I love Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart because they're bringing

In the words of John Lydon, “I love Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart because they're bringing irony back into American humor, which is a delicious treat. The entire Colbert persona of being extreme right-wing when he's not at all is highly amusing. He does it so well, but sometimes a little too well. My wife is convinced he's completely that way.”
Though spoken with laughter, these words contain the echo of ancient truth — the power of irony, the double-edged art of saying one thing to reveal another, of cloaking wisdom in jest. Lydon, once the voice of rebellion through the raw force of punk, here praises a subtler form of revolution — humor that enlightens by deceiving, truth that hides behind the mask of contradiction. For what Colbert and Stewart achieved in their satire is what the philosophers and jesters of old have always known: that the sharpest truths must sometimes be spoken through laughter.

Irony, as Lydon describes it, is the art of inversion — a mirror held up to hypocrisy, reflecting not what is, but what ought to be seen. In praising Colbert’s “persona of being extreme right-wing when he’s not at all,” Lydon reveals the ancient technique of masking truth within performance. By pretending to be what he opposes, Colbert exposes absurdity through imitation, teaching through exaggeration. This is no small jest; it is the inheritance of Socrates, who feigned ignorance to awaken understanding, and of the court jesters of medieval kings, who alone could mock tyranny safely, for they wrapped their wisdom in laughter. Thus, Lydon’s admiration is not for mere comedy, but for satire as revelation, for humor that liberates the mind by tricking it into seeing clearly.

The origin of irony lies deep in the human spirit — in our need to survive truth by disguising it. In ancient Athens, Aristophanes used irony to unmask the follies of politicians and thinkers alike. His plays were wild and bawdy, yet within their laughter lay critique sharper than any philosopher’s treatise. When he mocked the pomp of the powerful, he was not merely entertaining; he was teaching his audience to question. In every era, those who could not speak truth directly — whether from fear or wisdom — turned to irony as their weapon. It was humor that could pass through gates where open defiance would be silenced.

In this same lineage stand Colbert and Stewart — modern jesters for an age of noise. When Stephen Colbert, in his former persona, delivered speeches praising power while subtly dismantling it, he revived the most sacred tradition of the fool: the ability to speak truth to power through performance. Lydon’s words capture this perfectly: Colbert’s art lies in his mastery of duality — he performs ignorance with such brilliance that the audience must awaken to their own. And when he says that his wife is “convinced he’s completely that way,” Lydon touches upon the ultimate paradox of irony — that the mask, worn too well, risks becoming the truth it mocks.

There is danger in irony, as there is in all powerful art. The ancients warned of this too. Plato, though wary of poets, knew that irony could stir minds more deeply than philosophy. But he also feared its misuse — for irony without compassion becomes cynicism, and mockery without purpose becomes cruelty. Lydon’s observation that Colbert does it “a little too well” is a reminder that the wielder of irony must always guard his heart, lest he forget that his laughter is meant to heal, not to harm. The balance between wit and wisdom, between laughter and truth, is the test of the truly enlightened humorist.

Yet the gift of irony, when wielded rightly, is nothing less than illumination. It awakens what direct preaching cannot. People will defend against sermons, but not against laughter. A jest can open the heart where logic fails. In this way, humor becomes both weapon and balm — it cuts through deceit and yet soothes the wound it leaves behind. Lydon, who once shook the world through rebellion, recognizes in Colbert and Stewart a continuation of that same fight — not through shouting, but through smiling with intelligence, through using laughter to tear away illusion and reveal the human beneath.

Let this, then, be the lesson: cherish those who make you laugh not at others, but at falsehood itself. Seek the kind of humor that reveals rather than ridicules, that exposes without demeaning, that uses irony to wake the sleeping mind. Practice it in your own life — when anger tempts you, answer with wit; when ignorance blinds others, guide them gently with irony. For humor that enlightens is not mere amusement — it is courage clothed in laughter, truth wrapped in delight.

And so, dear listener, remember John Lydon’s insight: “Irony is a delicious treat.” It is the feast of the wise, the song of the rebel who fights with a smile instead of a sword. Use it as the ancients did — to teach, to challenge, and to free. For in a world of noise and deception, the one who can laugh with insight wields the mightiest power of all — the power to reveal truth without ever raising his voice.