In a world gone mad—well, more like a world that was already mad but finally took a deep dive off the sanity cliff—being smart was starting to feel like a crime. Not the kind of crime where you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar, but the kind where you just **think** about the cookie and suddenly you're public enemy number one.
Meet our hero, Bob. Now, Bob wasn't the kind of guy who flaunted his smarts. He wasn't inventing the next iPhone or solving the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. No, Bob was just your average, slightly-above-average Joe. The kind of guy who could figure out how to change the toner in the office printer without calling IT. A man who knew the difference between "affect" and "effect." A guy who could assemble Ikea furniture without a meltdown. In today's world, that made him a freaking genius.
But being clever wasn't exactly in vogue anymore. You see, Bob lived in a society that had perfected the art of mediocrity. The system was designed for the lowest common denominator—if you had half a brain, you were already two steps ahead and one step too close to a padded room.
It all started on a Thursday. Why Thursday? Because Thursday is the day the universe decides to kick you in the nuts right when you're looking forward to Friday. Bob was at the DMV, a place where hope went to die and bureaucrats went to breed. He was there to renew his driver’s license, an act that should’ve been simple—key word, "should’ve."
The line moved slower than a constipated snail. But Bob, ever the optimist, had come prepared. He had all his documents in order, including the two forms of ID, proof of residence, and a DNA sample—because, hell, you never know what they’re gonna ask for these days.
Finally, after an hour of watching the life drain out of everyone around him, Bob reached the counter. The clerk, a woman who looked like she had been force-fed a diet of misery and apathy since birth, barely glanced up at him.
"Name?" she droned.
"Bob," Bob replied, trying to sound cheerful.
"Full name," she snapped, as if "Bob" was somehow offensive in its simplicity.
"Robert Charles Perkins."
She started typing—slowly, like each keystroke was a Herculean effort. Bob could’ve sworn he heard the computer groan under the weight of her incompetence. After what felt like an eternity, she frowned.
"It says here you're missing your social security card."
Bob smiled, producing the card from his pocket. "I’ve got it right here."
She blinked at him. “That’s not possible.”
Bob frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It says here you’re missing it.”
“But… I have it. Right here.” He waved the card like he was trying to exorcise a demon.
The clerk's eyes narrowed. “If the computer says you don’t have it, you don’t have it.”
Bob realized he was up against something far more formidable than he’d anticipated—a system designed to keep everyone in their place, and by “place,” they meant a level of idiocy so profound it could render the smartest of men into blithering fools.
“Listen,” Bob began, trying to sound reasonable. “I’m just here to renew my license. I’ve got all my documents, including my social security card, despite what the computer says.”
But the clerk wasn’t having it. She sniffed, like she could smell the stench of intelligence on him. “If the system says you’re missing it, you’re missing it. End of discussion.”
Bob felt the rage bubbling up. This wasn’t just about a stupid card anymore. This was about every single time he’d been told to sit down, shut up, and follow the rules—even when the rules made no sense.
But Bob, being Bob, decided to play it smart. “Okay,” he said, feigning defeat. “What do I need to do?”
The clerk seemed almost disappointed that he wasn’t going to argue. “You need to fill out Form 87B.”
“And where do I get that?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing to a rack filled with forms that looked like they’d been designed by someone with a vendetta against trees.
Bob grabbed the form and found a seat. It was a maze of boxes, lines, and instructions written in a font so small it was practically Braille. But Bob, determined to outsmart the system, filled it out with meticulous care. He handed it back to the clerk, who took one look at it and frowned.
“You didn’t fill out Section C.”
“There is no Section C.”
She shoved the form back at him. “Then you’re filling out the wrong form.”
Bob felt his sanity slipping. “This is Form 87B, right?”
“Yes,” she said, as if that cleared everything up.
“And this is the form I need, correct?”
“Yes,” she repeated.
“But there’s no Section C.”
“Correct.”
“Then how could I have filled out Section C?”
She stared at him, and Bob could see the light in her eyes flicker—the last vestiges of common sense dying a slow, painful death.
“It’s not my job to understand the forms, sir. Just to process them.”
Bob felt a scream building up inside, but he held it in. “Okay,” he said, his voice trembling. “What happens now?”
“I’ll have to call my supervisor.”
Great, Bob thought. Now I get to deal with the head moron.
The supervisor arrived, looking like she’d been born in a cubicle and hadn’t seen daylight since. She scanned the form, her lips pursed.
“You didn’t fill out Section C,” she said, echoing the clerk.
Bob closed his eyes, counting to ten. “There is no Section C.”
“That’s because you’re using the wrong form.”
Bob took a deep breath. “This is Form 87B, the form I was told to fill out.”
The supervisor looked at the clerk, who shrugged. “The computer said he needed Form 87B.”
The supervisor sighed. “Well, the computer’s wrong.”
Bob felt like he was trapped in a bad sitcom. “So, what now?”
The supervisor handed him another form. “Fill this one out.”
Bob looked at the new form. It was identical to the last one, down to the lack of a Section C. He felt his eye twitch.
“Are you sure this is the right form?” he asked, trying to sound calm.
The supervisor gave him a look that could curdle milk. “The computer says it is.”
Bob knew better than to argue. He filled out the form, handed it back, and waited. The supervisor took it, scanned it, and nodded.
“Looks good. You’ll receive your new license in six to eight weeks.”
Bob blinked. “Six to eight weeks? But I need it now!”
The supervisor shrugged. “That’s the system.”
And there it was. The system. The final boss in the video game of life. The undefeatable, incomprehensible, nonsensical monster that devoured logic, reason, and intelligence with a single, bureaucratic chomp.
Bob walked out of the DMV, his brain fried from trying to outsmart a system designed to be idiot-proof—and in doing so, designed to frustrate anyone with a shred of intelligence. As he stepped into the sunlight, he realized that in this world, being smart was less of a blessing and more of a liability.
But Bob wasn’t about to give up. No, he’d just have to be smarter about being smart. He’d learn to play dumb, to nod and smile at the right times, to blend in with the mediocrity that surrounded him. Because in a world where the system was king, survival wasn’t about outsmarting it—it was about out-dumbing it.
And that, Bob realized with a smirk, was the real genius move.
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