⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

 The following is a satirical performance in the voice and style of the late George Carlin. It is fiction. It is fire. It is not safe for policy wonks or embassy procurement officers with fragile egos.

George Says: “YOU EMPLOY ME, YOU OWN ME? GET BENT.”

So now the United States is sending letters...

 to foreign contractors...

 in other countries...

 telling them:

“Hey, we’re hiring you to fix our plumbing—but also, could you go ahead and abandon your entire country’s civil rights laws while you’re at it?”

WHAT?!

What kind of arrogant, bald-eagle-on-bath-salts bullshit is THAT?

You think just because we hire someone,

 we get to control how they THINK?

 What they teach?

 Who they train?

 WHO THEY TREAT WITH RESPECT?

That’s not a contract.

 That’s a colonization attempt with a business card.

Let me break it down:

 The U.S. government is saying, “We’d like to hire you to mow the lawn at the embassy. But first, we need you to swear that you don’t believe in diversity, equity, or inclusion.”

Dude.

 It’s a LAWN.

And this isn’t Kansas.

 This is STOCKHOLM.

 You don’t get to march into Sweden and tell them how to run their HR departments.

 That’s like showing up to someone’s house, demanding steak,  and then arresting them for owning tofu.

But wait—it gets better.

These embassies?

 They don’t grow their own food.

 They don’t fix their own plumbing.

 They don’t haul in the goddamn bottled water.

They RELY on these local companies.

 For staff.

 For support.

 For security.

 For BASIC SURVIVAL in a country that is NOT America.

And what happens when those companies say,

“Yeah, no. We’re not going to cancel our equity trainings just so your ambassador’s assistant can get new carpet.”

I'll tell you what happens:

The embassy shrinks.

 From a sprawling monument to American exceptionalism to a single goddamn apartment on the fifth floor of a walkup in Brussels—

with a broken intercom and no heat.

You want lunch?

 Better learn to cook, ambassador.

 Hope you like canned beans and passive-aggressive silence from the local grocer.

Because here’s the thing:

You don’t get to export bigotry.

 You don’t get to demand that foreign businesses play along with your evangelical cosplay just because you flash a State Department badge.

That’s not diplomacy.

 That’s imperialism with Wi-Fi.

So let me say it plain:

 If you can’t respect the laws of the country you’re standing in,

you don’t deserve to be there.

 You deserve a folding chair and a PO box.

George out.

 And next time you write a letter like that?

 Try using it as toilet paper.

 You’ll get more value out of it that way.

In the voice of George Carlin

So now the U.S. Embassy is just Jerry in a two-room walkup.

That’s it. That’s the whole embassy. Jerry and a folding chair and a sad little printer that jams every time he tries to fax Foggy Bottom a warning about the mold.

Used to be a palace. Fortress, really. Marble floors, five checkpoints, CIA in the basement, Marines at the door, and coffee so bad it qualified as enhanced interrogation.

 But then the letters went out.

The Compliance Letters.

“Dear valued contractor,” they said, “please certify that your company does not engage in or promote any activities related to Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, or Respect for Human Beings Who Aren’t White Republican Men.”

And Europe said:

“Yeah, fuck off.”

The florists stopped delivering.

 The janitors walked.

 The caterers posted screenshots of the letter with the caption “AMERICANS ARE HIGH.”

 The power company switched them to prepay.

 The only supplier left was a guy named Marek who delivered knockoff printer toner out of the trunk of a Citroën.

By the third month, the big metal gate stopped working. No one came to fix it.

 By the fifth, the ambassador resigned. Said she “missed diplomacy.”

 By the sixth, they turned the whole damn building into a co-working space for Dutch tech startups. Rent’s cheaper when you don’t host a superpower.

Now?

 Now it’s Jerry.

Fifth floor. No elevator.

 One room is the “Consular Services Office,” which means a card table and a stack of out-of-date visa forms.

 The other’s a bunk bed and a radio that only gets Vatican talk shows.

Jerry’s not even State Department.

 He’s a contractor.

 Temp agency. Got reassigned from Department of Agriculture. Doesn’t speak the language, but he’s got a flag lapel pin and a lanyard that says “PROVISIONAL STAFF – ACTING MISSION CONTROL.”

Sometimes, people still buzz the door. Lost tourists. One guy asked if they were still doing passport renewals. Jerry laughed so hard he cracked a molar.

“Kid,” he said, “We’re outta ink, outta staples, and outta credibility.”

Then he shut the window and went back to microwaving a frozen burrito he bought from the Pakistani corner store two blocks down. The only place still serving them.

 They don’t care about politics. They care about paying rent.

Funny how that works.

George out.

 And if anyone asks, tell ’em the American Empire collapsed because it was allergic to empathy and thought HR policy was a threat to national security.