Outrage-as-a-Service

For hundreds and thousands of years,

humanity had real problems.

Like hunting for food,

Hunting animals that could kill you faster than you could spell “evolution.”

Problems like waking up every day

and surviving nature’s bipolar tantrums

just to keep breathing.

Then, humanity did what bored, arrogant species do —

It invented history.

Then it invented events to fill that history.

And then wrote itself into the footnotes,

one bullet point at a time.

And once survival got easier,

we took life for granted.

We traded purpose for pride,

and curiosity for convenience.

We went from killing animals for food

to caging humans for fun.

And then…

Somewhere in the echo chambers of first-world guilt

and third-world filters,

a new mutation emerged —

an eight-letter delusion

called activism.

Yeah, the new messiah.

Optimism’s overachieving cousin.

An ambitious cancer

masquerading as a cure.

Activists —

They slammed blue-collar slavery,

but built a world of white-collar contracts

dressed up as progress,

where being "un-slaved" feels like getting fired

from the job you never applied to.

They rejected bloodshed in the flesh,

and became high-functioning cannibals of ideas.

They dismantled Communism,

trolled Capitalism,

cancelled Socialism,

fingered Fascism,

and made a Netflix special out of identity politics

with the soundtrack of hashtags.

They blurred lines

until caste, class, gender, belief —

all bled into a single, convenient slogan:

Corrupt As Per Convenience.

You see —

activists are a case study in ironic physics:

Simultaneously empowered and exploited.

Victim and victor.

Offended and offensive.

All at once.

Schrödinger’s social justice warriors.

I love activists.

Who doesn’t enjoy a good fucking joke?

They claim to speak for the ones they’ve never met,

never helped,

never cared about —

Until oppression became aesthetic.

Until outrage turned into algorithms.

Until rebellion sold out for sponsorship deals.

They don’t believe in logic.

Logic doesn’t get virality.

They believe in carefully curated outrage

served with a side of borrowed intellect

and EMIs on ring lights.

They don’t fight for equality.

They fight for identity —

As long as that identity fits in

a 6-minute open mic slot

with ambient lighting and poetry for background score.

And the best part?

They hate privilege

...while sipping Irish single malt

in overpriced apartments

funded by a corporate job

they pretend they’re above.

Because if there’s one thing activists love more than victimhood,

it’s capitalism with a conscience.

And if there's one thing they fear more than injustice,

it’s being irrelevant.

And that’s the punchline, isn’t it?

Activism isn’t revolution.

It’s performance art.

And all the world’s a stage,

where everyone’s a poet,

everyone’s a prophet,

everyone’s a protest in progress.

And the applause?

It’s the only thing they’re actually fighting for.