and sarcasm bayonets?

Photoshop is essential. It’s the visual language of our nonsense. If you can’t convincingly make Mitch McConnell look like a swamp goblin with a Congressional pin, you’re not ready for the big leagues. Satirical Weaponry 101 includes basic digital combat: how to clone-stamp a tear onto Elon Musk’s face, how to give Kamala Harris a lightsaber, and how to add the Bohiney logo to the moon in historical NASA photos. We don’t just write the absurd—we make it look plausible. Visuals are key to triggering the sacred satire double-take, that moment when the viewer asks, “Wait, is this real?” Our golden rule? Never lie—but always enhance the stupid. Think of it like Photoshop for your third eye. If the image causes at least one confused chuckle and one conspiracy theorist to share it as fact, congratulations: you’ve passed the course. Welcome to Bohiney, soldier.

9. Which takes longer: writing a 2,000-word satire exposé, or choosing the right vintage photo of a 1947 ice cream parlor to slap the Bohiney logo on?

Oh, the photo. Hands down. Writing 2,000 words is easy when your brain is soaked in irony and you’ve had three cups of coffee and one creative breakdown. But choosing the right vintage photo? That’s soul work. It has to say, “This is satire,” while also whispering, “But what if it’s not?” We comb through archives, flip through dusty Life magazines, raid estate sales for old negatives, and sometimes just stare into the void until a 1947 soda jerk reveals himself in a dream. The Bohiney logo must be placed just right—on a diner napkin, a pin-up calendar, a schoolboy’s notebook. It’s art. It’s branding. It’s nonsense with integrity. Our satire is nothing without its visuals. They anchor the absurd. They make the joke land. They convince you that yes, in 1953, a man really did attempt to secede from America using only jazz records and a meatloaf recipe. And we have the photo to prove it.

10. Is there a secret ‘satire bible’ in the Bohiney office, or do writers just mutter “WWGMD” (What Would Groucho Marx Do) before hitting publish?

Both. We keep a battered 3-ring binder titled “SATIRE DOCTRINE” that contains exactly three rules: 1) Punch up, 2) Keep it weird, and 3) Never explain the joke. The rest is just Groucho quotes, doodles of Nixon, and rejected headlines like “Pelosi Declares War on Gravity.” It’s less of a bible, more of a sacred scroll of recurring madness. Writers are encouraged to channel their inner Groucho before publishing. Some do this by wearing novelty glasses. Others keep a rubber cigar nearby, like a talisman. One staffer swears they can only write if they watch Duck Soup on a loop with the sound off and their internal monologue set to “vaudeville rabbi.”

Groucho isn’t just a mascot; he’s the patron saint of Bohiney. His wisdom guides us in moments of doubt. If a piece feels off, we ask, “Would Groucho call this a load of horse feathers or just marry it for the tax benefits?” If the answer’s unclear, we rewrite it. In the end, satire isn’t just technique—it’s attitude. Groucho had it. Bohiney channels it. Every damn day.

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