0:02 Your life starts when you're born into a
0:03 muddy medieval
0:07 village. One cow, six siblings, and zero
0:10 prospects. Life is a predictable loop of
0:14 plague, pigdong, and praying not to
0:16 starve. No one looks at your chubby
0:19 cheeks and says, "Ah, yes, future royal
0:21 comedian. You're not special. You're
0:24 just alive." And for now, that's the
0:27 only bar to clear. Pretty easy, right?
0:29 Well, tell that to the fifth son of a
0:31 drunk farmer with a bad harvest whose
0:34 mom named him something majestic like
0:37 Dungert. Either way, congratulations.
0:40 You're anonymous, broke, and blissfully
0:42 unaware that one day your job will
0:45 involve fart jokes for kings. You're not
0:48 trained. You're not destined. You're
0:51 just unlucky. One day, you'll either
0:53 mouth off to a nobleman, fall into the
0:56 castle wine barrel, or get caught doing
0:58 impressions of the bishop's lisp, and
1:00 that's it. Your peasant career ends, and
1:03 your jester career begins with a food up
1:06 your butt and a bell on your hat. No
1:09 formal audition, no talent scouts, just
1:12 one badly timed joke, and suddenly
1:15 you're property of the court. The kind
1:18 that has no human rights. But for now,
1:21 you're just a child. A muddy,
1:24 liceinfested, blissfully ignorant child.
1:27 Enjoy it while it lasts, because soon
1:29 your job will be to make powerful people
1:32 laugh while making sure you don't die.
1:36 Easiest job in the world. We'll let you
1:39 be the judge of that. Years go by and no
1:42 one's sure if you're still alive. Oh,
1:44 there you are. Congratulations on
1:47 surviving tuberculosis, smallpox,
1:50 falling into a ditch, and even the black
1:52 death. You are now one of the lucky 50%
1:55 who make it to adulthood. Well,
1:59 technically you're 16, probably or 15.
2:01 No one's kept track since the goat ate
2:04 the family Bible. But one thing your dad
2:06 is sure of is you should be taking up
2:08 the family's tradition of breaking your
2:10 back plowing. The only problem is that
2:13 the aptitude test you took last week
2:15 showed that you'll be a terrible farmer
2:17 and called you a joker. Your dad's not
2:21 amused, but you take it literally. And I
2:24 mean literally. You go to the village
2:27 square every day doing your bit. Maybe
2:30 mocking the priest's bald spot. Maybe
2:32 imitating the baron's constipated
2:36 warhorse. People laugh. It's your finest
2:39 work. Then a man with shiny boots and
2:42 dead eyes points at you and says, "That
2:44 one." You're dragged into the castle by
2:47 two guards who smell like horse urine
2:50 and boiled onions. You ask if this is a
2:52 misunderstanding. One of them laughs.
2:54 That's the last time your words will be
2:58 funny on your terms. A steward throws a
3:01 bundle at your chest. It's a costume,
3:04 bright, ridiculous, stitched together
3:07 like scraps of a failed circus. Put it
3:10 on, he says. You hesitate. He calls in
3:13 another guard. You put it on. A few
3:14 minutes later, you're standing in a
3:16 great hall looking like a walking
3:20 tapestry of embarrassment. Nobles stare.
3:23 Someone coughs. You try to speak, but
3:26 your voice cracks. You bow and fall flat
3:29 on your face. They roar with laughter
3:32 and just like that, you're hired. They
3:35 call it court jester, but let's be
3:38 honest, you're a licensed fool. Your job
3:41 is to slip on metaphorical banana peels
3:43 for the delight of people who execute
3:46 surfs for sneezing too loudly. You
3:49 recite poetry, juggle potatoes, and if
3:52 you're bold, mock your betters just
3:55 enough to make them laugh, but not
3:57 enough to make them angry. Nope. No one
3:59 tells you where the line is. You learn
4:01 by crossing it. But there are no
4:03 doovers. Your first day ended with
4:06 applause and bruised ribs. That night,
4:08 as you lay on a haystuffed mattress,
4:11 trying to remember how dignity felt, a
4:13 scrappy, oneeyed pigeon crash lands
4:16 through your window, drops a scroll, and
4:18 immediately begins pecking at your bread
4:20 crust. You unroll the parchment. The ink
4:23 smells like sweat and cabbage. Fool's
4:27 board. 17 new entries. Archie Armstrong
4:29 told the bishop he had the face of a
4:31 blessed pig. The king laughed. He did
4:35 it. Zho the lame. Juggled daggers for a
4:38 Mongol general. Cut my own foot. Got a
4:41 goat as a reward. Triple. Remember, make
4:44 the king laugh before. Mocking his
4:48 mistress, not after. Buttertoes. King
4:50 gifted me a lap dog and kissed my hand.
4:53 You all still warming chamber pots? You
4:55 don't know who Buttertoes is? You don't
4:58 care, but your stomach twists anyway
5:01 because tomorrow they'll expect more,
5:04 better, riskier. You're no longer a
5:07 peasant, just a tool in a palace of
5:10 teeth. And then realization hits you as
5:12 you wonder if there ever was a previous
5:16 gesture. But since no one says anything,
5:18 why bother? Months go by and you're
5:20 getting better. You figure out how to
5:22 time a fart joke between a noble's
5:25 goblet sip and the king's wine spit. You
5:27 master the art of insulting someone's
5:30 lineage, just ambiguously enough that
5:32 they can't even retaliate without
5:34 admitting it hit too close to home. You
5:37 even get a nickname, not one you chose,
5:39 of course. No gestures get to brand
5:42 themselves. But the court calls you grin
5:46 worm. You hate it, it sticks. The king
5:48 laughs more often when you're in the
5:50 room. His attendant stopped sneering.
5:52 You're so good that the servants bring
5:55 you meat now and then, not just broth.
5:57 You even overhear someone say you're
6:00 harmless, which is court speak for
6:02 useful for now. Then one morning, you're
6:05 summoned to perform privately. Just the
6:08 king, no crowd, no laughter buffer. He's
6:12 in a foul mood. You do your act,
6:15 stumble, babble, mimic a rooster having
6:18 a stroke, and you pray it lands. He
6:21 smirks, then laughs, then gives you a
6:25 ring. For your loyalty, he says. Your
6:27 hands shake as you take it. Is it a
6:32 gift, a test, a target? You don't know.
6:34 You never know. Later that night, while
6:36 still drowsy from the king giving you
6:38 wine, your favorite bird, besides the
6:41 king's chicken thighs, flies in. Fool's
6:45 court. Nine new entries. Stein chick.
6:47 King made me quote Horus to a general
6:50 mid beheading. War is weird. Nas ruden
6:52 told the king the truth in jest. He
6:56 thanked me then tripled my taxes.
6:58 Buttertoes feast tonight. King fed me
7:02 grapes by hand. One was sour. Heads will
7:05 roll. Zho the lame got whipped for
7:07 laughing at the wrong time. At least it
7:09 was rhythmic. You don't reply. You just
7:12 stare at Buttertoes's message again. You
7:15 still don't know who he is. Different
7:18 kingdom, different time. Who cares? He's
7:20 everywhere. Everyone quotes him. The
7:24 king mentioned his name once. Offhand.
7:26 That was enough. You're not competing,
7:30 but you are watching closely and
7:33 quietly. Deep down. You hope he slips
7:35 because if you're going to survive this
7:40 place, you need to rise fast or they'll
7:43 feed you to the dogs. Two more years go
7:45 by and you're now a veteran at staying
7:49 alive. Your main skill really same 9to-5
7:52 routine. Juggle, bow, insult someone
7:55 important. Just gently enough to avoid a
7:58 beheading. Don't mock the queen. Never
8:00 mock the queen. Don't even talk about
8:03 the queen. And always bow lower than you
8:06 think is reasonable. Then one morning,
8:09 the war horns blow. You think finally
8:11 something that doesn't involve juggling
8:13 potatoes in front of inbredad
8:16 aristocrats. You're wrong. They're not
8:18 sending you to fight. They're sending
8:22 you to perform for morale. Apparently,
8:24 nothing says we've totally got this war
8:27 under control like a man in bells doing
8:29 cartwheels while people bleed out in
8:32 trenches. So, you pack your loot, your
8:34 chicken feather hat, and all your
8:36 unresolved trauma and ride off with the
8:39 King's War caravan like a very colorful
8:41 hostage. Getting to the battlefield, you
8:44 realize it's somehow worse than court
8:48 life. In court, death is quiet. Some
8:52 poison, a dagger, a hunting accident.
8:55 Out here, it smells like roasted horse
8:58 and panic. You're cracking jokes to keep
9:00 your life. And I mean that literally.
9:03 Then the real highlight, you get picked
9:06 to deliver a humorous message to the
9:10 enemy commander. Basically a sarcastic
9:14 scroll. The idea is if they laugh, maybe
9:17 they'll talk peace. If they don't,
9:20 you're just a diplomatic meat shield. So
9:22 across the field you go, smiling like
9:25 your life depends on it, because it
9:28 does. You get a chance to deliver your
9:31 Lord's message. Just one chance. Your
9:36 life depends on it. So you do your best.
9:39 Silence. Then finally, one general
9:42 laughs. The archer next to him doesn't.
9:44 But you get to crack another joke for
9:46 another year. You limp back to camp with
9:49 a black eye, a cracked rib, and a
9:52 newfound respect for sarcasm related
9:56 injuries. You did well, the king says.
9:59 He's either praising you or doesn't
10:01 remember your name. That night, while
10:03 you're trying to fish an arrow splinter
10:05 out of your leg with a soup spoon, your
10:08 friend, the scrappy pigeon, crash lands
10:10 into your campfire and drops a halfburn
10:14 scroll. Fool's Court, new entries. Zho,
10:16 the lame, sent into battle with a banner
10:18 that said, "Surrender now, idiots.
10:22 Barely made it back." Tripe, big mistake
10:24 at work today. made fun of both the king
10:28 and the queen. Almost died. Now I know
10:31 how I'll die. You'll never guess it.
10:33 Nasruden disguised as a goat for
10:36 infiltration. The plan worked. Smell
10:40 never left. Archie Armstrong. War is the
10:41 only time the noble stops listening to
10:44 themselves. That's why they send us in
10:47 first. You don't reply. You just stare
10:49 at the pigeon. It starts pecking at your
10:51 soup. And you start to realize the awful
10:54 truth. There's no way out of this job
10:56 that doesn't involve a grave, but all's
11:00 well that ends well. Right. Right. Years
11:03 go by and you're in your early 30s.
11:04 Congratulations. You've outlived your
11:07 dad and are now a familiar face in the
11:09 court. Your name is known across the
11:12 kingdom. After a lifetime of forced
11:14 laughter, your service is finally paying
11:17 off. You might even retire with your
11:20 life. Yes, you've danced with death more
11:23 times than you can count. But you always
11:26 landed on your feet. The king loves you.
11:28 The crowned prince confides in you. For
11:32 once, things seem safe, but your body
11:35 says otherwise. The years of abuse,
11:39 falls, beatings, stress have caught up.
11:42 Your knees crack. Your breath is short.
11:44 So, you stick to clever word play and
11:48 welltimed remarks. Still, they laugh.
11:51 Still, they applaud. Then comes the
11:54 feast. The king has guests, foreign
11:58 nobles, generals, wives, mistresses, and
12:01 others you don't recognize. The kind of
12:03 faces that speak with armies. He wants
12:06 you to perform. You're tired. The room
12:09 is a blur of wine and expectation. And
12:11 you feel it. Something heavy pressing
12:14 down on your ribs. You make the mistake
12:16 of speaking from it. You improvise. A
12:19 joke. Too clever. Too fast.
12:23 too honest about the ambassador's very
12:26 young wife and the king's habit of
12:29 inspecting dowies personally. Someone
12:33 laughs loud, sharp, sudden, then
12:36 silence. The ambassador isn't an
12:38 ambassador. He's the crowned prince of a
12:41 powerful ally. He doesn't laugh. The
12:45 king stares. A chair scrapes the floor.
12:48 You bow slowly. Too slowly. You're
12:51 dragged away before dessert, which is
12:53 insulting because it was supposed to be
12:57 honey cakes and you love honey cakes. No
13:00 trial, no last words, no time to
13:02 explain. By nightfall, you're in the
13:06 tower, stripped of your mley, your ring,
13:09 your name. Now alone in the dungeon, you
13:11 think of your life when it all began
13:14 with the bishop's lisp. You know that
13:16 the court eats bore the next morning.
13:18 You know, a new jester will be brought
13:20 before the king. A boy who once swept
13:24 the stables, younger, cleaner, obviously
13:28 more fit, juggling flaming clubs. After
13:31 all, you trained him. So, you know, the
13:34 king will laugh, the nobles will clap,
13:36 and no one will mention the last one.
13:40 Years pass, or maybe they don't. No one
13:42 writes down the date a jester dies. Not
13:45 unless it's funny. You didn't die
13:49 screaming or laughing. Just quietly. A
13:52 rope, a blade, a cup of something that
13:55 tasted a little off. Old age. No one
13:58 remembers. Not even the cooks. Your name
14:01 fades. Your jokes are stolen by others.
14:03 Butter Toes might have gotten a statue
14:06 or might have lost his head. You don't
14:08 care as you get buried in a hole outside
14:12 the stables. No plaque, no poem, just a
14:15 bit of stained cloth buried under leaves
14:17 and the memory of someone who danced too
14:20 close to power and slipped. That's all
14:22 that's left of Dungert. He wasn't a
14:25 legend. He was a joke. And like all good
14:28 jokes in court, he ended when they
14:30 stopped laughing. In a castle far away,
14:32 a bird perches on a window with a
14:35 letter. Fool's court. New message. Dung
14:38 Bert has left the chat. Stein chick.
14:41 Another gone. That joke must have been good.
14:43 good. [Music]
