Once upon a time, in a marble-clad echo chamber nestled between monuments to forgotten wars and selectively remembered speeches, there stood a grand legislative cathedral. This was the Palace of Loud Intentions, a place where two houses—one of elders and one of adolescents with press passes—gathered daily to bicker, posture, and occasionally legislate, though mostly by accident. The people called this place Congress, but insiders affectionately knew it as The Clamor.

The Clamor was not ruled by kings or queens, though it occasionally flirted with monarchy in spirit. It was staffed instead by 535 noble jesters known as Senators and Representatives. Together, they performed the most sacred duty in the United States of Amnesia: keeping democracy confusing, circular, and just inefficient enough to prevent any meaningful reflection.

In the upper chamber, the Senate, the elders robed themselves in gravitas, tradition, and the soft embrace of corporate donations. Here, the art of saying nothing took years to perfect and was usually rewarded with an honorary chairmanship and Sunday talk show appearances. Time slowed in the Senate, not out of respect for deliberation, but because most members were older than the inventions they were tasked with regulating.

“Let us debate TikTok,” cried one Senator. “But first—what is a WiFi?”

Across the rotunda lay the House of the Hustle, where things were louder, messier, and more heavily branded. Unlike their Senate siblings, House members operated on two-year leases and spent 86 percent of their time auditioning for reelection by going viral. Here, a good soundbite was worth more than a balanced budget, and legislative success was measured in appearances on cable news, not in passed bills.The Capitol dome itself rang hourly with the clash of ambitions, microphones, and poorly understood metaphors. Beneath it, politicians posed for portraits as they filibustered common sense, each believing themselves to be history’s protagonist—even if history could barely remember them between election cycles.

In the Kingdom of Clamor, nothing was sacred except the spectacle.

And nowhere was this more apparent than in the House’s modern wing: the Freedom Follies Caucus, a traveling band of chaos agents dedicated to making governance look like a sophomore improv class. Leading the charge was Lady Marjorie of Georgia, wielder of the Holy Oversight Binder, speaker of incomplete sentences, and patron saint of the phrase “I’m just asking questions.” Clad in flags and CrossFit gear, she roamed the halls issuing subpoenas like raffle tickets and challenging colleagues to interpret Scripture as if it had been ghostwritten by Alex Jones.

“Is the government hiding Jewish space lasers?” she would bellow from the rotunda. “We need answers!”

Nearby, George of Many Names practiced his next origin story. A master of identity fluidity, George had been everything from a Broadway producer to a champion volleyball player to the heir of a dynasty that never existed. His greatest role, however, was as an elected official. He once claimed to own a Maserati that turned out to be a Hot Wheels. When confronted, he shrugged and declared, “The truth is subjective.” In the Clamor, that made him a philosopher.

Then there was the curious case of Sir Kevin of Bakersfield, a Speaker so briefly empowered and so perpetually undercut that his gavel might as well have been a rubber chicken. He was elected Speaker after fifteen humiliating rounds of public negotiation and private surrender, only to be dethroned months later by the same cast of feral toddlers he had empowered.

“Is this a coup?” asked one reporter.

“No,” replied Kevin, blinking slowly. “This is how democracy works now.”

It was, in fact, not how democracy worked. But in the land of Amnesia, the past was a foreign country, and civics was a dead language.

Across the chamber, Matt of Gaetz grinned into cameras like a frat boy who mistook federalism for a keg stand. Matt was the Court Jester of Ego, always ready with a viral clip, a snide quip, or a defense of child labor laws that sounded suspiciously like an internship pitch. His job was not to govern but to disrupt, distract, and occasionally threaten his own leadership with rebellion if they failed to genuflect appropriately to the golden idol of He Who Shall Not Accept Loss.

The Senate, not to be outshone, had its own rogues gallery.

Mitch of the Midnight Moves ruled the upper chamber like a tortoise wizard with a crystal ball that only showed election maps. His favorite spell was the Filibustero, a charm that rendered legislation inert by summoning the ghost of “bipartisanship.” Mitch believed in the Constitution—especially the part where he got to ignore a Supreme Court nomination for 293 days because it was “an election year,” and then confirm another one in 13 minutes during an actual election.

“Consistency is for peasants,” he hissed, disappearing behind a curtain of dark money.

Near him sat Lindsey the Weather Vane, whose moral compass spun so quickly it generated its own wind patterns. Once a critic, now a cheerleader, Lindsey shifted allegiances with the confidence of a man who believed that the Constitution came with mood settings. He waxed poetic about dignity in one breath and called for martial law in the next. On Sundays, he worshiped Jesus. On Mondays, he tweeted like Nero.

And then there were the Democrats, wandering the Capitol like unpaid interns at their own intervention.

Chuck of Schumer, the Senate’s majority leader in title but not in tone, delivered press statements so cautiously worded that they could be mistaken for fortune cookies. “We are strongly considering maybe perhaps exploring the possibility of possibly taking action,” he declared after the fiftieth mass shooting. The statement was met with applause, mainly from lobbyists.

Hakeem the Rhyming Hopeful, newly elevated to the role of House Minority Leader, attempted to rally the troops with verse. His speeches were often described as “Kendrick Lamar but sponsored by LinkedIn.” He meant well. But in a land ruled by spectacle, sincerity was the least marketable trait in the chamber.

Outside the Capitol, the people watched in horror, amusement, and confusion. Congressional approval ratings dipped below that of tap water at a chemical spill. But elections kept happening. Voters kept forgetting. And gerrymanders ensured that the same clowns returned year after year to juggle your rights, your taxes, and your healthcare like flaming swords.

The few bills that did pass were often named after dead children, dying bridges, or endangered tax loopholes. The process was simple: A crisis emerged. A hearing was held. Thoughts and prayers were issued like expired coupons. A bipartisan committee was formed, only to collapse under the weight of its own press releases.

Occasionally, someone asked: “What does Congress even do anymore?”

The answer was: Perform.

They performed grief. They performed outrage. They performed unity at the State of the Union, where they clapped awkwardly, stood selectively, and wore matching outfits like it was senior prom for legislative theater kids. Every issue became a branding opportunity. Every scandal, a fundraising pitch. Every tragedy, a talking point.

On the marble steps outside the Capitol, tourists took selfies, unaware that they were standing on what had effectively become the world’s most expensive content farm. The Capitol dome, once a beacon, now functioned as a signal tower for partisan memes, weaponized ignorance, and performative patriotism with a side of fascism lite.

The real work—budgeting, oversight, diplomacy, reform—was outsourced to think tanks, billionaires, and unelected aides. Hearings were held not to inform but to inflame. If a witness spoke truth, they were cut off. If they cried, it was uploaded to C-SPAN’s TikTok channel for the algorithm to devour.

But the crown jewel of congressional absurdity remained the Committee Circus.

In one room, a “hearing” on critical race theory featured zero experts on education and three men who once got banned from Facebook. In another, a COVID oversight panel grilled scientists about whether viruses could be “engineered by thoughts.” And down the hall, a House Oversight Committee member insisted that Taylor Swift was a Pentagon asset sent to distract from inflation.

“Do you have proof?” asked a journalist.

“I have vibes,” replied the Congressman. “And that’s enough.”

And it was.

Because in the United States of Amnesia, vibes beat facts, memes beat policy, and Congress beat itself—in the ratings, in the polls, and eventually, in the legitimacy department.

So what became of this hallowed body of lawmaking?

It became a soundstage.

A chamber of influencers.

A post office for billionaires.

A place where grandstanding was job security, where courage was performative, and where democracy went to do costume changes between votes.

Yet every two years, the people lined up.

They voted.

They hoped.

They prayed.

And then they forgot.

They forgot which member said what. They forgot that Santos was indicted. That Greene screamed during the State of the Union. That McCarthy was ousted by his own party in the most spectacular self-own since someone gave Rick Perry a microphone. They forgot that promises were broken not in private but on livestreams with PayPal links.

But do not worry.

As long as the flag still waves, as long as the C-SPAN cameras keep rolling, and as long as outrage is available in snack-sized bites, the Kingdom of Clamor will endure.

It will argue.

It will posture.

It will fundraise from fear and filibuster from fiction.

So grab your popcorn, silence your conscience, and choose your fighter.

Because the curtain is rising.

And the clamor never ends.