Since 2022, France has gone through no fewer than five Prime Ministers. Not out of a love of diversity, but through strict application of the principle of planned obsolescence. In this country, a head of government lasts less time than a cup of yogurt, but slightly longer than a pension reform.
Élisabeth Borne endured the marathon of forced parliamentary votes, Gabriel Attal ran the sprint against inflation, Michel Barnier competed in the championship of negotiating with himself, François Bayrou failed the patience contest in the very first minute, and Sébastien Lecornu was sent to a commando training course to learn how to survive Parliament without armor or riot shields.
This political merry-go-round is no accident: it follows an equation demonstrated by the theorem of hexagonal instability:
(St + Re² + Inf³) ÷ (Pop – EO) = Length of mandate (in days)
where St stands for the number of strikes, Re² for the square of aborted reforms, Inf³ for inflation cubed, and Pop for government popularity, which is usually negative. EO refers to emergency executive orders, deployed whenever persuasion fails.
Selection nonetheless obeys rules of unquestionable scientific rigor. The theorem of the isosceles minister stipulates that any candidate must have courage proportional to patriotism, or else risk becoming trapezoidal, which is ruinous for the official portrait. The formula of differential electoral balance is as follows:
(E² + C³ + P !) ÷ (L + Pop²) = Eloq∞ – t
where E = energy, C = courage, P ! = factorial patriotism, L = approximate loyalty, Pop² = popularity squared, and t = maximum time before dismissal (somewhere between three weeks and one school term).
The official recruitment notice would therefore read:
“Wanted: Prime Minister. Three-month contract, renewable only if Parliament falls asleep during a confidence vote. Written exam: essay on ‘How to reform the national railways without triggering a strike?’ (no candidate has ever passed). Practical exam: persuade a basket of crabs to march in a straight line. Physical test: slalom between labor unions while waving a tax reform without being set on fire in the city square. Oral exam: explain to citizens why 4% inflation is actually excellent news, especially for those without salaries.”
If the candidate fails, they will be immediately recycled as a strategic communications consultant, paid handsomely to explain, with colorful PowerPoints and unnecessary Anglicisms, why their resounding failure is actually a brilliant success. According to the paradox of the triumphant loser, the more a project collapses, the more the consultant insists that “solid foundations for a radiant future” have been laid. The logic is flawless: if you fall into a hole, it is irrefutable proof that you are already on your way to a gold mine.
But if, against all odds, several candidates manage to survive the trials, the final choice will revert to the foolproof method known as the hallway typist test. The protocol, approved by the Supreme Council of the Absurd, is as follows: line up the contenders and ask the secretary: “Which one has the nicer tie?” The answer, immediate and definitive, determines the nation’s future. Some grumble that this is no better than a coin toss. False! A coin toss is random, but a tie is aesthetic. And in politics, as everyone knows, it is better to have an elegant minister than a competent one, since at least the official photo looks good.
Meanwhile, statisticians at the CNSR (National Center for Satirical Research) have recently demonstrated, with equations of unquestionable rigor, that the probability of appointing a competent minister is strictly below zero.
The formula, known as the law of negative competence, is written as:
P(Cm) = (Re – St²) ÷ (EO + Inf³)
where P(Cm) represents the probability of a competent minister, Re the number of reforms announced but never enacted, St² the square of simultaneous strikes, and Inf³ inflation cubed.
The result comes out below zero, which proves scientifically not only that a competent minister cannot exist, but that their hypothetical existence would retroactively cancel that of all their predecessors since the Fourth Republic.
This conclusion, deemed “groundbreaking” by some, was welcomed with enthusiasm by the electorate, since according to a poll conducted on a representative sample of six retirees and two dogs, 82% of citizens said they would rather see an incompetent but funny minister than a serious but desperately boring one.
As a great French thinker once put it (his name escapes me, but I’m sure he had a mustache):
“In politics, it is always better to fail with flair than to succeed discreetly.”