The Dance of Bureaucratic Folly: A Tale of Sleepers and Their Paper Chains

Behold, dear readers, a grotesque comedy unfolds in the realm of the modern sleepers, where the great machine of state bureaucracy, that most contemptible manifestation of herd mentality, demonstrates its masterful incompetence in the matter of what they call "bare trusts." How fitting that even the name suggests nakedness, yet the masses clothe it in layers of paperwork and confusion!

Lo, how the mighty bureaucrats stumble in their own web of mediocrity! They who claim to shepherd the masses cannot even guide themselves through the labyrinth of their own creation. What jest is this, that they should declare rules only to unmake them at the eleventh hour?

In this tale of bureaucratic buffoonery, we witness the Canada Revenue Agency, that great temple of the last man's arithmetic, fumbling with its own edicts like a child with too many toys. They created rules for these "bare trusts," simple arrangements that emerge when parents aid their children or the elderly seek assistance with their affairs - actions that even the most somnolent of creatures might undertake without thought.

The sleepers, those countless thousands who drift through life in peaceful ignorance, were suddenly roused to a peculiar panic. Forty thousand of these docile sheep hurried to file their forms, paying tribute to the great machine with both their time and gold. How they scurried! How they fretted! And for what? For nothing but the wind.

Observe how they cling to their comfort, these last men! They would rather pay any price than risk the displeasure of their masters. They seek not to question, not to rebel, but only to comply, to maintain their peaceful slumber in the warm embrace of mediocrity.

The grand farce reached its apex when the very architects of this confusion declared their own rules void, mere days before their deadline. What magnificence! What sublime incompetence! The sleepers who had already paid their tribute were left holding nothing but receipts for their own gullibility.

And what of communication, that most basic function of governance? The bureaucrats, in their infinite wisdom, chose to whisper their changes through the most antiquated of channels, releasing their "frequently asked questions" when winter's grip was already firm upon the land. They knew not how to speak of bare trusts, these masters of confusion, these architects of complexity.

See how they hide behind their screens of ignorance! These administrators of tedium claim they cannot provide examples lest they give legal advice. What cowardice! What rejection of responsibility! They who would rule must first learn to speak!

The sleepers, in their docile acceptance, fail to see the greater tragedy: that this is but a symptom of a deeper malady. They accept the excuse that "the law does not allow" compensation for their wasted efforts, never questioning who writes these laws, who benefits from their complexity, who profits from their confusion.

The mighty ombudsman, Boileau, that appointed guardian of the sleepers' interests, speaks of "wasted time and effort." Yet what is time to those who waste their lives in pursuit of perfect compliance? What is effort to those who measure their worth in filed forms and paid fees?

Harken to this truth, ye who still have ears to hear: This is not merely about trust forms and filing requirements. This is about the machinery of mediocrity grinding the spirit of humanity into dust, about the celebration of confusion as a virtue, about the triumph of the last man's desire for ease over the will to power and clarity!

And now, in final mockery, they grant another exemption for the coming season, while promising more "consultations" - that favorite ritual of the last man, where nothing is decided but everyone feels heard. The sleepers will return to their slumber, content that the great machine continues its endless churning.

Let this stand as testament to our age: In the land of the sleepers, even the simplest of truths must be clothed in complexity, and even the bare must be buried beneath mountains of paper. The last man blinks and asks, "What is chaos?" not realizing he creates it with every breath.