Help Wanted.
Actors needed.
Must have a heartbeat and a hat.
Must wave convincingly.
Must pretend that truth was never invited to this parade.
Show up.
Shut up.
And smile wide enough to stretch across a lie.

They posted it like it was sacred—
Like democracy can be summoned by a classified ad
Nestled between a sofa with stains and a “free to good home” ferret.
Patriots for hire.
Auditions open.
No resume, just vibes.
And flags.
Preferably the kind that do not question anything.

The irony?
It is screaming louder than the brass band that will march past empty conviction.
The same man—no names, he is not worth them—
Who made a sport of accusing everyone else
Of renting their revolutions
Now drafts extras for his encore.
The emperor has no clothes,
But Craigslist has capes on clearance.

This is not politics.
This is set design.
This is cardboard support cut from the carcass of civic faith.
This is propaganda theater,
Where the ushers wear camo,
And the applause signs are digital.

They do not need real belief anymore—
They just need bodies to fill the frame.
They need silhouettes of loyalty,
Photogenic obedience.
They need you to wear red,
Wave hard,
And not think.

What do you call a movement that has to be cast like a soap opera?
What do you call a revolution that pays by the hour?
What do you call a leader who needs his delusion fed intravenously with fake love?

You call it farce.
You call it folklore with a price tag.
You call it Craigslist Democracy.

They say “Patriotic Americans,”
In quotation marks so heavy they leave bruises.
They want you to believe that standing there,
Holding someone else’s truth like it is your own,
Is the same as conviction.

But let me say this:
Conviction cannot be auditioned for.
Liberty does not wear makeup for the camera.
Justice does not respond to casting calls.

This—
This is ego in drag.
This is insecurity with a megaphone.
This is desperation that smells like old parade glitter and fresh deceit.

They sell you pride,
But it is all staged.
Smoke and red hats.
Flags stitched not with stars but marketing slogans.

And while you wave,
They will strip the real from your bones.
They will sell your applause to the highest bidder
And thank you for your “service.”

But not me.
I am not for sale.
My spine is not a prop.
My voice will not echo on cue.

You want actors?
Fine.
But do not mistake the silence of the uncast
For absence.
We are here.
We have been watching.
And when the curtain falls—
Because it always does—
We will be the ones
Still standing
Without stage directions,
Without scripts,
And without the need to be anything other than real.

So post your ads.
Print your lies.
Fill your frame.
But know this:
The crowd may cheer,
But history?
History keeps receipts.