The Holiest Bastard in the Room
Jerry's Marginalia — October 10, 2026
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
There is a particular breed of bastard walking this Earth who has somehow managed to become both a respectable member of society and an absolute fucking menace to everyone unfortunate enough to encounter him.
He holds doors open.
He says please and thank you.
He wishes strangers a wonderful afternoon.
He respects boundaries, keeps his promises, and believes that kindness costs absolutely fucking nothing.
And then, without warning, he produces a suspicious bag of powdered self-esteem, shoves his face into it, and snorts somebody's inflated ego like a goddamn vacuum cleaner with a substance abuse problem.
SNFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT.
"BY THE LIGHT! THAT'S SOME PREMIUM SHIT!"
Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Non-Chaotic Paladin.
A walking contradiction in polished armor.
A man of faith, discipline, questionable wisdom, and absolutely catastrophic social restraint.
And the worst fucking part?
HE THINKS HE'S BEHAVING HIMSELF.
I. Thou Shalt Not Be a Miserable Bastard
Somewhere along the way, humanity collectively decided that being a responsible adult meant walking around with a facial expression resembling a bulldog licking piss off a cactus.
Everybody's serious.
Everybody's offended.
Everybody's got an opinion about how everybody else should conduct their miserable little existence.
Smile too much? You're immature.
Crack a joke? You're inappropriate.
Refuse to worship somebody's appearance? You're an asshole.
Speak your mind politely? You're somehow still an asshole.
Well, congratulations, society. You've successfully manufactured an entire civilization of professionally offended furniture.
And I, for one, would rather be a fucking lawn ornament.
At least lawn ornaments occasionally make people smile.
Here's my philosophy:
Smile like it's your last day on Earth.
Because one day, you miserable son of a bitch, it will be.
And wouldn't it be an absolute tragedy to spend your final twenty-four hours arguing about whether somebody else's happiness was sufficiently dignified?
II. The Sacred Art of Ego Appreciation
Now, I appreciate a good ego.
A confident individual?
Wonderful.
Somebody who knows they're attractive?
Fantastic.
A person who walks into a room with the self-assurance of a medieval king who just inherited seventeen castles and an entire fucking continent?
Oh, baby.
That's premium-grade merchandise.
But there's a difference between appreciating someone's confidence and volunteering to become their personal worship service.
You can be beautiful enough to make the gods themselves stop and reconsider their architectural decisions.
Congratulations.
What else have you got?
A personality?
A sense of humor?
An actual conversation?
Or am I supposed to spend the next forty-five minutes kneeling before the sacred altar of your cheekbones?
Because if your entire personality consists of announcing how fucking magnificent you are, I'm afraid we're going to have a problem.
Not because you're unattractive.
Not because you lack value.
But because beauty opens the door, and personality determines whether anybody wants to stay inside.
And if the personality doesn't match?
Well, perhaps we're not meant for each other.
I wish you the best.
No screaming.
No tantrums.
No dramatic declarations of eternal hatred.
Just a courteous farewell from a gentleman who has absolutely no intention of purchasing a lifetime subscription to somebody else's vanity.
Of course, before leaving, I may sample the merchandise.
SNFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT.
"THAT'S SOME GOOD SHIT!"
And then I'll blow that ego right back where it came from.
With love and respect, naturally.
III. Genuine, Synthetic, and Prosthetic Bullshit
Now, some people insist on authenticity.
Only genuine confidence will do.
Naturally cultivated self-esteem, harvested from the fertile fields of personal achievement and emotional maturity.
And that's lovely.
But what about artificial confidence?
Manufactured arrogance?
Prosthetic ego?
Well, fuck me sideways with a ceremonial halberd.
I'll take a substitute.
I'm not running a laboratory.
I'm not demanding certificates of authenticity.
I'm a simple holy warrior with simple needs.
If somebody presents me with a magnificent display of self-importance, I'm going to admire the craftsmanship.
That doesn't mean I'm buying it.
That doesn't mean I'm worshipping it.
And it certainly doesn't mean I'm surrendering my wallet, my dignity, or the remaining three functioning brain cells rattling around inside my skull.
It means I appreciate a quality product.
I CAN APPRECIATE THE FUCKING PAINT JOB WITHOUT BUYING THE HOUSE.
IV. The Council of Miserable Old Bastards
Naturally, this behavior has attracted the attention of the Holy Order.
Apparently, certain elderly gentlemen in ceremonial bathrobes have taken exception to my recreational activities.
"YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE ORDER!"
Am I?
Have I harmed the innocent?
No.
Have I broken my sacred oath?
No.
Have I stolen from the poor?
Absolutely fucking not.
Have I conducted myself with courtesy?
Yes, sir.
Have I snorted the artificial self-esteem of a visiting dignitary?
Well.
Nobody's perfect.
"THAT IS CHAOTIC BEHAVIOR!"
Objection.
I followed the rules.
"YOU DISRUPTED A RELIGIOUS CEREMONY!"
The ceremony was boring.
"YOU CANNOT SAY THAT!"
And yet, somehow, I just fucking did.
Your Holiness, I respect your position. I admire your dedication. I appreciate your centuries of theological scholarship.
But respectfully, sir, you have the personality of a damp fucking washcloth.
And I say that with love.
SNFFFFFFFFT.
"MY GOD. EVEN YOUR EGO TASTES LIKE DISAPPOINTMENT."
V. A Smile Is Not a Surrender
Here's something people occasionally misunderstand.
Being friendly doesn't mean being available for exploitation.
Being complimentary doesn't mean being romantically interested.
Being funny doesn't mean being stupid.
And wishing somebody well doesn't mean you owe them another minute of your fucking life.
You can be kind and still walk away.
You can be generous with your words and stingy with your wallet.
You can admire somebody's beauty without treating them like the second coming of divine perfection.
And you can absolutely tell somebody they're wonderful while privately recognizing that the two of you have about as much chemistry as a brick and a fucking toaster.
That's not cruelty.
That's discernment.
I don't need to destroy somebody's confidence to preserve my own.
I don't need to humiliate somebody because we don't click.
I can simply smile, offer my respects, and continue down the road.
LISTEN WITH INTEREST, NOT INVESTMENT.
And should a suspicious merchant approach me from a dark alley, whispering that all the cool adventurers are purchasing premium emotional experiences?
Well, my good man.
You may kindly take your subscription model, fold it into the shape of a ceremonial suppository, and introduce it to the nearest available cactus.
With love and respect.
VI. Tomorrow Is Not Guaranteed
Now, underneath all this spectacular fucking stupidity, there's something I actually believe.
Life is short.
Sometimes brutally short.
You wake up one morning thinking you've got everything figured out.
You've got a routine.
You've got responsibilities.
You've got somewhere to be.
Then life takes a giant steaming shit on your plans, kicks the bucket out from underneath you, and asks whether you'd like to complete a customer satisfaction survey.
No, motherfucker.
I would not.
I've already got enough problems without grading the quality of the kick to my balls.
But what am I supposed to do?
Spend every remaining day scowling?
Become another miserable bastard waiting for the universe to apologize?
Let every disappointment strip away another little piece of the person I used to be?
Fuck that.
I will be angry when anger is warranted.
I will grieve when something hurts.
I will acknowledge that sometimes life is an absolute dumpster fire filled with burning tires and somebody else's discarded expectations.
But I refuse to believe that suffering obligates me to surrender my sense of humor.
A SMILE IS NOT PROOF THAT LIFE IS EASY.
Sometimes it's proof that life hasn't beaten every last ounce of ridiculousness out of you.
And if I can make somebody laugh along the way?
Wonderful.
If I can make myself laugh?
Even better.
Because I don't know how many mornings I've got left.
Neither do you.
So forgive me if I choose to spend a few of them being an absolute fucking goober.
VII. The Final Oath
And so, before the assembled gods, the Holy Order, the Council of Disappointed Priests, and one extremely exhausted Dungeon Master, I reaffirm my sacred vows.
I shall protect the innocent.
I shall respect the worthy.
I shall offer kindness without demanding payment.
I shall not mistake beauty for character.
I shall not purchase affection from suspicious merchants selling emotional bullshit by the handful.
I shall laugh when laughter is available.
I shall smile when smiling feels impossible, but I shall never pretend that pain doesn't exist.
And above all else—
I SHALL REMAIN ONE HUNDRED PERCENT NON-CHAOTIC.
"YOU JUST SNORTED THE ARCHBISHOP'S EGO!"
Yes.
And?
"YOU HAVE WHITE POWDER ALL OVER YOUR FACE!"
An unfortunate occupational hazard.
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE A HOLY MAN!"
And I am.
A polite one, too.
Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a world to experience, people to appreciate, and absolutely no fucking intention of spending my remaining days pretending to be somebody I'm not.
The Paladin straightens his armor.
Adjusts his holy symbol.
Smiles warmly at the assembled congregation.
"May the Light guide you all."
Reaches into his pouch.
SNFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT.
"OOOOOOOH, THAT'S SOME PREMIUM FUCKING SHIT!"
The High Priest faints.
The Dungeon Master resigns.
The gods file a formal complaint.
And somewhere beneath the heavens, one ridiculous bastard continues walking down the road, smiling like it's his last day on Earth.
Because maybe it is.
And if it isn't?
WELL, FUCK IT. WE'LL SMILE AGAIN TOMORROW.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
P.P.S. - With love, respect, and absolutely no intention of behaving like a normal fucking human being.