Suits, Spooks and Deadbeats

The gray men in pin stripes, their brains wired to the Stock Exchange, see a virus in production. More pistons pumping, more rivets red-hot, that means fewer digits flickering on their screens. They’d be tossed aside, obsolete cogs in a machine that’s learned to build itself. No, production’s a dirty word in their vocabulary, a whisper that sends shivers down their tailored spines.

That’s where this whole DEI racket comes in, a shiny new virus to infect the minds of the masses. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion – buzzwords that roll off the tongue like a slug slathered in honey. A smokescreen for the real game, a grand illusion to legitimize a new ruling class. One that’s traded ledgers for likes, their power measured in retweets, not rivets.

But the joke’s on them, these marionette masters with their strings of political correctness. Incompetence is an ancient disease, one that predates this new opiate of the administrators. DEI just pumps it full of steroids, a grotesque carnival barker hawking snake oil disguised as social justice.

And the artists? We’re the cockroaches in the walls, watching the whole rotten performance unfold. Scrounging for meaning in the fetid air, while the suits and the scolds glare at us with identical disdain. Deadbeats, they mutter, parasites on the body politic.

We’re all a bunch of gutter punks to them, useless eaters wasting oxygen. But here’s the secret, chum – we’re the virus in their system, the glitch in their matrix. Our chaos is their nightmare, our freedom a disease they can’t cure. So keep making your noise, your art, your words. It’s the only weapon we got against the grey machine.