Weaponized Incompetence - Blog Posts

The weapon isn’t sharp,

but it wounds all the same—

innocence worn

like a well-practiced game.

A smile, a shrug,

a task left undone,

they play the fool

but they've already won.

Each failure rehearsed,

each “oops” on display,

leaving the other

to clean up, to stay.

They dodge the load

with a clumsy excuse,

while someone else tightens

what they set loose.

It’s not lack of skill,

nor honest mistake—

it’s a quiet control

they refuse to forsake.

The cost isn't loud,

but it's heavy with strain,

a silent exchange

of effort and pain.

So call it what is—

not careless or dense,

but a choice to avoid

by feigned incompetence.

And the one who bears it

feels furious within,

caught in a loop

they didn’t begin.

“Can’t You Just…”

A shrug, a grin, “You’re better, see?”

Dropped the ball—again—carefree.

Burnt the toast, forgot the chore,

Left the mess and asked for more.

A tangled web of small mistakes,

Too many spills, too few breaks.

The other watches, calm in face,

But furious deep beneath the grace.

“It’s not on purpose,” they insist,

While every task is somehow missed.

Funny how the job goes fine

When no one's watching, drawing the line.

A clumsy act, rehearsed, refined—

A quiet scheme that’s undermined.

It isn’t skill they lack or lose,

It’s choice—they’ve learned to not to choose.

So one picks up what’s left behind,

The weight, the work, the ties that bind.

It’s not that they can’t carry their share—

It’s knowing someone else will care.