Let’s get one thing straight: the only thing more predictable than a newspaper website covered in pop-ups and autoplay ads is the little link buried at the bottom that says Accessibility Statement. You know, the online version of “we care, we promise” that nobody actually clicks—unless they’re trying to scroll past the cookie banner and accidentally hit it.
Yes, the Washington Post (Democracy Dies in Darkness™) proudly waves its Accessibility Statement like a participation trophy: proof that somewhere, deep in the bowels of corporate compliance, someone remembered blind people exist. Bravo. Clap it out.
Now, before you roll your eyes and say, “This feels harsh,” let’s remember the stakes. Accessibility isn’t some cute website garnish. It’s the difference between “I can actually read this article about constipation” and “I’m trapped in an infinite CAPTCHA loop where every traffic light looks suspiciously like a mailbox.”
So buckle up, because we’re about to dig through the empty calories of corporate accessibility statements, the nonsense of performative inclusivity, and why half of these sites feel like they were designed by someone whose only disability is being allergic to empathy.
The Fine Art of Saying Nothing Loudly
Here’s the basic template of an accessibility statement:
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“We are committed to accessibility.” (Translation: Legal told us to write this.)
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“We strive to meet WCAG 2.1 standards.” (Translation: We Googled the acronym yesterday.)
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“If you encounter issues, please contact us.” (Translation: Email this dead inbox that nobody checks.)
That’s it. Three sentences of pure corporate Mad Libs. Replace “strive” with “aim” or “endeavor” if you’re feeling spicy. Toss in a boilerplate sentence about “valuing inclusivity.” Boom—job done.
It’s like a restaurant putting “we value hygiene” on the menu. Buddy, you don’t get points for not serving salmonella. Accessibility isn’t a bonus feature. It’s table stakes.
Meanwhile, Back at the Washington Post
This week’s Well+Being newsletter was about fitness tests, constipation, and confidence (the holy trinity of middle-school trauma). Kids are apparently about to get reacquainted with the Presidential Fitness Test, a.k.a. the annual public humiliation ceremony where you learned that your body is less “Olympic” and more “potato.”
The newsletter itself? Fine. Lighthearted. A little nostalgic. But scroll past the Trump headlines, past the Kennedy Center drama, past the “Number That’s Bad for the Economy” fear bait, and there it is: Accessibility Statement.
Do I dare click? Of course. Because nothing screams end of article like a digital fig leaf reminding you that yes, blind people exist, and yes, we’re definitely committed to remembering that on paper.
But what does it actually say? Probably something like:
“The Washington Post is committed to making our journalism accessible to everyone. If you have trouble accessing our content, please reach out to accessibility@washpost.com.”
Translation: Good luck getting a reply before 2030.
Fitness Tests for Websites
Let’s play a game. If the Post is serious about accessibility, then websites should have to pass their own Presidential Accessibility Fitness Test. Here’s what I propose:
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40 ARIA Labels: Can your site actually tell a screen reader that a button is a button and not “graphic_73849”? Drop and give me 40.
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10 Alt-Texts: Can you provide more than “image” as a description? Try ten full sentences that don’t sound like a toddler on Adderall.
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6½-Minute Navigation: Can someone with motor impairments get from the homepage to an article in under seven minutes without crying?
If your site fails, you don’t get a gold star. You get detention.
Accessibility as Afterthought
The hilarious part is that “Accessibility Statement” is always in the same dungeon as “Terms of Use” and “Cookie Settings.” You know—the graveyard of things you only click when you’re really bored or really desperate.
Imagine if actual inclusivity were treated the same way in real life. You show up to a restaurant in a wheelchair, and the hostess points to a tiny plaque in the corner:
“We value accessibility. Please email us if the stairs are a problem.”
Thanks, Brenda. Super helpful.
Performative Inclusivity: The Corporate Olympics
Accessibility Statements are part of the larger sport of Performative Inclusivity. Companies love to score points for “representation” as long as it costs nothing.
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Slap a rainbow logo on Pride Month? ✔️
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Post a tweet about “Standing with Ukraine”? ✔️
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Announce “We’re committed to accessibility”? ✔️
Meanwhile, the actual website still has color contrast so bad you’d think Helvetica had a hangover.
It’s like bragging about running a marathon while still winded from walking to the fridge.
The Real-World Consequences
Here’s where the snark meets reality: when websites punt accessibility into the “later” pile, real people pay the price.
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Blind readers stuck with paywalls that won’t load on screen readers.
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Deaf users forced to watch autoplay videos without captions.
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People with ADHD getting assaulted by blinking banner ads designed by Satan himself.
Accessibility isn’t a favor. It’s survival.
Let’s Talk Constipation
Since the newsletter itself touched on constipation, let’s go full metaphor. Accessibility is like fiber. Nobody wants to talk about it, but if you ignore it, everything gets clogged. Sure, you can slap an “Accessibility Statement” on the menu like sprinkling a few chia seeds in your yogurt, but unless you actually bake it into the system, you’re going to have problems.
Big, messy, embarrassing problems.
Accessibility Theater in Tech
And let’s not forget tech companies, who treat accessibility like a trendy side hustle. Every year, Apple gets up on stage to announce a new accessibility feature. “This year, you can control your iPhone with just your eyebrows!” Cue applause.
Meanwhile, the rest of the industry is still struggling to make their websites navigable without accidentally triggering five pop-ups and a phishing scam.
Solutions That Aren’t Sexy (But Actually Work)
Here’s the thing: accessibility isn’t rocket science. It’s just effort. Alt text, captions, proper contrast, logical navigation. None of it’s sexy, so nobody brags about it. But it works.
Imagine if newspapers took the energy they pour into flashy graphics about “Democracy Dies in Darkness” and redirected just 10% into making sure their site didn’t crash every screen reader known to man. Radical idea, I know.
The Snarky Bottom Line
Accessibility Statements are like New Year’s resolutions: written with good intentions, forgotten by February. They’re corporate Post-its that say, We Care, We Swear, while the actual product screams, Good luck, sucker.
And yet, they keep printing them. Because nothing says “Democracy Dies in Darkness” like a blind subscriber trying to cancel their subscription but getting stuck in an infinite modal window.
So here’s my accessibility statement:
This blog is committed to making fun of every corporate accessibility statement until companies realize accessibility isn’t a press release. It’s a practice. If you encounter snarky barriers, please email sarcasm@tryharder.com. Response time: never.