A Morality of Shame

Direct confrontation, including the use of shame, is necessary because democracy is not sustained by polite silence; it survives through open struggle against anti-democratic forces. Speech remains free, but those who employ it to undermine democratic values must face public repudiation. Calling out fascistic or bigoted rhetoric for what it is prevents normalizing harmful ideologies.



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Precis:


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There is a persistent myth that comedians are truth-tellers, wielding humor as a subversive tool to challenge power structures. The reality, however, is far more complex—and far less flattering. Comedy, in its mainstream form, rarely disrupts power. It is, more often than not, a tool for reinforcing the status quo. The jester of old could mock the king not because he was a revolutionary but because his mockery was allowed. The king’s willingness to laugh proved his authority, creating the illusion that power could be questioned without being destabilized. The jester was a release valve, a way to keep dissatisfaction in check by making dissent humorous and harmless. (For this reason, John Stewart, John Oliver, Samantha Bee and any truth-telling comedians also have no problem taking pay-checks from giant media corporations that do dictate what can and cannot be said, and we know from Mussolini himself that corporate control is a key part of fascism.)

Figures like Dave Chappelle, Joe Rogan, and others claim they are truth tellers based on this historical misapplication of the license to satire. But they are not the weird kid in the back of class who says something funny, incendiary, and confrontational of power structures being applied unfairly at random. They are instead the bullies who repeat the popular ideas of the day, cloaking their hatred with good old boy humor. They are not so much the Dead Kennedy's irony as the ironic bootlicking of Skrewdriver.

For example: George Carlin’s “American Dream” bit, where he talks about the “big club” that you’re not in, is often misunderstood because people ignore an unstated assumption. The assumption is that the presence of a few who manage to get into that elite circle leads the rest to believe they, too, have a real chance of joining. This selective inclusion misleads people into thinking the system is open and fair, even though Carlin’s central point is that the vast majority will never truly be part of that exclusive club. Carlin perhaps overestimated his audience’s ability to grasp the excluded middle of his critique—the systemic manipulation that exploits hope while maintaining control. The common misinterpretation of his work as "both-sidesing" reflects this gap, as many fail to engage with the nuanced critique he was making.

True comedic truth-tellers—those who challenge power rather than accommodate it—are rarely welcomed. Figures like Lenny Bruce, who dared to attack power structures directly, are the exception, and they often pay a heavy price for their audacity. Bruce, arrested multiple times for obscenity, understood that real comedy isn’t just about making people laugh; it’s about confronting the unspoken rules and hypocrisies of society. His infamous routine about slurs wasn’t an indulgence in offensive language; it was a brutal critique of how suppression and taboos give words their violence. Bruce argued that stripping words of their fearsome power was an act of liberation—an attack on the structures that weaponize language against the powerless.

Take, for example, Bruce’s infamous routine about racial slurs. In a bit that still feels radical decades later, Bruce rattles off a litany of slurs—“nigger,” “kike,” “spic,” “wop”—to the discomfort of his audience. But his aim isn’t to revel in the offensiveness of the words. Instead, he’s critiquing the way those words are weaponized by those in power while cloaking their real intentions behind civility and respectability. Bruce’s argument is that the violence of these words isn’t inherent—it’s derived from how the powerful use them to maintain hierarchies while pretending to be above such language.

Bruce doesn’t dismiss the offensiveness of slurs; he weaponizes their discomfort to make a larger point. “It’s the suppression of the word that gives it its power, the violence, the viciousness,” he says. By suppressing certain language, society gives it a taboo power that the powerful can exploit in secret. If those in power said what they truly meant—if they openly voiced the racism, bigotry, and hatred underlying their actions—they would be exposed. By contrast, Bruce’s unflinching repetition of slurs is an act of truth-telling: he forces the audience to confront not just the words but the systems of power that make those words so charged.

He drives this home with a hypothetical: “If President Kennedy went on television and said ‘nigger, nigger, nigger,’ until the word lost all meaning, you could never make some six-year-old Black kid cry because somebody called him a nigger at school.” His point isn’t to normalize offensive language but to dismantle the power that language holds when wielded by the powerful. Bruce exposes the hypocrisy of those who perpetuate oppression while hiding behind the illusion of civility. For Bruce, the true obscenity isn’t the slur itself—it’s the suppression of truth in favor of maintaining power structures.

He therefore confronts us with the trauma of the capital R Real bigotries out systems of power inherently believe but act blind to.

Bruce’s critique of civility resonates deeply in our current age of civility politics, where the tone of critique is often policed more rigorously than the content of the critique itself. Civility politics prioritizes decorum over substance, creating a system where the worst actions can be excused as long as they are done politely, and the most justified anger can be dismissed if it is expressed too forcefully. This dynamic protects power by shifting the focus away from systemic injustice and onto the perceived incivility of those who call it out.

Civility politics thrives in parliamentary-style democracies because it fetishizes tone over substance. It creates a false equivalence between words and actions, pretending that calling someone a Nazi is as harmful as supporting fascist policies. But this is a trap. By demanding civility in the face of fascistic behavior, civility politics shifts the burden onto those resisting authoritarianism rather than those perpetuating it. It allows fascists to escalate their rhetoric and actions while tying their opponents’ hands behind their backs.

If someone says or does something fascist, call it fascist. If someone spouts rhetoric that echoes the talking points of historical Nazis—whether it’s dehumanizing marginalized groups, calling for the erosion of democratic norms, or glorifying violence—call them a weird fucking Nazi. This isn’t just about rhetorical style; it’s about refusing to let them hide behind the illusion of respectability.

Fascism thrives on ambiguity. It rarely comes dressed in swastikas and goose-stepping boots anymore. Instead, it cloaks itself in plausible deniability, dog-whistles, and sanitized language. By refusing to name it for what it is, we allow it to grow unchecked. Calling it out—directly, bluntly, and without apology—is a way of breaking the spell of ambiguity. It forces the conversation into the open, stripping fascists of their ability to operate in the shadows.

When they respond to being called weird Nazis by accusing you of being uncivil, don’t retreat. Use the moment to turn the conversation back onto their actions and rhetoric. Explain, clearly and calmly if you can (but furiously if you must), that civility is a farce when the stakes are existential. Fascists are not owed politeness. Nazis are not owed decorum. Civility is for mutual respect, not for people whose ideologies deny the humanity of others.

Here’s the thing: fascists use civility politics as a distraction. While the conversation spirals into whether or not it was polite to call someone a Nazi, the real issue—their actual fascistic behavior—is sidelined. The response to this is to refuse the bait. Every time they bring up civility, drag the conversation back to the real problem: their fascism.

For example:

It’s not about “winning” the civility argument; it’s about refusing to have it in the first place. The goal is to pull the mask off their rhetoric, forcing them to either defend their fascism outright or retreat. It would be weak and dishonest to call this ad hominem because it is an attack at the person's choice to spout such hateful ideas. There is no recourse to Godwin's Law when someone is parroting actual Nazi talking points, which proves that the only invocation of that law originally was paradoxically to make it okay for Nazi ideas to be platformed.


This approach is not about abandoning civility altogether but about refusing to let civility become a shield for hate. Real democracy, as we’ve discussed, thrives on confrontation. It requires that we be comfortable with anger, disagreement, and even hatred when necessary. If fascists insist on spouting weird Nazi shit, it is both our right and our responsibility to confront them directly and name their behavior for what it is.

The objection that might be made, which is in fact a bald faced lie, is that this will lead to an escalation of violence. However, the Nazi in question has already raised the specter of violence. Slavoj Žižek highlights an important truth: when people are subjected to violence, they are forced to choose how to respond—either with violence or non-violence. However, regardless of their choice, they are often framed as the aggressors. This makes any violent response a tactical decision, not an irrational one. Those in power—such as fascists or oppressive systems—seek to maintain a monopoly on violence, claiming the right to use force while denying that same right to those they oppress. In this way, they justify their own violence while preventing their subjects from resisting in kind.


The logical and moral conclusion is that if a situation escalates, the morally responsible person can choose non-violence. However, when confronted by violence from a Nazi, the more appropriate response may be to do exactly what the Blues Brothers did: punch back, even if it means driving them off a literal bridge. The only reason not to act decisively in the moment is if you believe you can shame, confront, or hurt more of them at a later time, making a more strategic intervention.

So what then is to be done beyond such immediate responses? One answer is a return to shame.

Žižek’s call for more shame is grounded in the idea that democracy, at its core, relies on a shared social ethos. For democracy to function, there must be a baseline of mutual accountability, a recognition that participation in the democratic process carries not just rights but responsibilities. When people engage in behavior that undermines this ethos—spouting fascistic rhetoric, spreading dehumanizing ideas, or actively working to erode democratic norms—they should be met with shame. Not censorship, which imposes limits from above, but a grassroots, collective expression of condemnation that reinforces the boundaries of acceptable behavior.

Shame, in this context, is democratic because it operates as a horizontal force. It is not the state banning speech or enforcing conformity but the public, through its collective voice, rejecting what it finds intolerable. This rejection is not about stifling debate but about holding participants accountable for the consequences of their words and actions. Žižek would argue that this form of shame is necessary to maintain the health of a democracy. Without it, the system becomes permissive to the point of self-destruction, allowing behaviors and ideologies that corrode the very foundations of democratic life.

Shame vs. Censorship: The Democratic Difference The distinction Žižek makes between shame and censorship is crucial. Censorship imposes silence, creating a top-down prohibition that often drives harmful ideas underground, where they fester and radicalize. Shame, by contrast, brings harmful behavior into the open, exposing it to the light of public scrutiny and ridicule. It is a democratic act because it engages the public directly, forcing people to confront and reject behaviors that violate shared values.

For example:

Censorship says, “You cannot say this.”

Shame says, “You can say this, but we will laugh at you, reject you, and call you a weird fucking Nazi because your behavior is reprehensible.”

In Žižek’s terms, shame is a form of ideological struggle that preserves freedom while insisting on accountability. It doesn’t deny people the right to speak; it denies them the comfort of unearned respect or legitimacy. This aligns with real democracy’s embrace of confrontation: shame is a way of codifying barbarism, channeling the chaos of human impulses into a productive social corrective.

Shame becomes a tool for maintaining the tension that democracy requires to thrive. It creates friction, reminding people that participation in democracy is not a free-for-all but a communal act with ethical dimensions. When someone engages in behavior that violates the dignity of the democratic process—whether by spreading bigotry, glorifying authoritarianism, or spouting incoherent conspiracy theories—they should feel the heat of public disapproval.

This is not about erasing differences or enforcing conformity but about drawing clear boundaries. A democracy that tolerates everything, including those forces that would destroy it, undermines itself. Shame acts as a democratic immune system, a way for the public to collectively say, “No, this is not who we are. This is not acceptable in our shared space.”

Žižek’s argument for shame fits perfectly into the earlier point about calling people weird fucking Nazis when they say weird Nazi shit. Shame operates as the public counterpart to this directness, ensuring that fascists and bigots are not allowed to hide behind civility politics or the pretense of legitimate debate. When someone spouts fascistic rhetoric, shame exposes it, stripping away its respectability and forcing the speaker to confront the consequences of their actions.

But shame does more than simply condemn; it educates. By publicly rejecting harmful behavior, shame creates a cultural signal about what is and isn’t acceptable. It’s not about silencing voices but about forcing them to reckon with the standards of the democratic community. When fascists complain about being called Nazis, shame says, “You can’t hide behind civility when your actions and words are an affront to democracy.”

Shame works because it is uncomfortable. It forces people to confront their behavior, to feel the weight of public disapproval. This discomfort is not a failure of democracy but a necessary feature. Democracy thrives on tension, on the push and pull of competing values and ideas. Shame is part of this tension, a way of keeping the boundaries of democracy alive without resorting to authoritarian suppression.

This aligns with Žižek’s broader philosophy: the idea that freedom is not the absence of constraints but the ability to engage meaningfully within them. Shame is one such constraint, a way of saying that freedom of speech does not mean freedom from accountability. It creates a space where democracy can flourish—not as a free-for-all but as a structured confrontation that forces people to take responsibility for their participation.

Žižek’s call for more shame is not about moralizing or silencing dissent; it is about reclaiming accountability in a system that has become too permissive of hate, bigotry, and fascistic rhetoric. Shame is not a failure of democracy; it is a democratic act—a collective expression of rejection that strengthens the social fabric by insisting on ethical engagement.

In a world where civility politics is weaponized to protect authoritarianism, shame is a way of fighting back. It refuses to let harmful behavior hide behind the veneer of respectability. It forces people to confront the consequences of their actions. And it reminds us that democracy, at its best, is not a system of polite agreement but a messy, confrontational, and deeply ethical process.

Therefore, we need to be comfortable calling people out for weird Nazi shit. But we also need to be comfortable with making them feel the full weight of their words and actions—not through censorship but through the democratic power of shame. In doing so, we preserve democracy’s ability to hold people accountable while maintaining the openness and freedom that make it worth fighting.

So: Lenny Bruce’s famous line—“Take away the right to say ‘fuck,’ and you take away the right to say ‘fuck the government’”—is as relevant now as ever. Shaming those in power, or those who would use cruel words must make it's repressed return:

Them: This minority group is the cause of problems, if we remove them that's the real solution.

You: You mean final solution? You weird fucking nazi racist, shut the fuck up you have no place in society you fucking racist.

This is not bullying because it is punching back at someone who punched first.

That's what Bruce was doing at best, before being destroyed for his crime of believing there should be a democratic world where everyone was treated fairly.
His comedy wasn’t an indulgence in vulgarity; it was a demand for the freedom to critique power in all its forms. This demand is fundamentally opposed to civility politics, which seeks to make dissent polite, palatable, and ultimately powerless.

Hence the ironically Christ-like post death power of Bruce, who it is said died for our sins.

Žižek’s call for shame builds on this legacy, insisting that democracy requires not just freedom of speech but accountability for how that speech is used. Together, Bruce and Žižek remind us that democracy is not a system of polite agreements but a messy, confrontational process that demands clarity, honesty, and courage. Whether through comedy, shame, or direct confrontation, the fight for democracy is the fight to speak the truth—even when it’s uncomfortable, offensive, or impolite.

Such speech need not only be verbal. It may come symbolically as well.
Consider the following cases:




In each case, a direct action was taken that is symbolic, in the same way that refusing to stand for a national anthem is, or burning a flag in protest. Or saying "fuck the government that hurts people this way". People may not like it but so the fuck what? Those people need to grow up and understand that what makes them uncomfortable is the weird Nazi in their heard and they need to be shamed into shutting the fuck up and acting like human beings for once.