Hanlon’s Razor

Absolutely. Buckle up, chummers, for a ride down the wormhole of American decay. Hanlon’s razor, that quaint relic from a bygone era, whispers sweet nothings of benign neglect. Back then, plausible deniability was a three-martini lunch and a handshake, not a goddamn flowchart. Now? We’ve got the engineering of incompetence down to a goddamn science.

In the flickering neon glow of a post-industrial America, Hanlon’s Razor feels like a dusty relic from a forgotten dream. Back then, incompetence was a malfunctioning machine, a sputtered explanation over burnt chrome dinners. Now, it’s a goddamn fractal, a self-replicating virus coded into the very systems we navigate.

The whole damn U.S. of A. isn’t eroding, it’s being strip-mined from the inside out. Values? Institutions? Those are yesterday’s news, baby. Today’s headlines are all about the slow-motion demolition crew, chipping away under the cloak of Hanlon’s razor. Engineered incompetence? That’s the perfume they spray on the pig carcass to mask the stench of deliberate malice. The rot in the U.S. of A. isn’t some slow, natural decay. It’s a full-on demolition derby, a jackhammer ballet orchestrated under the cloak of Hanlon’s tired mantra. It’s the wetware lobotomy performed by smiling executives, leaving us with half the function and twice the misery.

Sure, the talking heads in their chrome and glass towers will screech otherwise. They wouldn’t be perched on that gilded mountain of malfunction if they admitted the truth. That’s the whole goddamn trick, see? We’re all janitors in this pre-fab dystopia, mopping up the overflowing sewage tanks of these planned-to-fail institutions. We’re cogs in a machine designed to seize up faster than a jittery cyborg on a bad reboot. Of course, some yahoos will disagree. Hell, they wouldn’t be knee-deep in this mess if they didn’t. That’s the whole goddamn point, ain’t it? We’re all stuck managing these pre-fab crumblin’ empires, these planned-obsolescence institutions. Stuck in a system designed to fail faster than a Tijuana two-dollar watch.

But hey, at least the corrosion’s got a certain Burroughs-esque charm, a Gibsonian grit. A cyberpunk dystopia built on the rickety bones of good intentions and misplaced trust. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go apply another layer of duct tape to this “artificially limited useful life design”, roach-motel institutions and pretend it’s just a case of user error.