This nation is a glittering monument to weaponized entitlement, where vocal volume is considered a national resource and logic is treated like an optional subscription service. Here, speaking in an endless loop of corporate buzzwords is not just common—it’s enshrined in law. Boardroom jargon replaces everyday conversation, and phrases like “synergize our refund pathways” and “align on complaint deliverables” are chanted like sacred mantras.

Citizens don’t simply request refunds—they manifest them into existence with the sheer gravitational pull of their discontent. A single eyebrow raise from a resident can send shockwaves through an entire supply chain. Managers are treated as high priests, summoned to dispense judgment over disputes about coupon expiration dates and the correct number of ice cubes in a drink.

The economy thrives on the sacred ritual of seasonal consumerism. Pumpkin spice lattes are more than beverages—they’re cultural currency, traded, flaunted, and Instagrammed until the foam curdles. Trends are chased with a fervor normally reserved for natural disasters, and individuality is seen as a dangerous inefficiency.

At the heart of this kingdom stand the Karens—mythic figures clad in retail-warfare haircuts, fueled by an unwavering certainty that the universe bends to their will. Their rallying cry—“I’d like to speak to the manager, immediately”—is etched onto the national seal, their silhouettes emblazoned on currency, their legends told to children as bedtime stories.

In this land of infinite complaint forms and eternal return policies, substance is ornamental, empathy is negotiable, and instant gratification is not a luxury—it’s a birthright.