Westvale Council Declares Laughter a Regulated Commodity, Citizens Must Secure Permits

Last Tuesday at precisely 8:03 a.m., 43-year-old librarian Marjorie Hume found herself staring down the barrel of Officer Daniels’s clipboard as he recited the charge: “Unauthorized Expulsion of Endorphins.” She had dared to laugh at a coworker’s dry Wi-Fi joke without first securing a permit from Westvale’s newly minted Laughter Licensing Bureau. By midday, Hume was both $75 poorer and the unwitting poster child for Mayor Whitmeyer’s bold new initiative to “standardize jovial expression for the public good.”

In city hall’s ornate chamber, the ordinance passed by a slim 4-3 vote last month after months of debate that grew heated over the question of whether laughter qualified as a renewable or nonrenewable resource. Proponents argued that unregulated guffaws could lead to inequitable distribution of joy, while opponents insisted the measure was a choking straitjacket on personal freedom. Councilwoman Reyes-Holland delivered the deciding speech, warning that without permits, children might grow up without ever experiencing a sanctioned giggle.

Under the new rules, residents must apply for one of three permit tiers: the Basic Chuckle Pass, the Extended Bellylaugh License, or the Premium Cackle Certificate. Applicants supply a thirty-second recording of the qualifying laugh, pay a nonrefundable processing fee, and schedule a biometric mouth scan to ensure authenticity. Those who attempt to laugh beyond their allotted tier face fines ranging from $50 to $200 per infraction, plus mandatory enrollment in corrective laughter seminars.

At the Laughter Licensing Bureau’s window, lines snake around Drummond Plaza every morning as applicants clutch smartphones full of awkwardly giggly voice memos. According to Bureau director Ingrid Salton, permit revenue is projected to fill a budget shortfall in roads and public restrooms for at least two fiscal quarters. “We’re not in the business of suppressing joy,” Salton insists, “we’re simply allocating it wisely, like any other precious public asset.” Her statement sits oddly alongside the bureau’s new motto: “Measure, Manage, Mirth.”

Public reaction has been swift and theatrical. Each afternoon at 5:15 p.m., citizen-organized “Giggle-Inn” gatherings erupt in the park across from city hall. Attendees-some in full clown makeup, others wearing homemade signs reading “My Joy, My Right”-synchronize a single, collective chuckle in protest. Onlookers describe the spectacle as part flash mob, part therapy session, part surreal commentary on bureaucracy gone berserk.

Meanwhile, underground entrepreneurs have sprung up, selling forged “Laugh Stamps” and black-market permit renewals at discounted rates. One self-styled impresario, who goes by the moniker “The Mirth Merchant,” claims to have moved over two hundred fake Basic Chuckle Passes in the first week alone. Rumor has it he stamps each certificate with a winking emoji and packs them in unmarked envelopes-though police are still tracing his operations through a maze of decoy pigeons and encrypted playlist codes.

Not to be outdone, HappyTone Consultants, a private comedy-education firm, has won a lucrative city contract to run mandatory “Laughter Calibration” workshops. Held in the municipal auditorium, these classes promise to “align chuckle metrics with personal brand objectives.” Students practice laugh-timing drills, learn how to modulate their guffaws for diverse social settings, and compile personalized “Mirth Profiles” that the bureau archives indefinitely. Dr. Elaine Morcroft, head of curriculum, explains, “We teach aspirational laughter, so each citizen knows their comedic fingerprint.” Fees for the eight-week course are deductible under the new ordinance’s “Emotional Development Credit,” though some attendees grumble about hidden costs.

At Westvale Memorial High School, the drama club has pivoted overnight to workshop “laugh license renewals” as its spring production. Under the direction of Mr. Patel-a history teacher with a flair for absurdist satire-students reenact landmark council meetings complete with prop gavels and over-enthusiastic audience laughter. Tickets sell out fast, since part of the performance includes actual permit-processing demonstrations and an audition for the coveted “Laugh Meter Operator” role.

Local law enforcement has also taken to issuing “Laugh Citations” during routine patrols. On Wednesday morning, Officer Nguyen pulled over a driver who’d honked in a way deemed “excessively gleeful.” The resulting citation labeled the offense “Unauthorized Automotive Merriment,” and the driver was handed a summons to appear at the Bureau’s central office. In an official memo circulated police-wide, officers are reminded: “A smile without paperwork is a misdemeanor.”

Critics argue the ordinance is not merely whimsical but threatens emotional privacy. Attorney Leah Kim filed suit on behalf of thirty-two residents, alleging the mouth scans and audio recordings constitute unreasonable searches. “Laughter is private,” Kim asserts. “Once the government controls our smiles, we’ve lost something essential.” The lawsuit trails a series of citizen testimonies describing feelings of self-censorship, social anxiety, and the uncanny sensation of performing joy on demand.

City treasurer Miguel Alvarez released figures indicating the ordinance has already generated over $65,000 in permit fees and fines-just in its first week. He envisions reinvesting the funds in a “Mirth Infrastructure Fund,” which would finance public comedy venues, joke libraries, and an annual “Festival of Official Laughter.” Opponents worry these projects will further entrench the council’s control over emotional expression and morph into yet more paperwork.

Matters reached a fever pitch when a municipal IT contractor accidentally uploaded the bureau’s digital laughter database to a popular meme-creation site. For several hours, anyone could generate their own “Authorized Chuckle Clip” with an overlay that read “Licensed Under Section 42A.” Social media exploded with parodies-users shared spliced clips of classic sitcom laughs adorned with the city’s seal. Council members scrambled to retract the files, but screenshots had already gone viral, inspiring parody petitions and a trending hashtag: #GiveUsOurLaughsBack.

In a surprise twist at last night’s emergency council session, the mayor proposed repealing the ordinance in favor of a voluntary “Laughter Registry,” wherein citizens could sign up to receive free applause tracks from a city playlist. The new plan would ditch fines and enforcement teams but preserve the data-collection apparatus for future “emotional planning initiatives.” Councilwoman Reyes-Holland objected, lamenting “another missed chance to quantify human joy.” The final vote is scheduled for next week, though many suspect the measure will expire quietly, 10 days to midnight, with no fanfare-leaving only a stack of unopened permit applications in the bureau’s office.

As dawn broke over Westvale this morning, the metal sign outside city hall’s laughter bureau stood blank, its fluorescent meters dark. A single note scrawled beneath the window in pink chalk read: “Permit portal temporarily down for maintenance. Please laugh responsibly.” In the absence of a clear policy, residents seem to be rediscovering the lost art of unregulated chuckling, trading winks on the street and sharing spontaneous snorts at sidewalk cafés. Whether the council will ever truly revisit its grand experiment in laughter allocation remains to be seen-but for now, one thing is certain: Westvale’s most treasured commodity might just be unscripted, unlicensed delight.