A cautionary tale for the morally bankrupt and the comfortably indifferent.
🪞 The Snake Who Slithered into Power
Once upon a condo, in the land of Blenvale, there slithered a snake with a shiny name tag that read “Board President.”
It didn’t hide in the grass – it glided proudly across the lobby floor, straight into meetings, leaving a greasy trail of deceit and denial.
“Look at me,” hissed the snake:
“I raise fees, I silence owners, I spend your money on lawyers – because I can.”
🎭 The Choir of Clueless Applause
The crowd gasped at first – until Blazer clapped enthusiastically.
“What courage!” he said. “To do everything wrong and still host a townhall about accountability!”
Then came Lady Gwendolyn, clutching a clipboard labeled “Integrity.”
“So brave,” she said, “to lose in court and still call it fiscal management.”
And thus began The Age of No Shame – the Blenvale Renaissance of rot.
💰 The Accounting of Absurdity
They lied about budgets.
They borrowed from reserves.
They spent $400,000 in legal fees to fight a disabled woman – then appealed the loss and lost again.
When asked for transparency, Mildred smiled:
“Transparency is expensive.”
When asked about human rights, Blazer shrugged:
“Compassion isn’t in the budget.”
🧏♀️ The Village That Chose Silence
At first, the owners muttered.
Then they stopped.
Silence, like mildew, spread quietly through the halls.
Better not to see. Better not to know.
Because knowing might require a spine.
💀 The Snake’s Reflection
One day, the snake slithered across the lobby again and saw its reflection in the marble floor.
The shine was gone. The smile was grotesque. The reflection showed what he’d become – rot in pearls.
He hissed, but no one turned their head.
The villagers had finally learned to walk around the filth instead of stepping in it.
⚖️ Moral
When leaders lose shame, corruption becomes policy.
When communities lose shame, corruption becomes culture.
And in Blenvale, both have learned to hiss in harmony.
Disclaimer: This post is satire and opinion. Read full disclaimer.
