The Inflation of Everything… Except Integrity

Prologue: Welcome to the Era of Expensive Nothingness

This isn’t about $8 eggs.

It’s about a society willing to pay $120,000 for a summer intern who’s fluent in ChatGPT but allergic to accountability. It’s about boardrooms that applaud “transformative leadership” while quietly indexing executive bonuses to financial fiction. It’s about industries that inflated themselves into orbit—and then hired consultants to explain why gravity is toxic.

We’re living in the Era of Expensive Nothingness, where everything costs more, delivers less, and comes wrapped in brand language so synthetic it should carry a Prop 65 warning.

Value is now performative. Virtue has been monetized. And integrity? That’s the one thing no one’s budgeting for. Now we have:

• Subscription services for water;
• Executive retreats for vulnerability; and
• $24 salads, $800 mindfulness chairs, and AI-written mission statements that promise “radical transparency” from companies that haven’t been honest since Q4 of 2019.

And while the price of everything has gone up—from tuition, to therapy, to Twitter’s blue checkmark—something far more corrosive has slipped beneath the surface: the wholesale deflation of character.

Corporate America, of course, made a show of caring. We saw a brief hiring frenzy for Chief Belonging Officers, Equity Sherpas, and DEI Storytelling Specialists who were tasked with building inclusive cultures out of Canva templates and crisis comms memos. But the party ended abruptly in early 2025 with the signing of Executive Order 14151, a political sledgehammer that gutted federal DEI funding and sent corporate virtue signaling into full retreat.

Yet the consultants didn’t go away—they just rebranded the jobs. Within weeks, the same people were reemployed as AI Ethics Coordinators, Employee Sentiment Officers, Chief Wellness Evangelists, Neurodiversity Optimization Leads, and the ever-popular Narrative Architects—specialists in saying absolutely nothing in 90 polished slides.

Job inflation became the new corporate stimulus package. Titles now expand faster than a Kardashian endorsement deal. There are Trust Technologists, Workplace Futurists, Head of Human Sustainability, and VPs of Empathic Infrastructure who haven’t felt an unscripted emotion since the Obama administration. And somehow, all of them seem to report to a Global Culture Architect, whose main contribution to enterprise value is a pastel Miro board and a Slack channel called #soulfuel.

It’s not just bloated—it’s metastatic—and still, nothing of substance gets done.

The real crisis, of course, isn’t the roles. It’s the rot underneath them. The theater of action has replaced the work of principle. We’ve traded outcomes for optics. Substance for signaling. Execution for empathy decks. We’ve created a system where failure is reframed as “iteration,” layoffs are “values-based realignments,” and blatant dishonesty is just another “communications challenge.”

We are flooded with deliverables and starved for deliverance, and nowhere is that more obvious than at the top.

Today’s CEOs don’t lead; they narrate. Preferably in five-minute clips edited for LinkedIn. They speak of “transparency” while commissioning ghostwritten op-eds about their “vulnerability journey.” They go on apology tours for “unintended impact,” take six months off for “strategic reflection,” and return to a newly created title with a 40% raise and fewer responsibilities.

We’ve inflated everything—compensation, titles, outrage, empathy, trauma, and trust. We’ve even managed to inflate inflation. The only thing we haven’t inflated?

Integrity:

• Because real integrity doesn’t trend.
• It doesn’t scale; and
• It can’t be outsourced to an HR consulting firm with a three-syllable name and an onboarding quiz about microaggressions.

This article isn’t about prices - not really. It’s about what happens when you build a culture where honesty is considered disruptive and spin is the highest form of currency. It’s about the collective bargain we’ve struck—to tolerate deception, reward distraction, and pretend a well-worded LinkedIn post is the same thing as accountability.

In the pages ahead, we’ll visit the American cathedral of overvaluation: $300,000-a-year startup therapists, Ivy League tuition for pre-recorded Zooms, executive coaching that teaches you how to “listen deeply,” and boardrooms that index bonus plans to the adjusted version of reality:

• We’ll name names;
• We’ll call the bluff; and
• We’ll do it with wit, data, and just enough gallows humor to make your Chief Empathy Strategist nervous.

Because in a world where everything is inflated, someone has to put a pin in the balloon.

So, let’s begin our journey Sports fans.

Chapter I: Avocados, Audacity, and the $24 Salad

There was a time—simpler, quieter, pre-kombucha—when ordering a salad meant you were either trying to be healthy or just too hungover to chew a cheeseburger. It cost $8, maybe $12 if it came with goat cheese. It arrived in a bowl, not a hexagonal, compostable takeout pod engineered by former Tesla interns. And you tipped 15% because it was lunch and your server had, at some point, made eye contact.

Fast-forward to 2025, and that humble pile of greens has become something else entirely. It’s a moral statement. A lifestyle signal. A $24 accessory to your curated identity.

Today’s salad arrives dressed in the language of climate and conscience. The kale is “regenerative.” The chicken is “ethically distressed.” The almonds are “activated.” Your vinaigrette was emulsified by a wellness-certified prep cook named Skyler, and the compostable lid bears a sticker reminding you that this meal supports local farmers, fair trade, veterans, the planet, and—somehow—your personal growth journey.

But the true star of this culinary fever dream?

The avocado.

Once a humble fruit with the texture of hope and the shelf life of a tweet, the avocado is now the gilded mascot of modern virtue. It used to cost 99 cents at Safeway. Today, it’s a $4.50 “add-on” that arrives with reverence and a side of moral superiority. You’re not eating avocado—you’re participating in a ritual of aspirational self-branding.

Nobody really needs it. It’s there to say, “I care about Omega-3s,” “I support sustainable agriculture,” and “Yes, I did refinance my car to afford this breakfast.” Ordering avocado toast in 2025 isn’t a food choice—it’s a cultural audition. One that comes with a 20-minute wait, a basil garnish, and a QR code linking to the farm’s illegal immigrant ICE deportation manifesto—because, of course, even your guacamole now comes with a politically performative backstory.

And if you ask them to hold the avocado? You’ll be stared at like you just insulted their therapy llama.

But still—we pay.

We pay because saying no feels uncultured. We pay because opting out feels regressive. We pay because guilt has become a line item on the bill, and we’ve been trained to tip it generously.

This is what everyday inflation looks like now. Not in economic reports, but in “eco-conscious” packaging and pastel marketing copy that masks a 38% markup in the name of empathy.

And it’s not just food. It’s everything. Your Uber now includes a “driver dignity surcharge.” Your hotel adds a “cleaning integrity fee.” Your hairstylist offers a “quiet client premium” if you’d prefer not to make conversation. Every purchase comes laced with a moral subplot and a thinly veiled suggestion that failing to comply makes you a bad person.

Even restaurant receipts have become psychological minefields. What once itemized food, tax, and tip now reads like a billing statement from a nonprofit startup with a savior complex. You’ll find a “Cost of Living Wage Adjustment” (5–10%), a “Kitchen Equity Fee” (3%), a “Container Sustainability Offset”, and sometimes, a “Mental Wellness Contribution”—to help staff process the emotional weight of your chicken Caesar.

And all this before you’re prompted—by a softly glowing touchscreen—for a suggested gratuity of 18%, 20%, or 25%, lest your refusal reveal something dark about your values.

We’re not dining. We’re submitting to ritualized extortion with garnish.

Yet we continue. We thank the server. We tip the default. We leave a glowing review for a $19 bowl of greens and a $12 iced matcha because we’ve convinced ourselves that this is what good people do. We’ve internalized the idea that higher cost = higher virtue, even as the food gets smaller, the service gets slower, and the receipts start reading like confessional transcripts from a Berkeley co-op.

The tragedy, of course, is that none of this is by accident. It’s not economic necessity—it’s narrative economics. The more righteous the story, the more bloated the price. We’ve stopped asking what things are worth. We only ask what they represent.

That $62 facial serum doesn’t just moisturize. It “supports inner peace”—which is ironic, because you can’t afford rent this month.

We’ve been conditioned to applaud this, to participate in it, to believe that the real inflation isn’t happening to our wallets but to our values. But make no mistake: this is inflation by design. It’s the commodification of guilt, repackaged as participation, with a side of avocado and a drizzle of performative virtue.

And the truth is, we’re not eating better. We’re not living better. But we are paying like we are.

Every. Single. Day.

Chapter II: Once Upon a Time in the Boardroom… With Gun in Hand

I’ve spent over forty years ringside in the executive pay coliseum—calling the action, decoding the fiction, and occasionally scraping blood off your proxy statement.

I’ve seen it all: phantom metrics, fever-dream performance goals, bonuses for “cultural alignment,” and CEOs getting paid to leave—then paid even more to return six months later as "strategic advisors." I’ve watched comp committees twist themselves into interpretive yoga trying to justify equity grants so outrageous they could cause a sovereign wealth fund to blush.

But nothing could have prepared me for the post-COVID proxy hallucinations we’re witnessing today.

Once upon a time, CD&As read like sober, well-reasoned documents: here’s how we pay, here’s why we pay, and here’s what the company did to deserve it. Today? They read like Green Eggs and Ham ghostwritten by a PR team microdosing Xanax and euphemisms.

We missed our targets, Sam I Am.
But we blame those guys in Tehran.
The ruble fell, our supply chain snapped,
So we gave the CEO more RSUs, all gift-wrapped.

Tariffs? Blame them. Border conflicts? Absolutely. Russia invades Ukraine again? Adjust the EBITDA margin. Israel and Gaza? Normalize the guidance. Thailand and Cambodia shell each other across the Mekong? Recode the bonus pool as "volatility absorption."

In a year where global tensions look like a live-action game of Risk: Thermonuclear Deluxe Edition, executive compensation has never been more protected, pre-packaged, or absurdly disconnected from reality. The modern boardroom isn’t a fiduciary oversight body—it’s a fantasy film lot. And if you adjust the lights and squint just right, every executive pay maneuver looks like a Tarantino remake.

Reservoir Grants

Picture a bonus plan cobbled together from overlapping equity awards, creative modifiers, and "transformational" performance metrics no one actually met—but sure looked ambitious in the proxy. The board thinks they're masterminds. The CHRO's bleeding out in the corner. IR is trying to decode the footnotes. And somewhere in the shadows, Mr. White's RSUs double-vest on a technicality.

Inglorious Investors

Enter a rogue band of activist shareholders led by Aldo the Apache, who try to take down a bloated CEO comp package. Their weapons? Proxy access, pointed letters, and one hell of a white paper. But they’re outmaneuvered by a "comp philosophy refresh" that just appeared last Thursday.

The board strikes back with a $6 million retention grant and a 5,000-word novella on "leadership continuity." Aldo ends up on a shareholder advisory council with no voting power. The CEO gets a documentary and a quote in Harvard Business Review. The real Inglorious Basterds? They're the investors who believed they had a shot.

Pulp Proxies

The CD&A becomes a nonlinear fever dream—equal parts Kafka, Kubrick, and K-cup-funded ESG. Metrics pop in and out like reality TV contestants. The EBITDA target? Recast as “core adjusted synergy momentum.” Missed TSR? No problem—we’ll fold it into the “Longitudinal Stakeholder Index.”

There’s a DEI multiplier no one understands, a Climate Index based on how often the CEO bikes to work, and a Leadership Dashboard driven by Slack emojis. The CFO stares into the glowing briefcase of footnotes and whispers, “It’s all perfectly reasonable.” Jules Winnfield nods from the back row.

Jackie Bonus

Our CHRO—the Jackie Brown of mid-cap compensation—is caught between an overentitled CEO, a panicked comp chair, and ISS breathing down her neck. She tweaks the plan midyear, invents a "Leadership Gravity Coefficient," and drops in a $2.5 million "personal impact" award based on vibes.

She files the proxy, resigns with glowing praise, and reemerges three months later as Chief People Whisperer at a pre-revenue SPAC in Miami. The board never saw it coming.

Django Unpaid

A principled CFO is shown the door “without cause,” promised accelerated vesting and a heartfelt thank-you. But deep in the grant agreement: a clause giving the comp committee discretion to void everything in cases of "business underperformance."

The company missed revenue by 1%. The board pulls the trigger. Django sues. They settle quietly. The proxy calls it a "mutually respectful transition." Django rides off—unpaid.

Once Upon a Time in Silicon Valley

Rick Dalton, the aging founder-CEO, hasn’t launched a product in five years but still commands the board like it’s 2012. They give him a “Legacy Award” for services rendered, real or imagined.

His replacement, Cliff Booth, listens, nods, and reposts McKinsey reports on LinkedIn. His $10 million onboarding grant is tied to “platform reimagination” and “ecological user sincerity.” The stock plummets. The comp committee congratulates itself. The grants vest.

And through it all, the board reclines in the luxury screening room, sipping "comp cocktails" and watching the script unfold. They’re comforted by familiar lines:

• Trees do grow to the sky”;
• “Stock-based pay isn’t real dilution”;
• “Adjusted metrics are industry best practice”; and the all-time favorite
• “Compensation actually went down—if you exclude the grants, the special awards, and the CEO’s relocation villa.”

They believe it. They want to believe it. Because nothing’s easier to approve than a story well-told—especially when it’s footnoted in 8-point font and wrapped in $3 million worth of RSUs.

So, here I am. Still ringside. Still calling the fight. Still waiting for someone to realize the plot has gone off the rails, and still asking, when the final credits roll, who’s left standing?

The CEO? The shareholder? The story?

Or just the gun—still warm, still smoking—pointed straight at the last shred of pay-for-performance credibility we ever had.

Chapter III: Central Banks, Gaslighting, and the Art of the “Soft Landing”

You’ve got to hand it to central bankers: they’re not just economists—they’re performance artists in three-piece suits. Trained in the fine art of economic kabuki, they deliver monologues that say everything and mean absolutely nothing, all while maintaining the deadpan gravitas of a hostage video.

Jerome Powell doesn’t raise interest rates. No, he “recalibrates monetary equilibrium in response to evolving macro-volatility.” Translation? He torched your mortgage, kneecapped your refinancing dreams, cratered your 401(k), and still managed to read you a bedtime story about resilience—while lighting your wallet on fire with a Zippo borrowed from Alan Greenspan.

This isn’t policy—it’s performance art. The kind you can’t escape. Like that one regrettable summer fling with the girl next door who “just wanted to cuddle” and left you with crabs and a $600 urgent care bill. It clings. It itches. It gaslights you into thinking it’s “just part of the experience.”

Every news cycle, the Fed reappears with the emotional range of HAL 9000 and the blind optimism of a first-year WeWork investor:

• “Inflation is transitory.”
• “Consumer resilience remains robust.”
• “The labor market is healthy.”

Meanwhile, eggs cost more than Uber rides, the barista has a GoFundMe, and your $24 salad comes with a 5% “local wage enhancement surcharge”—which is not a tip—but please tip too, at a suggested 22%, with a smiley face drawn on the tablet screen.

Then comes the financial media, grinning like cult recruiters in Vineyard Vines, who gleefully tell you the housing collapse is really a “reset to sustainable velocity.”

Unemployment isn’t spiking; it’s a “mobility uptick.”

Recession? No, sweetheart—it’s an “economic exhale.”

We’ve replaced reality with a CNBC-themed shadow puppet show. Recession has become “contractionary normalization.” Stagflation? “Moderate fiscal recalibration.” A bank run? “Decentralized liquidity migration.”

And in corporate boardrooms, CFOs chant the gaslight gospel like they’re at Burning Man:

• “We’re not laying off—we’re realigning talent.”
• “We didn’t miss earnings—we proactively revisited topline guidance.”
• “Our margin compression isn’t a red flag—it’s aspirationally noncommittal.”

And who’s buying it? Everyone.

Because economic gaslighting is now a global sport. A circular economic hallucination. We, the consumers, are just unpaid extras in a financial improv show that never ends. Picture a Davos-sponsored Whose Line Is It Anyway? with worse haircuts and better tax shelters.

The IMF chimes in with elegant phrases like “forward-leaning liquidity stabilization.” Meanwhile, Argentina can’t buy paperclips without a sovereign credit downgrade and the EU is debating whether cheese subsidies count as GDP.

Japan, still pretending negative interest rates work, is like that guy who keeps betting on roulette red because “it’s due.” China won’t admit to contraction, but the lights are off in half their office towers. The UK insists Brexit was a financial masterstroke even as London bankers flee to Frankfurt like it’s Dunkirk 2.0.

And back in the U.S., your boss just sent a Slack update about “functional flattening,” which is a cute way to say you and your team are now the same person—with a 30% pay cut.

We’re living in the macroeconomic version of The Truman Show, and everyone’s in on it. We know it’s fake. But we keep playing along because the alternative—a full-blown financial reckoning—is way too real.

Repeat it with me now: There. Is. No. Recession.

Say it like you mean it baby. Whisper it over your $9 latte with the oat foam shaped like a bull market.

Because maybe, just maybe, if we believe hard enough—if we chant the incantations from Bloomberg, CNBC, and Fed.gov with enough corporate mindfulness—this “soft landing” won’t feel like a faceplant into a cactus patch… while someone plays smooth jazz on a kazoo.

And when the next Fed press release coos, “Price stability remains our North Star,” you’ll nod like a true believer. Because denial, when wrapped in official language and garnished with a sprig of basil, is the most palatable form of madness.

Just don’t look out the window as the dead birds fall from the sky.

Chapter IV: Your Self-Worth Now Has a Subscription Fee

Welcome to the era of self-esteem-as-a-service, where your confidence arrives via monthly invoice—bundled with a QR code to a TED Talk, a lavender soy candle, and a therapist named Brooke who spells it with an umlaut and works out of a reclaimed shipping container.

Cultivating inner peace? That’s so 1997. Now it’s download, subscribe, cry, repeat.

For just $14.99/month, you can unlock the full emotional spectrum—ad-free!—from curated sadness to premium, trauma-informed resilience. Pay annually and get a mindfulness tote, some guilt-flavored CBD, and a six-week “Self-Love Accelerator” with three affirmations, a compostable yoga mat, and a sponsored cry session by Honest Tea.

You’re not heartbroken—you’re “vibing on a shadow frequency.” You’re not spiraling—you’re “temporarily unsubscribed from your higher vibration.” And that breakup? It wasn’t abandonment. It was an “energetic closure sequence.”

We’ve chopped, repackaged, and monetized confidence like it’s a seasonal fruit. Used to be you cried alone in a bathtub with a Pinot and your dignity. Now, you ugly cry under a $600 alpaca throw in a Sedona yurt while a mood tracker tells you you’re underperforming your joy quota.

And if that doesn’t fix you, there’s always Keen.com—where, for $5.99 a minute, a woman named “StarShayla” will channel your dead hamster, misread your tarot, and gently explain that your ex still loves you—he’s just energetically blocked by Mercury. Cry your wallet out to Kasamba. Bleed for California Psychics. Give Psychic Source all your pain, and your PIN.

The $2.3 billion psychic industry in the U.S. isn’t just surviving—it’s thriving. They’re minting rubes faster than we can count them. (But not you, Sports Fans. You’re reading this.) And these grifters—backed by mega-conglomerates like Ingenio Inc.—aren’t working from trailers anymore. They’re VC-backed, podcast-featured, and appear nightly on TikTok Live with filters, incense, and “limited-time astral alignment offers.”

You thought they could stop your heartache—but these shameless clowns couldn’t even cure the heartbreak of psoriasis.

Meanwhile, actual therapy is waitlisted until 2029. Public health clinics hand you a pamphlet that says, “Try smiling.” Your insurance provider suggests long walks and “practicing gratitude.”

Even journaling’s been corrupted. Your mood app pings you for underperforming your emotional benchmarks. “You logged ‘melancholy’ twice this week. May we suggest a $99 Breathwork Masterclass and a confidence crystal made from crushed influencer regrets?”

It’s not self-care. It’s psychological predation. It’s a dopamine economy wrapped in serotonin theater. It’s healing as a hustle—and the only thing truly centered is your credit card.

Because nothing screams empowerment like a push notification that says:

“Reminder: You are enough.” - Upgrade to Premium to keep being enough.

And, when the whole digital journey collapses? When your “inner child” files for emotional emancipation after Module 3? Don’t worry—there’s a five-day retreat called “From Wounded to Woke™” led by a former Google DEI executive who found the meaning of life in a kombucha spill.

You thought therapy would help you find yourself. Instead, it helped you brand yourself.

Your feelings are now content. Your trauma’s a carousel post. Your spiritual awakening? A seven-step funnel.

And your soul? - It’s still buffering.

So next time you feel worse the more “empowered” you become, remember: it’s not your fault. Your confidence hasn’t vanished. It’s just trapped behind a paywall.

Until you upgrade, basic emotional functions like joy, boundaries, and inner peace remain in beta.

But hey—you still get the free tote bag, don’t you?

Chapter V: Influencer Nation – Monetizing Morality 101

Once upon a time, character was who you were when no one was watching. Now, it’s what you post when everyone is. Welcome to Influencer Nation, where empathy is a brand, outrage is a revenue stream, and trauma is monetized with a discount code and an oat milk sponsorship.

Your heartbreak? Streamed live with CBD-infused eye cream. Your moral compass? Just follow the affiliate link. Your identity? Not so much a journey as it is a multi-platform rollout with launch-week merch.

These aren’t just content creators. They’re emotional entrepreneurs. They traffic in curated grief, filtered rage, and pre-approved vulnerability. One minute, they’re sobbing in a soft-lit bathroom about their abandonment wound; the next, they’re selling “resilience journals” and crying again on their private discord - now with 5,000 paid subscribers.

You cried? Good. You filmed it? Great. You edited it with royalty-free cello music, posted it with three trigger warnings and a #sponcon plug for your trauma-to-transcendence toolkit? You’ve made it.

These are your new saints: Charli D’Amelio hawking mood teas, Addison Rae peddling empowerment gloss, and Andrew Tate bench-pressing the male psyche into submission. Logan Paul sells hydration as redemption, Jake Paul monetizes masculinity with a mouthguard, and Emma Chamberlain slow-drips melancholia like it’s a subscription service.

Meanwhile, Tana Mongeau turns chaos into currency, Drew Afualo weaponizes clapbacks, and Gwyneth Paltrow sells you a $160 candle that smells like her enlightened resentment of gluten. MrBeast turned charity into a game show. Alix Earle gets five million likes for crying over mascara. Suffering, but curated.

Then there’s the food porn aristocracy: Mark Wiens moaning erotically over Thai chili crab, Mr. Meat Guy carving beef like he’s auditioning for a Tarantino film, Chris Cho seducing his own kalbi, The Food Ranger smiling through spice-induced Szechuan trauma, and Sonny Side whispering sweet nothings to live Laotian tree grubs swimming in fish sauce while sweating from every pore.

These influencer hucksters couldn’t fix your heartbreak—and let’s be honest—they couldn’t even organize your spice rack without a brand partnership. But they’ll sure as hell sell you chakra-infused soul balm, a downloadable forgiveness worksheet, and VIP access to their Healing Reboot Summit—remember, early bird pricing ends Friday.

This isn’t inspiration. It’s spiritual drop-shipping. This isn’t healing. It’s pain-flavored clickbait. This isn’t empathy. It’s moral burlesque, sponsored by oat milk.

And you? You’re in the algorithm, baby. Doomscrolling at 2am while your tax attorney likes a reel about gluten boundaries and your ex shares a TikTok on “crying with purpose.” Your dog? He’s watching too. Paw on your phone. Eyes glazed. Watching a vegan cat mom sob over chakra misalignment while her kitten does breathwork.

We’re not processing emotions anymore—we’re exporting them to Canva and overlaying them with pastel gradients. Feelings come with filters. Breakdowns now premiere Thursdays at 8.

We are the branded undead: lip-syncing pain, looping trauma, reposting justice, and crying for likes like it’s a Netflix special.

You may not be trending. You may not have a link in bio. But if you're still capable of sitting with your own pain without uploading it—that, my friend, is the new rebellion.

In a world of softboxes, redemption arcs, and monetized meltdowns, maybe the only true authenticity left… is silence.

Or at least logging off for the weekend.

Chapter VI: Ivy League Degrees and the Price of Pretend

$90,000 a year. That’s what it costs now for four years of top-notch ideological karaoke, beige PowerPoints, and a gilt-edged diploma wrapped in social anxiety and microcredentialed outrage. The Ivy League is no longer producing the next generation of leaders. It’s mass-producing LinkedIn poets with pronouns and podcast trauma.

You thought your kid was studying economics. He’s actually auditing a cross-disciplinary seminar titled: "Decolonizing the Syllabus: Queering Cartesian Dualism Through Interpretive Dance." You thought she was in American History. Turns out it’s "Intersectional Cartography in Midwestern McDonald's Playplaces."

We used to graduate people with big ideas. Now we graduate people with big feels. They can’t write a memo, but they can host a 90-minute TEDx talk on the emotional impact of colonizer fonts.

Elite education has become a pageant of performative intelligence. Essays are now word clouds of affirmations. Debates are emotionally moderated. Deadlines are "suggestions based on wellness." The final exam? A group mural and a self-recorded meditation uploaded to the campus safe-space portal.

And the bill? $360,000 for a bachelor’s in "Empathetic Systems" from an institution with a $40 billion endowment, a quinoa bar, a campus goat for emotional support, and a university president who just got canceled for quoting a policy memo from 1987.

We told them to find themselves - They found a minor in Self-Validation Theory and a practicum in Guided Gratitude Shaming.

We told them to ask hard questions - They asked, "Is this syllabus inclusive of my inner child’s truth?"

We told them to build something - They built a Slack channel called “Late-Stage Capitalism Sucks But We’d Still Like A Signing Bonus."

Real-world chaos, meanwhile, takes no sabbatical. Just ask:

• Boeing, which hired a DEI-certified leadership fellow from a top school who could recite the UN’s sustainability goals—but had never been on a shop floor;
• Goldman Sachs, where new associates demanded trauma leave after their first 90-hour workweek and filed complaints when asked to wear shoes in the office;
• Disney, where a marketing team pitched a live-action reboot of "Cinderella" starring a gender-fluid falcon and a villainous step-system;
• Google, where one junior product manager asked if deliverables could be turned in as “emotional narratives” instead of Gantt charts;
• McKinsey, which staffed a $5 million client engagement with a team fluent in "ethical consulting frameworks" and "trauma-informed billing structures"—but forgot to bring a PowerPoint clicker;
• Deloitte, whose new hires built an ESG dashboard in Notion and left a note that KPIs were being replaced with "vibes”;
• Meta, where one intern accidentally deleted a beta code branch while live-streaming a spoken word poem on systems oppression; and
• The World Bank, which recently approved a $50 million aid grant based on a whitepaper footnoted entirely with Twitter threads.

Their job interviews are therapy sessions. Their onboarding is trauma mapping. Their exit interviews are content. The only Excel sheet they know how to navigate is their astrology birth chart, and even that needs a plugin.

Employers? They smile politely. They build ESG onboarding retreats. They fund yoga rooms and empathy apps. They even pretend not to notice when Chad from Dartmouth starts crying during a performance review because his Enneagram type felt misunderstood.

And what about college dating? Gone are the toga parties, the mixtape declarations, and the casual chaos of “Animal House” romance. Instead, welcome to swipe-based intimacy, identity-based compatibility metrics, and relationship statuses best described as “quantum entangled.”

Your daughter’s last boyfriend was a “digital monastic” who broke up with her via Substack. Your son’s current partner is poly-romantic and shares their relationship boundaries via Canva slides before the first kiss. The only thing getting passed around at frat parties is a QR code to a consent app and a kombucha flight.

So, where does it end? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe we’ve created a whole generation of adults who believe resilience is a microaggression and reality is an outdated social construct.

But hey, at least they’re fluent in the language of nuance. They know how to host a salon on crypto-feminism. They can draft a 15-slide carousel on post-traumatic growth, and they will call you in, not out.

So, light your money on fire. Or better yet, just hand it to Yale. They’ll send you a sticker.

And your kid? They’ll come home after four years unable to change a tire, but fully prepared to dismantle the patriarchy at Thanksgiving dinner.

Welcome to higher education.

Where the price of pretend has never been higher.

Chapter VII: Subscription Everything—Including Common Sense

You used to buy a product and own it. Now? You rent it monthly and pray it doesn’t come with an in-app karma tax or require a firmware update for your socks. Welcome to the Era of Subscribed Sanity—where even your dignity’s on a 30-day trial.

Toilet paper? $12.99/month for “artisanal softness” and a curated scent profile. Weather alerts? $2.99 unless you want to be warned before the hailstorm demolishes your Prius. Want to date someone who isn’t actively filtering their trauma through a Pixar-style avatar? Sorry, that’s Hinge+PremiumWithEmpathy™—comes with one free ghosting and three emotionally avoidant matches per billing cycle.

And then there’s your marriage. Want to rekindle that honeymoon spark? Reface.ai will morph your wife into Megan Fox—with a watermark across her eyebrows. For $9.99/month? She's got Cabo eyes and a seductive pout that screams “pre-kids and post-tequila”. Want to turn your IPA-guzzling husband into Daniel Craig? Facetune’s free tier gets you the guy who stocks almond milk at Trader Joe’s. But for $14.99 a month, he’s shirtless in the surf with a set of six-pack abs forged by pixels and denial.

Want to feel like a Disney character? Lensa’s got you. For $4.99/month, you become a heroic raccoon in a watercolor dystopia. For $19.99? You’re an anime goddess with 3D lashes, a soft-focus backstory, and a voice that says, “I journal ironically.”

Even your emotions are monetized. Grief? Free trial for 7 days on FeelNow™. After that, it’s $8.99/month to “Unlock Full Catharsis” and download the “Let That Sh*t Go” mantra pack.

In the old days, Grandma subscribed to Reader’s Digest and got a knife set. Today? You subscribe to Clarity+ and get a PDF called “How to Stop Apologizing for Your Aura” plus a free coupon for Reiki via Zoom.

We’re not just subscribing to services—we’re leasing our identities.

Job interviews? Paywalled on LinkedIn ProMax™, featuring AI-written cover letters that read like ransom notes for underperforming interns. Letters of recommendation? $29 to run it through Grammarly Supreme™—or risk sounding like you taught ESL to barn owls.

Even common sense now runs a freemium model:

• Want nuance? Upgrade.
• Want logic? Annual plan only.
• Want a thought that can survive TikTok without being canceled? Platinum Discourse Tier, just $49/month.

Check the absurdity:

• Mental health by subscription—therapy via app, $299/month. But it’s not a therapist. It’s “Terry,” an AI who responds with recycled affirmations and once told someone to “hug their inner spreadsheet.”
• Safety by subscription—city crime alerts for $5.99/month, unless you’re fine with the unpaid version that just sends push notifications reading “RUN.”
• Ambition by subscription—coaching from influencers who once gave a TEDx talk in Toledo about resilience, microgreens, and chakra monetization.

Corporate America’s all in:

• Microsoft rents you Word like it’s a Paris Airbnb. You don’t own your spreadsheet—you stream
• Adobe lets you erase your past regrets in Lightroom Pro. Want to crop out your ex and your bad decisions? $29.99.
• Spotify suggests playlists for your mental breakdown—just click “I consent to mood exploitation.”

Even your habits are monetized. You pay monthly to be reminded to brush your teeth. You subscribe to alarm clocks. You pay $19.99/month for an app that texts: “Hydrate or die.”

But the final insult?

You don’t even own your opinions anymore. You lease them from podcasters. You subscribe to belief systems via Patreon. You rent your worldview from people who went viral describing their breakup through interpretive lasagna.

This is what happens when everything is repackaged, upcharged, and stuffed into monthly billing cycles: we forget how to own anything—including ourselves.

We don’t think. We license. We don’t feel. We opt-in. We don’t live. We auto-renew.

And when you finally ask why your inner peace feels like a 404 error, there’s an app for that too—$7.99/month for premium access to someone else's curated enlightenment.

So where does it end?

Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the final paywall is your own soul.

But not to worry. For $6.99/month, we’ll send you a ceramic mug that says: “Existential Dread is Just a Feature, Not a Bug.”

And yes—it’s microwave safe. Just like your last big idea.

Chapter VIII: Politicians, Plastic Promises, and the Lies We Pay For

Every two to four years, like a recurring rash with better hair and a podcast, politicians slither out of their donor-funded bunkers to whisper sweet nothings in your ballot box. They promise you the moon, a student loan bailout, and maybe even a rent-controlled yurt made from recycled campaign flyers. They come bearing slogans so full of hope you’d think they were hand-stitched by Oprah’s tears.

Free college? Sure—if by “free” you mean four years of ideological karaoke and $180,000 in loans forgiven only if you survive a Hunger Games-style public sector loyalty program. You wanted Econ 101? You got “Late Capitalism as Performance Art” taught by a guy who vapes in office hours and grades via vibe.

Gas rebates? They send you a $100 prepaid debit card that expires 11 minutes before you hit the pump. Meanwhile, Chevron CEO’s third yacht gets a helipad retrofit and your governor’s sustainability summit just burned 8,000 gallons of jet fuel to discuss climate change.

Rent freezes? Technically yes—if you ignore the $280 “community fee” for a lobby fountain that looks like a urinal. They cap your rent but quadruple your charges for “ambient wellness upgrades,” like fake plants and an LED mood wall that glows “Displacement.”

Tax cuts for the middle class? Oh, you sweet summer citizen. You get $14 back—just enough to split an oat milk latte with your therapist. Meanwhile, the hedge fund next door declares its fifth Manhattan condo as a “depreciating team-building retreat” and pays nothing.

Student debt forgiveness? You’ll need an abacus, two lawyers, and a clairvoyant to decipher the qualifiers: “Debt relief is available to borrowers who have taught underwater yoga to alpacas in underserved zip codes while simultaneously not existing between 2003–2007”.

And infrastructure? That holy grail of bipartisan spin. You’ll get a ribbon-cutting for a bike lane next to a crater the size of a Pixar sequel. One city spent $4 million to paint crosswalks—then billed it as “pedestrian empowerment.” But don’t worry, a pothole-fixing drone army is “in beta”.

Red or blue, it doesn’t matter. It’s all PayPal politics:

• Democrats offer you empathy in a cardigan—plus three new fees and a 14-month waitlist for dental care; and
• Republicans hand you nostalgia in a muscle car—then burn your safety net like it’s a pile of gender studies textbooks.

They’ve even rebranded lying. It's not lying anymore—it's “asynchronous transparency.” It’s not bribery—it’s a “targeted gratitude disbursement.” Corruption? Oh please, that’s just “cross-sector emotional synergy.”

Campaign ads now look like trailers for dystopian reboots of The West Wing:

• “He taxed your gas, banned your straws, and microwaved your liberty. I’m Connor Riggs, and I believe in FREEDOM™”;
• “She taught your children CRT, canceled George Washington, and wants to turn your Prius into a gender-neutral pronoun. I’m Liberty Faith Jackson and I own a gun AND a Bible”;
• “He kneels for no anthem, stands for no fossil fuel, and drives a compostable scooter to work. I’m Jaxon Moonfire, and I approve this carbon-neutral message”;
• “She cut taxes, slashed red tape, and personally punched inflation in the face. I’m Rebecca Forge, and I believe in kitchen-table economics—with real tables”;
• “He banned baggies, painted sidewalks rainbow, and wants to replace ICE with a feelings-based community circle. I’m Zenon Reilly, and I say: decolonize your driveway”;
• “She’s pro-baby, pro-borders, and pro-barbecue. I’m Trudy Steel, and I eat tofu only when it's wrapped in bacon and liberty”;
• “He’s not woke—he’s wide awake. I’m Buck Granger, and I don’t just build walls, I build character”;
• “She fixed potholes with her bare hands. I’m Dana Torch, and my platform is rebar and retribution”;
• “He stopped the woke mob with a single filibuster. I’m Treyland Duke, and I believe in freedom of speech—as long as you agree with me”; and
• “She ended homelessness by redefining it as ‘urban nomadism.’ I’m Sierra Blaze, and I believe in equity—especially if it fits my aesthetic.”

You don’t get policies. You get clickbait. You don’t get debates. You get meme-ready soundbites from aging lawyers in navy suits doing TikTok dances next to jobless steelworkers.

And guess who funds it all? You do. Not just with your taxes—but your faith, your outrage, your doomscrolling, and your half-deleted email address that’s still getting “EMERGENCY FUNDRAISER” subject lines at 2am:

• You give them attention. They give you austerity;
• You give them votes. They give your cousin a parking ticket for idling near a CVS; and
• You beg for leadership. They hand you “governance by spreadsheet” and congressional interns running the country via Canva slides and vibes.

And when it all crashes?

They say, “mistakes were made.” They launch a task force. They write a 200-page report that concludes: “The system is working as intended.”

Because it is.

And the final insult?

So, what now?

Maybe it’s not a third party. Maybe it’s a first principle.

The idea that truth doesn't need a slogan. That public service doesn’t require a yacht. That leadership isn’t a TikTok campaign launched from Aspen by a guy named “Chase” with a bio that reads “Patriot. Vegan. VC-funded.”

Because the truth? They don’t need to be good. Just better than the other liar.

And every time we clap for them like trained seals at a donor luncheon, the con gets stronger.

But hey—free steak knives. - Just don’t ask where your dignity went.

It was bundled in with the fireworks.

Chapter IX: The Downscaling of Accountability

Nobody gets fired anymore. They “pursue new opportunities.” Nobody lies—they "misspeak". Nobody covers up a scandal—they just "navigate a moment of reputational volatility". We live in a corporate language circus where accountability is the bearded lady—freakish, outdated, and quietly escorted out the back tent.

Once upon a time, scandals ended careers. Now they spark LinkedIn glow-ups. You embezzled funds? Congrats on your new consulting firm, "Integrity Solutions Group". Your AI chatbot called a customer a racial slur? Great news—you're hosting a TEDx talk called Bias as a Bridge. Your crypto exchange collapsed? Boom—you’re on the cover of Fast Company, pontificating about “resilience in disruption”.

Executives don't resign in shame; they ascend into "strategic advisory roles." A CEO caught falsifying earnings isn't fired—he's "relocated to a high-impact innovation incubator”. When a board director leaks confidential data, she's not booted—she's "transitioned to a board fellowship in ethical transformation”.

This is the Downscaling of Accountability. Where even crimes get rebranded as character arcs. It’s not a consequence—it’s a rebrand opportunity. Just ask the former Theranos PR director, now leading “Authenticity Labs.”

Wells Fargo? Millions of fake accounts opened. The punishment? A few “retirements,” a couple of bonus deferrals, and a masterclass in how to dodge blame using passive voice.

United Airlines? They dragged a paying customer off a plane and issued a non-apology classic: "We apologize for having to re-accommodate these customers." Re-accommodate?! That’s not accountability—that’s furniture assembly instructions written by Kafka.

And last, but not least, remember Boeing and the 737-MAX?

Two planes down. 346 souls gone. Families shattered across continents. And what did we get in return?

Not a perp walk. Not a jail cell. Not even a damn demotion done with decency.

We got "deep process reviews," a spattering of “retraining modules,” and the single most vomit-inducing phrase ever to slither out of a corporate press release:

“Our commitment to forward accountability remains unshaken.”

Unshaken? Sports Fans, those jets went down with more humility than that sentence.

And the Boeing board? Oh, they circled the wagons, lit a candle, and wrote a farewell card to CEO Dennis Muilenburg. The message inside? “Thanks for your service. Here’s $62.2 million in stock and pension benefits for presiding over one of the deadliest PR disasters in aviation history. And yes, Dennis, you still get the parking spot.”

He “forfeited” $14.6 million in unvested options. A pittance. Meanwhile, if you divide his golden parachute by the number of dead, you get roughly $180,000 per life. That's the price tag they put on your daughter, your brother, your newborn, your newlywed, your neighbor.

And guess who paid for it? - You did.

During this whole mess, Boeing raked in more than $17 billion in direct federal loans, guarantees, and cozy access to capital thanks to—you guessed it—your tax dollars and the Fed’s infinite napkin of IOUs. Total government-linked support? Tens of billions.

So, let’s connect the dots to some of the most insane KPIs in the history of executive pay:

• Kill 346 people;
• Blame the software;
• Use the word “unshaken”;
• Collect tens of billions in federal lifelines; and, bada-bing!
• Retire early.

All while the rest of us poor schmucks are double-checking our carry-on bags and praying the next flight didn’t get the discount autopilot update.

This, dearest Sports Fans, is what happens when accountability gets rebranded. It’s no longer about truth. It’s a performance—a Kafkaesque dance of liability reduction choreographed by spineless enablers (sorry: “courage-averse fiduciaries”) and served with a smile by PR mercenaries who learned crisis comms at the Ministry of Gaslighting.

And in the corporate glossary of modern America, “forward accountability” just means we're not looking back.

But we are. And we remember.

And the PR firms—oh, the PR firms—are the new clergy of absolution. For $75,000 a month, they’ll wash your sins in a baptism of jargon:

• "Regretful but mischaracterized";
• "Unintended operational oversights";
• "Legacy behavior inconsistent with today’s values";
• "Preemptive action taken to address a contextually evolving environment"; and
• "Refocusing efforts to ensure stakeholder-centricity."

Translation: We did it. We got caught. We’re mad about the second part.

Meanwhile, middle managers and entry-level fall guys get the guillotine. The C-suite? They get golden parachutes so padded, they bounce right into their next scandal with a business class ticket and an NDA.

Political appointees resign “to spend more time with their families.” Athletes “take responsibility” by launching a fashion line. Tech founders “own their mistake” by dropping an NFT apology series. Crypto bros host a wellness retreat in Ibiza called “Decentralized Forgiveness.”

Even in death, accountability dodges us. Corporate obituaries now read like parodies:

“He passed peacefully, surrounded by loved ones and five ongoing SEC investigations.”

Accountability hasn’t just been downsized—it’s been outsourced, subcontracted, spun off, and shoved behind a two-factor-authentication firewall labeled Legal Review Pending.

This isn’t a cultural glitch—it’s the business model.

Because true accountability is expensive. It means resignations, clawbacks, jail time, public reckoning. But faux-accountability? That’s scalable. That’s brandable. That’s safe.

So, we let them ghost responsibility like a bad Tinder date. We let the rot become résumé fodder. We hand them consulting contracts, book deals, speaking tours called “My Journey Through Cancel Culture”—hosted by Davos, catered by cognitive dissonance, sponsored by Deloitte.

And the slogans? Oh, the slogans:

• “Mistakes Were Made, Lessons Were Learned”;
• “I Accept Full Responsibility… for Your Misunderstanding”;
• “We’re Committed to Transparency—Moving Forward”;
• “This Is Not Who We Are (Except When It Is)”;
• “Zero Tolerance, Except for Our Top Performers”;
• “Accountability Is a Journey”;
• “We Hear You, We See You, We Hope You’ll Forget Soon”;
• “Doing the Work (After the Lawsuit)”;
• “Healing Begins with Dialogue—Preferably Behind Closed Doors”; and
• “Ethics Are Important, Unless It’s Q4.”

But the worst part?

We clap.

We retweet their “vulnerability.” We share their “healing journeys.” We accept “transparency statements” written by lawyers and edited by interns. We don’t want truth. We want narrative.

So here we are.

Integrity is now a managed asset. And like any depreciating asset, it’s routinely written off.

But maybe—just maybe—it’s time we audit the entire damn system.

No more performance reviews. No more reputational consultants. No more $9.99 subscriptions to “Radical Accountability” guided journals.

Just truth.

Messy, inconvenient, unpaid-for truth.

Because sometimes, the only way out of the circus—is to burn the tent.

Chapter X: Integrity—Still Free, Still Undervalued

In a world where everything comes with a monthly fee—news, love, weather alerts, even your own attention span—there remains one thing still free of charge, and tragically, still unwanted at any price: integrity.

Integrity doesn’t have a loyalty program. It won’t earn you miles, points, likes, or a tote bag. It’s not viral. It can’t be sponsored. It doesn’t auto-renew. It shows up uninvited, unfiltered, unpaid—and leaves most people scrambling for a euphemism and a PR team.

We’ve inflated everything else. CEO severance packages. Startup valuations. Ivy League tuition. Therapy goats. But integrity? Still flatlined. Still hanging on like an unpaid intern at a hedge fund retreat, clutching a clipboard of forgotten ethics codes.

Remember when it used to mean something? When was a man’s word was his bond and not just a prelude to a 14-part apology thread on X? When taking responsibility didn’t come with a waiver and a strategic communications plan? When you screwed up and the next logical step wasn’t a six-figure speaking gig on “Radical Transparency in Leadership?”

Those days are gone, Sports Fans.

We’ve replaced personal conviction with personal branding. A values statement now reads like a menu of corporate-safe sentiments: “Empathy. Excellence. Equity.” Sounds good. Means nothing. Reads like a My Little Pony script co-authored by a risk management intern.

And accountability? That’s for the little people. For the interns. The whistleblowers. The poor sucker who hit “reply all.”

Meanwhile, those at the top? They glide across scandal like Olympic figure skaters, twirling through “regretful oversights,” “legacy misjudgments,” and “contextually unfortunate decisions.” They’re not resigning—they’re “reinventing.” They’re not lying—they’re “reframing.” They’re not covering up—they’re “curating a narrative arc of redemption.”

Even public disgrace has been monetized. Just got indicted? Slap it on your book tour: “From Shame to Shares: My Journey from Felony to Fortune.” Get caught laundering money? Host a podcast on “Financial Resilience.” Sell people fake blood tests? Run for Senate.

Because if there’s one thing our culture hates more than failure, it’s unprofitable failure.

But integrity… integrity just sits there. Quiet. Steady. Expensive. Like an honest friend who’ll tell you the truth about your haircut, your spending habits, and that thing you did at the holiday party. Integrity doesn’t care about your stock price. It cares about your soul.

And that makes it dangerous.

Because in boardrooms, ballrooms, and backrooms across America, integrity is the one guest nobody invited—but everyone secretly fears. It’s the ghost in the spreadsheet. The voice in the mirror. The one KPI they can’t manipulate.

So we bury it. We drown it in buzzwords. We strip-mine it for content. We tell ourselves, “It’s complicated,” or “It’s just how business is done.”

But maybe—just maybe—it’s time we stop outsourcing our ethics to HR departments and start asking ourselves the only question that really matters:

Would you still do the right thing if no one ever found out?

Not for clicks. Not for followers. Not for performance bonuses or inclusion on the “Top 100 Most Conscious Capitalists Under 40.”

Just… because it’s right.

Yeah, I know. That kind of talk doesn’t trend. It doesn’t move units. It doesn’t get optioned for a Netflix docuseries.

But you know what?

It’s the only asset that doesn’t depreciate. It’s the only hedge that actually works. It’s the only legacy you’ll leave that doesn’t require a compliance audit.

So, here’s to the dangerously principled. The quietly fierce. The few, the unfollowed.

Integrity is still free. And until further notice—it’s still the rarest damn commodity in the room.

And that’s exactly why it’s the only thing worth a damn.

Chapter XI: What Would Frank Do?

It’s not a hypothetical - It never has been.

Forty-plus years ago, I walked into my first boardroom armed with nothing but a pencil, a backbone, and the kind of honesty that makes consultants obsolete. Since then, I’ve seen it all: CEOs melting down like toddlers on a tarmac, boards splitting like bad divorces, C-Suite executives crying in the parking lot after performance reviews, and entire companies veering off course chasing buzzwords instead of balance sheets.

But through it all, I did the one thing consultants are often too careful to do: I told the truth. Not the version they wanted. The one they needed. The one that made the room go silent, the air go cold, and the attorneys start sweating.

Why? Because the truth, when delivered with conviction and context, isn’t just a service. It’s salvation.

What would Frank do?

Let me tell you – Frank would:

• Look that overpaid, underperforming CEO in the eye and say: “You’re not worth what you think you are—but I can help you become it”;
• Take that conflict-averse comp committee and staple a copy of the performance metrics to their country club menu;
• Link pay to truth, not trickery. And if the bonus pool dried up, Frank would say, “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere”;
• Tie C-Suite bonuses not only to company financial and operating performance, but also to employee trust scores;
• Require every board member to pass a basic governance quiz before voting on a say-on-pay proposal;
• Outlaw the phrase “we’re not like other companies” unless followed immediately by salient data; and
• Demand that “transparency” mean more than an HR press release and a LinkedIn post about vulnerability. And if the CFO tried to hide behind footnotes, Frank would shine a flashlight in the proxy statement and read aloud, line by line, until the truth bled through the ink.

And yes, occasionally Frank would lean across the table, meet you squarely in the eye, and say, “Help me to understand…”—a phrase that, for anyone who’s worked with me over the years, often signals either an epiphany or a full-on existential audit.

But above all?

Frank would walk if it wasn’t right. Frank would lose the client before he lost his credibility. Frank would risk the contract, the retainer, the relationship—because no paycheck is worth selling your soul for scrap.

And yeah, that kind of integrity costs you. I’ve been iced out of rooms. Laughed at. Lied to. I’ve had board members say, “We love your thinking,” right before hiring someone else to say the opposite. I’ve had lawyers flinch when I opened my mouth and CEOs try to charm me with steak dinners and equity grants.

But you know what else I’ve had?

Directors call me ten years later and say, “You were the only one who told us the truth.”

Clients come back, humbled and grateful, and say, “We didn’t listen then. We’re listening now.”

And, I’ve had the privilege of walking into rooms knowing exactly who I am, what I stand for, and what I will never, ever sell.

So, what would Frank do?

He’d raise his voice when it mattered. He’d listen hard when it hurt. He’d fight for reason in a room full of rationalizations.

And he’d never forget what it means to be the last honest voice in a sea of sponsored silence.

Because at the end of the day, the question isn’t just what Frank would do.

It’s what you will do when the moment comes.

Speak up? Back down? Play it safe? Or risk it all—and finally matter?

You don’t need to be Frank. You just need to find the courage to be yourself - in full.

That’s what Frank would do. And he’d bet his last dollar it’s what you can do, too.

Chapter XII: The Veritas Way

There’s a way things get done—and then there’s The Veritas Way.

Not a methodology. A mindset. Not a playbook. A principle. Not a trend. A torchlight through the fog of buzzwords, benchmarks, and boardroom babble.

The Veritas Way starts with one belief: Governance is perception. Not theory. Not structure. Not policy by proxy. But the lived, visible integrity of decisions made when no one’s looking—and even more so, when everyone is.

We don’t do spin. We don’t issue reports with more asterisks than answers. We don’t call failure "complexity" or dress up excess as "retention necessity."

We ask the question nobody else wants to ask: "If this showed up on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, could you defend it without breaking into a sweat?"

We believe in pay that drives performance, not performance that gets retrofitted to justify pay.

We believe comp committees should be able to pass the Sunday Morning Test: "Would you explain this grant to your neighbor over brunch without choking on your eggs Benedict?"

We believe that C-Suite executives are not just keepers of compliance, but stewards of culture—and that tying their incentives to trust metrics is not radical, it's overdue.

We believe shareholder letters should be written like a letter from a human, not a hedge fund algorithm passed through three legal departments and a bottle of Xanax.

And when we say long-term, we mean it. Not a 3-year cliff, not a rolling window, not a cleverly averaged mirage. But long-term value. Durable value. Legacy value. The kind that doesn’t expire when the next proxy cycle ends.

The Veritas Way doesn’t chase applause. It earns trust. It doesn’t inflate resumes. It elevates reality. It doesn’t pander to fashion. It restores faith in the fundamentals.

In a world of flashy decks and flimsy ethics, Veritas stands for one thing: the truth that holds.

Not the truth that flatters. Not the truth that sells. But the truth that stands when everything else crumbles.

That’s The Veritas Way. And we wouldn’t have it any other damn way.

Epilogue: The Truth That Survived Us All

It began with a whisper, didn’t it?

One voice in the corner of the boardroom, barely audible above the hum of jargon and justifications. A quiet question. A raised eyebrow. A single syllable that somehow still has gravity in a world addicted to helium: “Why?”

You remember.

The first time you felt the air shift. When someone—maybe it was you—asked the question that made the PowerPoint flicker, the CFO blink, the CEO sigh, and the truth creak its way into the room like an uninvited ghost at a black-tie gala.

That moment? That was the beginning. Not of the end, but of everything that matters.

Because while the world kept spinning itself dizzy with hot takes and half-truths, while comp reports got fatter and convictions got thinner, you stayed. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hedge. You didn’t sell your conscience for a signing bonus and a swag bag stuffed with buzzwords.

You stayed when others ducked. You showed up when others scheduled “off-sites” in Napa. You kept your compass calibrated while others downloaded the latest upgrade—with the integrity patch turned off.

This edition of Vox Populi wasn’t written to make you comfortable. It was written to make you squirm, belly-laugh, throw your latte, curse under your breath, and then… nod. Not because it told you something new—but because it reminded you of something true.

Because laughter is a form of resistance. Satire is a scalpel. And truth? Truth is the only currency that doesn’t hyperinflate in the madness of modern life. It's the only thing that can’t be deepfaked, AI-generated, or tucked neatly behind a paywall.

So now what?

You close this chapter. You shut the book. You stare into the digital abyss and face that same old question, blinking at you like a forgotten browser tab:

Will you say the thing that needs to be said? Will you show up when it counts? Will you dare to matter?

You don’t need to be a hero. You don’t need a cape, a podcast, or a freshly waxed LinkedIn banner.

But you do need courage. The kind that whispers “help me to understand” across the boardroom when the easy play would be silence. The kind that leans in when the data looks off and says, “We can’t sign off on this just because it feels good.”

And if you’ve made it this far my Sports Fans, I’d wager you’ve already got more courage than most.

So, go. Lead. Laugh. Write it down. Rip it up. Call the ball like you see it. Tell the truth—even if it ruins the brunch, disrupts the town hall, or sends the consultants diving for cover.

Be the first honest voice in the room, even if your voice shakes like hell as you face the dragon - and face yourself.

That’s how we begin again. That’s how we outlive the noise. And that’s how we…. matter.

FBG