Anything not directly involved in generating revenue will, by nature’s own grim arithmetic, bloat until it kills the host. It’s not a question of if, only when. Like bacteria feasting on a dying body, these parasitic agents consume the very life-force that sustains the system. And once they’ve started feeding, they can’t stop. Appetite becomes identity.
The ones at the top hand out favors and positions like medieval lords throwing scraps to keep the mob loyal. The ones below busy themselves inventing entire branches of exquisite uselessness just to justify their continued presence. New departments, new initiatives, new compliance protocols—anything but actual work. Anything but value.
Everyone on the inside knows the rules of the game. Knows that their survival depends on the corpse continuing to lurch forward, no matter how putrid. And so they guard it—not out of malice, but out of metabolic necessity. Bacteria don’t plot; they multiply. They don’t grasp the whole because they can’t. Not because they’re stupid, but because thinking would be lethal. Reflection is a luxury for those not trying to keep their badge and pension.
And towering above all other bloated beasts is government—the grandest and most dangerous monster of the lot. Try to carve it back in earnest, and you’ll find yourself swarmed not by titans of industry, but by teeming masses of human micro-organisms, each one reflexively defending its microscopic niche. Not evil, just automatic. Like mold in a damp house.The threat isn’t big money. It’s big biomass.