A raw, unfiltered cry from a man who hasn’t felt safe in a long time.
Let’s talk about trust. Not the kind you need in relationships, or friendships, or when you Venmo someone $50 and pray they’re good for it. No, no. I’m talking about the trust between a magician and their audience.
And guess what? That trust has been systematically destroyed by... SLEEVES.
Yes. My arms' cozy fabric prisons. The long textile tunnels of accusation. The endless portals where spectators believe I store:
farm animals
industrial-grade confetti cannons
four rabbits, three assistants, and the concept of disappointment
The Greatest Lie Ever Told: “It’s Up His Sleeve”
Let me paint a picture: You perform a miracle. An absolute reality-shattering, logic-melting piece of theatrical sorcery. The crowd is stunned into silence. A single tear falls from the eye of a grown man who once punched drywall for fun.
And then Karen in row three, destroyer of dreams and killer of joy, whispers,
“It’s up his sleeve.”
Oh REALLY, Karen?
Yes, because my sleeve is clearly a Narnia portal capable of housing:
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52 jumbo playing cards
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A pigeon named Eduardo
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A bowling ball
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My deepest regrets
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And the entire cast of Cirque du Soleil
The Phantom Sleeve Theory
Do you know how many tricks I perform in a t-shirt?
All of them.
Do you know how many people still say “It was up his sleeve”?
All of them.
I could be shirtless, covered in glitter, screaming “LOOK AT MY EXPOSED SKIN THERE IS NOTHING TO HIDE” like a sparkly feral woodland creature, and someone would STILL whisper:
“Well yeah, but he probably used, like… invisible sleeves.”
INVISIBLE. SLEEVES.
Yes, Janet. I keep a pair of spectral ghost-sleeves I summon with incantations learned from a sentient top hat during my training in the Himalayas.
Audience Logic (If You Can Call It That)
Magician makes a coin vanish.
Audience: “SLEEVE!”
Magician is wearing NO sleeves.
Audience: “OTHER SLEEVE!”
Magician is wearing a tank top.
Audience: “HE HAS SECRET SKIN POCKETS.”
Magician performs underwater, in a wetsuit.
Audience: “THE WATER IS A SLEEVE.”
Magician burns sleeves in a ritualistic ceremony before performance.
Audience: “HE HID SLEEVES UP HIS BURNED SLEEVES.”
Sleeveless But Still Suspect
I once did a trick in a sleeveless vest to PROVE a point.
They called me “The Deceptive Bicep Wizard.”
They said I had flesh sleeves.
Someone yelled “CHECK HIS ARMPITS FOR DOVES.”
I am now emotionally unavailable and slightly afraid of tank tops.
Things Audiences Believe Live In My Sleeve (Based on Real Accusations)
Alleged Sleeve ResidentEmotional Damage LevelRabbitMildPigeonManageableSwordDifficultLive babyDeeply concerningEmotional baggageFairEntire second magicianI blacked out hereMy father’s approvalOkay THAT was hurtful
Sleeves in Real Life: Traitors
Fun fact: My actual sleeves don’t even help me. They sabotage me. Too loose? They snag a card. Too tight? They expose everything. I raise my arm? Suddenly I’m flashing secret gimmicks like a clumsy illusionary nudist.
At this point, sleeves are not my friends. They are my abusive relationship I can’t escape because tuxedos look so damn magical.
In Conclusion
If you take one thing away from this unhinged emotional outpouring, let it be this:
Magicians do not have trust issues because of their tricks.
They have trust issues because Cheryl thinks I keep six goldfish inside a polyester sleeve from Party City.
So the next time you see a magician perform something unbelievable, miraculous, or spiritually healing…
Don’t say “It was up his sleeve.”
Say:
"Wow, that man is clearly a demi-god powered by chaos and caffeine.”
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