The Joke’s on You

That’s not funny. No one’s amused.

You know how it is when the show’s gone too far with obscenity and you walk out disgusted, requiring a barf bag, and irked at being thought such an imbecile that you’d fall for lewdness and find it amusing?

Idiotic, that’s how you perceive us. And so you put on fancy shows, expecting to pacify us with a circus (not even bread.) But perhaps that’s what we get for choosing actors and players for statesmen. Perhaps that’s what we get for allowing this farce to go on unheeded.

But shows end. There comes a time when the adoring public sees through the trickster and leaves the court. And there comes a time when the crowd realizes that they need a government and not a bunch of clowns. The curtains must be brought down. And we will unmask, uncloak, and see what’s behind the glittering show.

Priority Development Assistance Funds, incredible lists that grow, names that appear and disappear? Your tricks have been exposed. And we won’t be swayed by songs. Calling us “Kaibigan” does not make us so. We will no longer be played the fool.

And so tell us who financed the extravaganza with wads of money piled so high they had to hoard them in bathtubs. Recompense for the years you’ve kept us from books and medicine, from roads and bridges, from a living wage, from flood, from the “multi-purposes” you scribbled and that we paid for. Or if you were ignoramus, how you handed over millions of our money in a daze to a group you didn’t know. Duped? Every year? I have heard the tragic story of how gullible you are, how trusting, how much of a fool; and the fantastic story of your hand and signature turning up like magic. Spare me the drama and tell me something new.

And this time, when you’re on stage, we want the show to be swift. Without embellished productions or smoke screens like lists or a sex tape. We want the stark reality of time inside, not justice plodding through paper and procedure, or Latin words we don’t understand. And when you decide to play victim, the opposition, sick or too old, this show will go on. We know the plot but this ending will have to change.

If all ends well, we will assemble a proper set for you. And you will have to spend time in the dingy side of the world. Off the stage, the dais, and the honorable floor. Doing time.

It isn’t funny. You are not amused. Because this joke‘s on you.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve 

-William Shakespeare, The Tempest


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