THE WORLD IS A CIRCUS, AND THE CLOWNS ARE CHARGING ADMISSION
By: Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
There comes a point in every man's life when he looks at the magnificent, steaming mountain of industrial-grade horseshit society has constructed, folds his arms, and wonders whether the entire human race was assembled on a Friday afternoon by an unpaid intern with a drinking problem.
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we've reached that point.
Welcome to the Grand International Festival of Getting Absolutely Fucked, where the tickets are expensive, the refreshments are imaginary, and the emergency exits lead directly into another goddamn billing department.
EVERYBODY WANTS SOMETHING. NOBODY WANTS TO PAY FOR ANYTHING.
Employers want experience. Recruiters want enthusiasm. Landlords want rent. Corporations want subscriptions. Dating platforms want your wallet, your kidneys, and possibly a notarized affidavit confirming that you're sufficiently desperate to purchase a photograph of somebody's left buttock.
And what does the average working-class bastard want?
A paycheck.
A refrigerator containing something besides mustard and the lingering spiritual presence of last Tuesday's leftovers.
Maybe a quiet afternoon without another notification announcing that some previously undiscovered organization has decided to charge him $14.99 for the privilege of existing.
Apparently, these are unreasonable demands.
THE ECONOMY OF PROFESSIONAL BULLSHIT
Have you noticed that the modern economy consists almost entirely of people selling each other solutions to problems they invented?
Can't find a job? Purchase a résumé service!
Can't afford groceries? Subscribe to a meal-planning application!
Feeling lonely? Congratulations! For the low introductory price of $9.99, you can receive three emojis, two suspicious compliments, and a blurry photograph that self-destructs before your financial dignity does.
Need money?
Wonderful!
Some mysterious entrepreneur from the farthest reaches of the internet has a revolutionary business proposition involving five digital identities, several email addresses, and a payment arrangement that sounds like it was drafted by three raccoons operating a shell corporation behind a Waffle House.
One hundred and fifty dollars!
Enough money to briefly convince a starving wallet that God has remembered its existence.
But WAIT!
Before collecting your magnificent fortune, please consult seventeen terms-of-service agreements, two financial institutions, a fraud prevention specialist, and the ghost of your childhood guidance counselor.
By the time everyone finishes explaining why you shouldn't touch the money, the grocery store has closed and your stomach has filed a formal complaint with the United Nations.
WHAT A MARVELOUS FUCKING CIVILIZATION.
THE HONEST MAN'S REWARD
Society has a fascinating relationship with honesty.
It demands honesty from the people who can least afford dishonesty.
The fellow making sixteen dollars an hour must demonstrate impeccable character, flawless attendance, unlimited patience, and the emotional stability of a Buddhist monk trapped inside a malfunctioning vending machine.
Meanwhile, somewhere in a climate-controlled executive suite, a man wearing a watch worth more than your annual salary has just approved another round of layoffs while congratulating himself on his courageous leadership.
He receives a bonus.
You receive an automated email thanking you for your interest.
Perhaps you should have demonstrated more initiative.
Perhaps you should have smiled harder.
Perhaps you should have sacrificed a goat beneath the fluorescent lighting of Human Resources while chanting the company's mission statement backward.
Have you tried networking?
Have you tried believing in yourself?
Have you tried not being poor?
HOLY SHIT! WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY THINK OF THAT?
THE SUBSCRIPTION TO EXISTENCE
Once upon a time, people bought things.
Now we rent permission to experience them.
Music? Monthly payment.
Movies? Monthly payment.
Software? Monthly payment.
Cloud storage? Monthly payment.
Want to speak to another human being?
Insert coins, you magnificent little hamster.
And don't forget to upgrade to PREMIUM PLATINUM ULTRA DELUXE, which includes the revolutionary ability to perform the exact same activity you were performing yesterday before somebody locked it behind a digital tollbooth.
Somewhere, a corporate executive is furiously masturbating over a spreadsheet titled Recurring Revenue Opportunities Among Financially Exhausted Mammals.
And somewhere else, an exhausted mammal is staring at his bank balance, wondering whether he can afford cereal without triggering an overdraft fee.
The machine doesn't care.
The machine has shareholders.
The machine requires growth.
The machine will happily sell you a fire extinguisher after setting your kitchen on fire.
BEHOLD THE GREAT MORAL CIRCUS
And then come the lectures.
Oh, the lectures!
Everyone has advice.
Be responsible.
Be patient.
Work harder.
Stay positive.
Make better choices.
Don't take shortcuts.
Don't complain.
Don't swear.
Don't become bitter.
Don't question the system.
Don't notice that the system appears to have been designed by a committee of emotionally constipated goblins who regard human suffering as an acceptable operating expense.
And above all else, DON'T GET ANGRY.
Anger is apparently unprofessional.
Frustration is unattractive.
Exhaustion is a personal failing.
The appropriate response to being repeatedly kicked in the financial testicles is to thank the gentleman wearing the expensive shoes and ask whether he has any additional feedback.
Well, fuck that.
Anger isn't always a malfunction.
Sometimes it's the entirely reasonable reaction of a human being who has spent far too long watching stupidity receive promotions while competence fills out another application.
THE PALADIN HAS LEFT THE CUSTOMER SERVICE DESK
And so, somewhere beyond the burning wreckage of modern common sense, a weary Lawful Neutral Paladin sits upon a folding chair.
His armor is dented.
His wallet contains approximately three molecules of oxygen.
His patience has been declared a federally endangered species.
Beside him sits a raccoon eating blueberries from a bowl large enough to qualify as agricultural infrastructure.
Nearby, Gerald the Cactus has established a one-plant grievance committee and is threatening to unionize with the office furniture.
The Paladin looks upon the kingdom.
He sees the advertisements.
The scams.
The motivational speeches.
The executives.
The subscriptions.
The hiring managers demanding five years of experience operating machinery invented last Thursday.
And he reaches a magnificent conclusion.
He doesn't need to conquer the kingdom.
He doesn't need to impress the kingdom.
He doesn't even need to convince the kingdom that it's full of idiots.
THE KINGDOM IS DOING A SPECTACULAR JOB OF DEMONSTRATING THAT ALL BY ITSELF.
He shall remain aggressively boring.
He shall guard his remaining pennies like a dragon defending the last chicken nugget in existence.
He shall refuse to purchase the privilege of being manipulated.
And when another pompous fool arrives to explain how everything is actually working exactly as intended, the Paladin shall calmly offer him a folding chair.
Sit down, Your Excellency.
Have a blueberry.
Watch the magnificent machinery of human arrogance trip over its own shoelaces.
No torches required.
No grand revolution necessary.
Just a front-row seat to the world's longest-running production of Everybody Knows What They're Doing, Except Nobody Fucking Does.
And should the curtain finally fall upon this ridiculous performance, our hero will rise, dust off his armor, and deliver his final review:
“Terrible management. Questionable writing. Unnecessary suffering. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
Then he shall gather his raccoon, retrieve his cactus, and depart in search of something infinitely more valuable than fame, fortune, or the approval of fools.
A peaceful evening.
A full stomach.
And one goddamn day when nobody asks him for money.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice: If the world insists on being a circus, stop volunteering to be the clown. Keep your wallet closed, your standards intact, and your folding chair somewhere with a decent view.
Gerald the Cactus declined to comment, citing an ongoing dispute with the Department of Unnecessary Bullshit.