This content chronicles the harsh and precarious life of a medieval court jester, highlighting their journey from a peasant background to a position of forced amusement, constant danger, and ultimate anonymity.
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Your life starts when you're born into a
muddy medieval
village. One cow, six siblings, and zero
prospects. Life is a predictable loop of
plague, pigdong, and praying not to
starve. No one looks at your chubby
cheeks and says, "Ah, yes, future royal
comedian. You're not special. You're
just alive." And for now, that's the
only bar to clear. Pretty easy, right?
Well, tell that to the fifth son of a
drunk farmer with a bad harvest whose
mom named him something majestic like
Dungert. Either way, congratulations.
You're anonymous, broke, and blissfully
unaware that one day your job will
involve fart jokes for kings. You're not
trained. You're not destined. You're
just unlucky. One day, you'll either
mouth off to a nobleman, fall into the
castle wine barrel, or get caught doing
impressions of the bishop's lisp, and
that's it. Your peasant career ends, and
your jester career begins with a food up
your butt and a bell on your hat. No
formal audition, no talent scouts, just
one badly timed joke, and suddenly
you're property of the court. The kind
that has no human rights. But for now,
you're just a child. A muddy,
liceinfested, blissfully ignorant child.
Enjoy it while it lasts, because soon
your job will be to make powerful people
laugh while making sure you don't die.
Easiest job in the world. We'll let you
be the judge of that. Years go by and no
one's sure if you're still alive. Oh,
there you are. Congratulations on
surviving tuberculosis, smallpox,
falling into a ditch, and even the black
death. You are now one of the lucky 50%
who make it to adulthood. Well,
technically you're 16, probably or 15.
No one's kept track since the goat ate
the family Bible. But one thing your dad
is sure of is you should be taking up
the family's tradition of breaking your
back plowing. The only problem is that
the aptitude test you took last week
showed that you'll be a terrible farmer
and called you a joker. Your dad's not
amused, but you take it literally. And I
mean literally. You go to the village
square every day doing your bit. Maybe
mocking the priest's bald spot. Maybe
imitating the baron's constipated
warhorse. People laugh. It's your finest
work. Then a man with shiny boots and
dead eyes points at you and says, "That
one." You're dragged into the castle by
two guards who smell like horse urine
and boiled onions. You ask if this is a
misunderstanding. One of them laughs.
That's the last time your words will be
funny on your terms. A steward throws a
bundle at your chest. It's a costume,
bright, ridiculous, stitched together
like scraps of a failed circus. Put it
on, he says. You hesitate. He calls in
another guard. You put it on. A few
minutes later, you're standing in a
great hall looking like a walking
tapestry of embarrassment. Nobles stare.
Someone coughs. You try to speak, but
your voice cracks. You bow and fall flat
on your face. They roar with laughter
and just like that, you're hired. They
call it court jester, but let's be
honest, you're a licensed fool. Your job
is to slip on metaphorical banana peels
for the delight of people who execute
surfs for sneezing too loudly. You
recite poetry, juggle potatoes, and if
you're bold, mock your betters just
enough to make them laugh, but not
enough to make them angry. Nope. No one
tells you where the line is. You learn
by crossing it. But there are no
doovers. Your first day ended with
applause and bruised ribs. That night,
as you lay on a haystuffed mattress,
trying to remember how dignity felt, a
scrappy, oneeyed pigeon crash lands
through your window, drops a scroll, and
immediately begins pecking at your bread
crust. You unroll the parchment. The ink
smells like sweat and cabbage. Fool's
board. 17 new entries. Archie Armstrong
told the bishop he had the face of a
blessed pig. The king laughed. He did
it. Zho the lame. Juggled daggers for a
Mongol general. Cut my own foot. Got a
goat as a reward. Triple. Remember, make
the king laugh before. Mocking his
mistress, not after. Buttertoes. King
gifted me a lap dog and kissed my hand.
You all still warming chamber pots? You
don't know who Buttertoes is? You don't
care, but your stomach twists anyway
because tomorrow they'll expect more,
better, riskier. You're no longer a
peasant, just a tool in a palace of
teeth. And then realization hits you as
you wonder if there ever was a previous
gesture. But since no one says anything,
why bother? Months go by and you're
getting better. You figure out how to
time a fart joke between a noble's
goblet sip and the king's wine spit. You
master the art of insulting someone's
lineage, just ambiguously enough that
they can't even retaliate without
admitting it hit too close to home. You
even get a nickname, not one you chose,
of course. No gestures get to brand
themselves. But the court calls you grin
worm. You hate it, it sticks. The king
laughs more often when you're in the
room. His attendant stopped sneering.
You're so good that the servants bring
you meat now and then, not just broth.
You even overhear someone say you're
harmless, which is court speak for
useful for now. Then one morning, you're
summoned to perform privately. Just the
king, no crowd, no laughter buffer. He's
in a foul mood. You do your act,
stumble, babble, mimic a rooster having
a stroke, and you pray it lands. He
smirks, then laughs, then gives you a
ring. For your loyalty, he says. Your
hands shake as you take it. Is it a
gift, a test, a target? You don't know.
You never know. Later that night, while
still drowsy from the king giving you
wine, your favorite bird, besides the
king's chicken thighs, flies in. Fool's
court. Nine new entries. Stein chick.
King made me quote Horus to a general
mid beheading. War is weird. Nas ruden
told the king the truth in jest. He
thanked me then tripled my taxes.
Buttertoes feast tonight. King fed me
grapes by hand. One was sour. Heads will
roll. Zho the lame got whipped for
laughing at the wrong time. At least it
was rhythmic. You don't reply. You just
stare at Buttertoes's message again. You
still don't know who he is. Different
kingdom, different time. Who cares? He's
everywhere. Everyone quotes him. The
king mentioned his name once. Offhand.
That was enough. You're not competing,
but you are watching closely and
quietly. Deep down. You hope he slips
because if you're going to survive this
place, you need to rise fast or they'll
feed you to the dogs. Two more years go
by and you're now a veteran at staying
alive. Your main skill really same 9to-5
routine. Juggle, bow, insult someone
important. Just gently enough to avoid a
beheading. Don't mock the queen. Never
mock the queen. Don't even talk about
the queen. And always bow lower than you
think is reasonable. Then one morning,
the war horns blow. You think finally
something that doesn't involve juggling
potatoes in front of inbredad
aristocrats. You're wrong. They're not
sending you to fight. They're sending
you to perform for morale. Apparently,
nothing says we've totally got this war
under control like a man in bells doing
cartwheels while people bleed out in
trenches. So, you pack your loot, your
chicken feather hat, and all your
unresolved trauma and ride off with the
King's War caravan like a very colorful
hostage. Getting to the battlefield, you
realize it's somehow worse than court
life. In court, death is quiet. Some
poison, a dagger, a hunting accident.
Out here, it smells like roasted horse
and panic. You're cracking jokes to keep
your life. And I mean that literally.
Then the real highlight, you get picked
to deliver a humorous message to the
enemy commander. Basically a sarcastic
scroll. The idea is if they laugh, maybe
they'll talk peace. If they don't,
you're just a diplomatic meat shield. So
across the field you go, smiling like
your life depends on it, because it
does. You get a chance to deliver your
Lord's message. Just one chance. Your
life depends on it. So you do your best.
Silence. Then finally, one general
laughs. The archer next to him doesn't.
But you get to crack another joke for
another year. You limp back to camp with
a black eye, a cracked rib, and a
newfound respect for sarcasm related
injuries. You did well, the king says.
He's either praising you or doesn't
remember your name. That night, while
you're trying to fish an arrow splinter
out of your leg with a soup spoon, your
friend, the scrappy pigeon, crash lands
into your campfire and drops a halfburn
scroll. Fool's Court, new entries. Zho,
the lame, sent into battle with a banner
that said, "Surrender now, idiots.
Barely made it back." Tripe, big mistake
at work today. made fun of both the king
and the queen. Almost died. Now I know
how I'll die. You'll never guess it.
Nasruden disguised as a goat for
infiltration. The plan worked. Smell
never left. Archie Armstrong. War is the
only time the noble stops listening to
themselves. That's why they send us in
first. You don't reply. You just stare
at the pigeon. It starts pecking at your
soup. And you start to realize the awful
truth. There's no way out of this job
that doesn't involve a grave, but all's
well that ends well. Right. Right. Years
go by and you're in your early 30s.
Congratulations. You've outlived your
dad and are now a familiar face in the
court. Your name is known across the
kingdom. After a lifetime of forced
laughter, your service is finally paying
off. You might even retire with your
life. Yes, you've danced with death more
times than you can count. But you always
landed on your feet. The king loves you.
The crowned prince confides in you. For
once, things seem safe, but your body
says otherwise. The years of abuse,
falls, beatings, stress have caught up.
Your knees crack. Your breath is short.
So, you stick to clever word play and
welltimed remarks. Still, they laugh.
Still, they applaud. Then comes the
feast. The king has guests, foreign
nobles, generals, wives, mistresses, and
others you don't recognize. The kind of
faces that speak with armies. He wants
you to perform. You're tired. The room
is a blur of wine and expectation. And
you feel it. Something heavy pressing
down on your ribs. You make the mistake
of speaking from it. You improvise. A
joke. Too clever. Too fast.
too honest about the ambassador's very
young wife and the king's habit of
inspecting dowies personally. Someone
laughs loud, sharp, sudden, then
silence. The ambassador isn't an
ambassador. He's the crowned prince of a
powerful ally. He doesn't laugh. The
king stares. A chair scrapes the floor.
You bow slowly. Too slowly. You're
dragged away before dessert, which is
insulting because it was supposed to be
honey cakes and you love honey cakes. No
trial, no last words, no time to
explain. By nightfall, you're in the
tower, stripped of your mley, your ring,
your name. Now alone in the dungeon, you
think of your life when it all began
with the bishop's lisp. You know that
the court eats bore the next morning.
You know, a new jester will be brought
before the king. A boy who once swept
the stables, younger, cleaner, obviously
more fit, juggling flaming clubs. After
all, you trained him. So, you know, the
king will laugh, the nobles will clap,
and no one will mention the last one.
Years pass, or maybe they don't. No one
writes down the date a jester dies. Not
unless it's funny. You didn't die
screaming or laughing. Just quietly. A
rope, a blade, a cup of something that
tasted a little off. Old age. No one
remembers. Not even the cooks. Your name
fades. Your jokes are stolen by others.
Butter Toes might have gotten a statue
or might have lost his head. You don't
care as you get buried in a hole outside
the stables. No plaque, no poem, just a
bit of stained cloth buried under leaves
and the memory of someone who danced too
close to power and slipped. That's all
that's left of Dungert. He wasn't a
legend. He was a joke. And like all good
jokes in court, he ended when they
stopped laughing. In a castle far away,
a bird perches on a window with a
letter. Fool's court. New message. Dung
Bert has left the chat. Stein chick.
Another gone. That joke must have been good.
good. [Music]
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