The Whimsy Index
Issue #32: A Collection of Mostly Harmless Psychohistories, Part III
In this issue: the third installment of A Collection of Mostly Harmless Psychohistories inspired by our futures workshop at Edge City Esmeralda. Also, join us next week for a town hall on the state of climate protocols.
The Whimsy Index
In the beginning, people dreamed because their brains had to do something while their bodies took a break from hunting mammoths, inventing the wheel, or trying to figure out what to do with turnips. Dreams back then were messy, unpredictable, and frankly, quite embarrassing. They were filled with falling teeth, inconvenient nudity, and talking hedgehogs dispensing unasked-for advice. It was generally agreed that dreams were better off kept private, and if you happened to remember yours, you certainly didn’t brag about it over breakfast.
Then, some 220 years after Freud dreamed of his mother, someone had the bright idea of inventing the Dream Mesh, and soon the whole business became unnervingly respectable. Dreams were now uploaded, curated, cleaned up, and organized into well-behaved categories. Dream committees debated whether unicorns symbolized moral purity or existential despair. Panels awarded prestigious “Certificates of Subconscious Excellence,” and glossy magazines like Lucidity Today provided step-by-step guides on achieving the most enviable dreams, complete with sponsorship from trendy meditation companies. Soon, one’s social status hinged less on reality and more on how tastefully one’s subconscious behaved.
***
Reginald “Reggie” Farsight sat behind his sprawling desk at the Department of Dream Acquisition, thumbing absentmindedly through the latest submissions. His official title, embossed neatly on a brass plaque, read Senior Dream Acquisition Manager, but lately, he felt more like a glorified night janitor, tasked with sanitizing the cluttered corridors of the human mind.
He clicked wearily through another batch of carefully sterilized dreams, each labeled with high-status keywords: Existential Clarity, Precious Melancholy, Ethically Approved Aspiration. Reggie sighed. No one dreamed silly, embarrassing things anymore; dreams had become serious business, scrubbed thoroughly clean of all whimsy and spontaneity, simply an endless parade of tastefully decorated anxieties.
What the Mesh desperately needed, Reggie thought with a hint of resentment, was something real. Something risky. Something that made no sense at all.
Something exactly like the “Great Rubber Chicken Parade,” the one whimsical dream everyone knew and nobody could find. The parade had quietly vanished years ago, replaced by a placeholder that read simply, “Dream removed—Protocol 14B.” The disappearance had sparked countless conspiracies. Some claimed the government censored it because it mocked authority; others whispered it was a secret plot by elites to remove laughter itself. Reggie didn’t believe any of it, though secretly he found the theories more amusing than most dreams he'd watched lately.
His boredom was rudely interrupted by a quiet chime from his inbox. Curious, he opened the message:
Midnight. Duel Arena #7, back entrance. Come alone. Bring your imagination.
— Sneak-Dueler.
Reggie raised an eyebrow. He hadn't used his imagination in years (policy strictly discouraged it while awake). Yet here he was, coat in hand, staring at a midnight summons that was, without doubt, the most interesting thing to happen to him in the past decade. With nothing but spreadsheets, sanitized dreams, and staff meetings to look forward to, this clandestine invitation felt like an unexpected lifeline. As he stepped out into the murky night, he couldn’t help but feel an unaccustomed flutter of excitement. Perhaps, after all this seriousness, there was still something left worth dreaming about.
Reggie arrived at the back entrance of Duel Arena #7 precisely at midnight. He’d expected shadows, intrigue, perhaps a cloak-and-dagger figure blending mysteriously into darkness. Instead, he found himself staring at a tall man in an ill-fitting velvet mask and a faded trench coat. A small sticker with the words “HELLO, MY NAME IS: Sneak-Dueler” was attached crookedly to his lapel.
“Ah, good, you got the message,” said the Sneak Dueler cheerfully. “Sorry about the mask. Protocol.”
Reggie sighed, deciding not to point out the fact that the mask offered no actual disguise whatsoever. “Alright, Sneak Dueler, what’s this all about?”
“It’s about the Great Rubber Chicken Parade,” said Sneak Dueler gravely. “It’s missing.”
Reggie folded his arms. “I know it’s missing. Everyone knows it’s missing. It’s been gone for years, replaced by a protocol number and about 37 different conspiracy theories.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Sneak Dueler, looking conspiratorially around an alleyway clearly devoid of any listeners. “But unlike most theories, I actually know who took it.”
Reggie studied the masked figure with a half amused stare. “I’ve heard all the rumors, you know. Some say it mocked the government too openly—that the chickens marching in perfect lockstep were an allegory for the High Council's control over society. Others say the elites had it deleted because laughter was cutting into their profit margins for synthetic amusements. There was even a cult out near Warehouse District claiming the dream was a gateway to the true meaning of existence, so naturally it had to be silenced.”
“Good theories,” Sneak Dueler conceded, nodding earnestly. “Creative. But completely wrong.”
“Then enlighten me. Who actually took it?”
Sneak Dueler paused for dramatic effect, leaning close enough for Reggie to see the awkward stitching of the velvet mask. “Viviana St. Fleur.”
Reggie blinked, momentarily stunned. “Viviana St. Fleur? The curator of tasteful dreaming? That Viviana St. Fleur?”
“Exactly,” said Sneak Dueler, nodding solemnly. “High Priestess of Subtle Aesthetics herself.”
Reggie frowned. Viviana St. Fleur was legendary. She was the Mesh’s undisputed arbiter of style, the fierce editor-in-chief of Lucidity Today. Dreams that passed her review were ethereal masterpieces, polished to aesthetic perfection, and absolutely devoid of anything as gauche as humor or genuine surprise. Her name alone made dream producers tremble, more so than the High Council ever did.
“Why would Viviana steal the Great Rubber Chicken Parade?” Reggie asked, more baffled than skeptical.
“Because,” Sneak Dueler said darkly, “it offended her sense of taste. Have you ever heard Viviana laugh?”
Reggie thought for a moment. “No.”
“Exactly. The Rubber Chicken Parade wasn’t dangerous because it mocked the government, or because elites wanted to control laughter. It was dangerous because it was silly. Ridiculous, even. A parade of rubber chickens, for goodness sake. Nothing tasteful about it. And to Viviana, taste is everything.”
Reggie let out a slow breath, a part of him felt amused by the absurdity of it all. “So you’re telling me the most beloved whimsical dream in recent memory was quietly erased, not by authoritarian censors, nor by sinister elites, but because Viviana St. Fleur found it... distasteful?”
Sneak Dueler nodded enthusiastically, mask slipping slightly askew. “Yes. Exactly! Now do you see why I need your help? Someone has to confront taste itself. Someone has to bring back genuine whimsy.”
Reggie straightened, a glimmer of genuine excitement lighting his tired eyes for the first time in years.
“Well,” he said, tightening his coat against the chill. “I suppose it’s time to commit an act of truly appalling bad taste.”
***
Reggie stared blankly at the velvet-masked Sneak Dueler who had just revealed his master plan.
“So your plan,” he repeated slowly, “is for me, a man who hasn’t had anything but carefully curated dreams in a decade, to dream something whimsical, silly, and ridiculous enough to catch the attention of Viviana St. Fleur herself, and then somehow… trap her in the act of stealing it?”
Sneak Dueler concurred. “It’s brilliant in its simplicity.”
Reggie sighed. “There’s just one small detail. I don’t exactly remember how to dream something whimsical.”
Sneak Dueler chuckled indulgently, reached into the folds of his coat and withdrew a crumpled pamphlet. “I suspected as much. Society’s forgotten the fundamentals, so allow me to reintroduce you to something absolutely essential.” He unfolded the pamphlet ceremoniously, presenting it to Reggie with a flourish.
“The Three Rules of Whimsy,” he declared.
Reggie squinted skeptically at the pamphlet, which was decorated with crudely drawn stick figures, floating donuts, and cats in bow ties.
“Rule one,” Sneak Dueler began solemnly, “Embrace Nonsense. Whimsy isn’t logical. It doesn’t explain itself. It must delightfully confuse. The weirder, the better. If you find yourself wondering ‘but why?’ you’re already on the right track.”
“Rule two,” he continued, voice rising disconcertingly, “No Status Allowed. Whimsy cares nothing for your prestige, dignity, or social ranking. Rubber chickens don’t have capital. Dancing potatoes hold no titles. Status is whimsy’s mortal enemy.”
Reggie nodded slowly, despite himself. He found he rather liked the idea of dancing potatoes.
“And rule three—perhaps most important of all,” Sneak Dueler said, lowering his voice to a reverent whisper. “Delight is Mandatory. The goal of whimsy isn’t to impress or convince. It is pure, meaningless joy. Whimsy without delight is like a parade without rubber chickens: technically possible, but why would you?”
Reggie felt an unfamiliar urge to giggle rise from his diaphragm. He quickly suppressed it. “Alright,” he said cautiously, “but how do we ensure Viviana takes the bait?”
Sneak Dueler grinned beneath his velvet mask. “We upload your silly dream openly to the Mesh under your official title. A high-ranking dream curator breaking the seriousness protocol will set off every tasteful censor alarm in Viviana’s domain. She won’t be able to resist.”
“And how exactly do we catch her stealing it?”
Sneak Dueler’s grin widened further. “I have contacts. Let’s just say the Dream Mesh leaves footprints even the most elegant curator can’t hide. We’ll trace her actions directly, proving once and for all that whimsy didn’t vanish, it was stolen.
Reggie took a deep breath, a thousand possible objections forming and dissolving all at once. Finally, he shrugged, a reckless gleam in his eyes.
“Well, why not? After years of sanitized dreams, perhaps it’s finally time for society to wake up laughing.”
Sneak Dueler patted Reggie warmly on the shoulder, clearly thrilled. “Excellent! Now then, let’s find a place for you to nap. We have chickens to dream, potatoes to choreograph, and tastefulness to corrupt.”
***
It began, as most truly important events do, with a training montage.
Sneak Dueler, in full velvet-masked glory, paced in front of a sprawling chalkboard with diagrams labeled “Chicken Density,” “Absurdity Index,” and “Spontaneous Ballet Probability.” He vigorously gestured as Reggie scribbled notes, practiced bewildered shrugs, and occasionally attempted forced giggles. They spent afternoons watching vintage clips of geese in waistcoats, listened to records of nonsensical poems, and debated the comedic value of banana peels versus custard pies.
At first, Reggie’s attempts were embarrassing, clumsy messes. He dreamed of neatly arranged dancing potatoes with serious expressions, penguins politely reading aloud banking regulations, and a large snail patiently explaining tax codes.
Sneak Dueler shook his head mournfully at each result. “Too serious, Reggie. Forget sense! Less coherence, more chaos!”
Gradually, however, something shifted. Reggie’s dreams grew chaotic. He dreamed chickens in tiny bowler hats juggling smaller chickens, frogs organizing conferences about leap-year conspiracies, and rivers of multicolored gelatin filled with earnest, operatic marlins. Sneak Dueler applauded with pride.
“You’re ready,” he said gravely, handing Reggie an oversized feather pillow. “Dream like nobody’s watching, especially not Viviana.”
That night, Reggie dreamed the dream.
[REDACTED BECAUSE OF DREAM SHARING LAWS.]
Reggie awoke laughing, cheeks aching from unfamiliar delight.
The dream was swiftly uploaded to the Dream Mesh, marked officially: “Rubber Chicken Parade Redux—uploaded by Reginald Farsight, Senior Dream Acquisition Manager.”
They waited, breathlessly.
Viviana took the bait within minutes. Her prim digital signature appeared as she discreetly accessed, flagged, and quietly withdrew the offensive dream. Sneak Dueler captured it all, a digital paper trail documenting tastefulness gone beyond its remit.
The story made headlines, at least briefly:
CURATOR OF TASTEFUL DREAMING CAUGHT IN RUBBER CHICKEN SCANDAL!
Viviana was soon placed on administrative leave, tastefully of course. Triumphant, Reggie and Sneak Dueler sat in a local tavern, clinking mugs in quiet celebration. They waited eagerly for the whimsical dreams to flood back into society.
But whimsy, it turned out, was a harder sell than expected.
Reviews trickled in slowly: “Confusing.” “Disturbing lack of clear narrative.” “Banana peels, really?” “I laughed once, accidentally.”
“Ah,” said Sneak Dueler, reading the lukewarm reactions. “Seems most people prefer tasteful melancholy after all.”
Reggie shrugged, sipping his drink. “Or status-driven anxiety.”
They sat silently, watching as their dream slipped steadily downward on the Mesh’s popularity rankings.
“Oh well,” Reggie finally said, leaning back with a resigned smile. “It’s a start.”
Next Week’s Guest Talk
Engineer, analyst, and artist Cory Levinson will survey current climate protocols, where they evolved from, some of the most interesting experiments happening today, and paths forward. Tune in next Wednesday, July 9 at 10am US Pacific Time.
Head to our YouTube channel to watch his previous lecture, Who Writes the Rules of Climate Protocols? Save our event calendar to stay up to date.
Guest Talk Recording
In Wednesday’s guest talk
discussed his paper AI as Normal Technology. In marked distinction to the hyperbolic tone of the current AI 2027 discourse, Naryanan made a measured argument that the pace of AI adoption will, for the foreseeable future, remain constrained by rates of human adoption and integration with existing workflow protocols. Catch up on the session 👇.Discord Highlights
Snippets of the best conversations, resources, and lines of thought on the Summer of Protocols Discord server:
Ben Zucker led this week’s curriculum development call, sparking productive chatter about music, notation, symbols, and the role of rhythm in protocols.
Furthermore, this call precipitated two book recommendations by Nelson Goodman: Ways of Worldmaking and Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols.
The limits of ETTO models, specifically their need for context to function (efficiency is contextual).
How protocols are physically embodied: plugs, connectors, infrastructure standards, directionality of door swings, computer peripherals, gaming controllers.
A battery of random links, like bike playgrounds for kids, cybernetic tenant unions, books on cognitive science, and the double edge of stablecoins.
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