You're Hired!
And there it was — the pedestal of vanity!
The spotlights beamed, as they do in all semi-respectable productions, the camera crew sweated under their trucker hats, and the audience gazed in awe at the future one-man-theater performer.
Someone loudly slurped pineapple juice through a straw, and the Worker-Man's heart clenched in rhythm with that deeply disturbing sound.
In his earpiece came the slightly teasing but overall cheerful voice of a girl — like a GPS system trying out empathy. She introduced herself as Valeria and gently asked him to calm down a bit, because all that was required of him was to wave his arms around a lot, run back and forth across the stage, and repeat everything she said.
Then the performance would be over. Sooner or later. Everything in nature has a beginning and an end — including the rental period of this hall.
The mouth opens. The vocal cords are lubricated with spring water from a bottle. And the sound bursts from the speakers:
And here I am! Your Gloriously Known, Adored, and Praised-in-Eddas Mentor and Maître. What is my name? You will say it — for only a thousand-throated roar may utter such a mighty name.
– Maiji Kuiper! Wa-Wa-Gua-Wa, Teacher!
Excellent. You still remember our slogan, my undercooked meatballs, my precious chufuses who've come seeking knowledge from beyond the stars.
Now I shall deliver a heartfelt lecture, which is one hundred percent improvised, because writing down my wisdom on paper or a tablet is an act of pure disrespect — toward Science itself.
Just like having a clear structure, which I'm sure you were all expecting, huh? You probably think I'll start describing the path of a human being from birth, slowly crawling toward death by some boring auto-asphyxiation, cursed be its name and every cliché-riddled handbook that ever mentioned it!
– No, and once again, no! – Roared the hall in righteous anger.
We will not be discussing harpsichords, Confederates, or Balrogs — all of which are also painfully predictable as the opening to an epic called: "The Beginning of a Chill Life Promenade."
In our — or rather my — business guide, which details how to turn a miserable human being into a battle-ready golem of the financial ecosystem, it is important to acknowledge all of the above factors. They complicate your understanding of this lecture — you, my future Dark Lords of Silicon Valley.
– Unhealthy Cynicism – Is Our Multicultural Creed!
That's right, my precious chufuses! You know it yourselves — all you need to do is listen to Me, occasionally kneel to prevent joint pain (and earn my approval), and of course, don't be shy about drooling, lest I suspect you (heaven forbid!) of developing some form of intelligence.
Now then — let us talk about physical saturation of the organism.
A Sudden Word on Professional Sports.
Why does it even exist, except to pull multi-million-dollar contracts from sheikhs? Yeah, that's pretty much it.
And with that, I would've slammed this damn chapter shut and moved on to the real discoveries that might finally pull your flat minds off the turtle and the elephants.
But I know you're here for revelations, am I right?
"Some of you already dropped to your knees in anticipation of just that."
No doubt, you want to know why the toxic environment of professional sports exists — beyond the money. And sadly (yet truthfully), I repeat: it's only about the money.
Get rich fast and get the hell out. Whether that's Wisconsin or the Himalayas — doesn't matter.
Doing sports for silly things like "drive," "passion for the game," or some delusional ambition of reaching greatness in the form of a shiny medal or a framed certificate — that's brainless and dangerous to the body.
The deeper you get into that nonsense — with the running, the jumping, the balls and all that sporting gear — the further you drift into the illusion, while your own body quietly collapses behind the curtain.
What did you expect?!
Modern cryo-chambers and recovery tech? Still pretty weak. Maybe future athletes will get lucky and squeeze out an extra hundred years of running.
But for now? Your rehab specialist will shrug. You'll be hunched over, begging for a veteran contract from your team or club. The sponsors will vanish. Your credit score will hit rock bottom.
And if you're not some anonymous journeyman, but actually a famous athlete — you'll lose something even more valuable.
And that, you little bug, will hit you harder than losing a hundred pesos here or there.