I bought some batteries, but they weren't included.

“I bought some batteries, but they weren’t included.” — in this perfectly absurd line, Steven Wright, master of dry humor and quiet genius, captures the human condition itself. At first, it provokes laughter — the joke seems simple, nonsensical, a play on the familiar phrase “batteries not included.” But beneath the wit lies a reflection as ancient as philosophy: that the world often promises completion but delivers incompleteness, that life itself is filled with irony, and that expectation and reality seldom meet in harmony.

Wright’s humor is rooted in paradox — the gentle collision between logic and life’s chaos. The man buys batteries, the very thing meant to bring energy and function to his world, yet they “weren’t included.” This is not merely an observation about consumer absurdity; it is a metaphor for existence. We are born with minds capable of greatness, yet without instruction manuals; we pursue happiness, yet find it elusive; we seek meaning, yet the universe remains silent. The batteries — symbols of power, purpose, and motion — must be found, not given.

The ancients would have smiled at Wright’s irony. The Stoics, for instance, taught that the universe provides all things but understanding. Epictetus said, “We are not disturbed by things, but by our view of them.” Life offers the object — the shell — but the energy to use it comes from within. Just as Wright’s imaginary batteries lack their essence, so too does every life until one fills it with purpose. His humor, though modern in form, carries the ancient lesson that fulfillment is not packaged with existence — it must be created through awareness, patience, and choice.

Consider the story of Sisyphus, condemned by the gods to roll a stone endlessly up a hill, only for it to fall again. His punishment, like Wright’s joke, mirrors the absurdity of human striving. But as the philosopher Albert Camus wrote centuries later, “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” For even in futility, man can supply the missing batteries — courage, will, and meaning — from within. Wright’s humor, in its subtle way, calls us to that same awakening: that though the world may sell us the shell of joy, the energy of living comes only from the power we generate ourselves.

Wright’s quote also reflects the disillusionment of the modern age — the hollow promises of consumerism, convenience, and endless “upgrades.” The packaging of modern life says, “Everything included,” yet something essential — depth, authenticity, connection — is always missing. We are surrounded by devices, yet feel disconnected; we have abundance, yet lack contentment. Wright’s line, delivered in his monotone voice, becomes a quiet cry of truth: technology and progress can offer tools, but never the soul to use them well.

And yet, the humor redeems the tragedy. By laughing, Wright teaches us not to despair at the absurd, but to embrace it with grace. The batteries weren’t included — so what? Find your own, or create new ones. His jest becomes a call to resilience: that when the world fails to provide the energy we seek, we must become the source. In laughter, there is strength; in irony, there is understanding; in simplicity, there is deep truth.

The lesson is clear and timeless: do not wait for life to come fully charged. Do not curse the missing pieces or blame the packaging of fate. Instead, awaken the energy within you. The batteries of purpose, joy, and meaning are never included — they are earned, discovered, kindled.

So remember, O listener of tomorrow — when you find that something essential is missing, do not despair. Smile as Steven Wright did at the irony of it all. For the world may hand you the frame, but you must supply the power. Life’s greatest joke, after all, is that the energy you seek has always been yours to give.