In a stunning twist of fate that could only be orchestrated by a cosmic jester, Illinois manufacturers have recently raised an impassioned plea to the state, demanding nothing less than a miracle. In an exclusive interview, Gerald “Jerry” Handyman, owner of Handyman Widgets & Co., unveiled a heart-wrenching story of assembly lines now laden with emptiness, and a workforce dwindling faster than a politician's promise. “I used to manufacture happiness,” Jerry lamented, staring longingly at the dusty production floor where gleaming widgets once rolled off the conveyor belt with the precision of a Swiss watch. “Now, all we've got are a few robots and a lot of sad memories.” He could still hear the haunting echoes of laughter, camaraderie, and the occasional argument over who left the lunchroom microwave dirty. With his production levels plummeting, Jerry launched a grassroots campaign titled “Manufacture Our Souls,” hoping to rally support across the state, where factories 'disappear like my high school crush during prom season.' The goal is to resurrect the job market, instill passion back into production, and most importantly, refill the vacant seats of his soul-sucking assembly line. “We are officially out of widgets, but worse, we are out of hope!” he exclaimed, clutching his emotional stress ball. “Even the raw materials are starting to judge me. They’re sitting here saying, ‘What’s the point in showing up when you’re clearly going nowhere?’” Jerry’s innovative approach included hosting weekly “Widget Revival” gatherings to reminisce—often awkward dinner parties featuring menu items like “Lost Opportunities & Regrets” and “Unfulfilled Potential Salad.” These gatherings are designed to evoke nostalgia and inspire attendees to chant motivational slogans like “You can’t spell ‘widget’ without ‘git’!” But attendance has dwindled, with many former employees opting for career paths in less soul-crushing fields, like professional dog walking or urban worm farming. When asked what specific miracle he was hoping to receive, Jerry responded, “Something less than divine intervention but better than a tax break. Maybe a new government program that incentivizes emotional support animals for disgruntled laborers? Or, possibly, a miraculous economic overhaul where people suddenly love making widgets again!” In an effort to gain traction, Handyman Widgets & Co. plans to launch a viral social media campaign titled “#WhereIsMyWidget,” featuring heartbreaking testimonials from unemployed factory workers clutching their old company IDs as they weep softly into the camera. Local lawmakers, meanwhile, have seemingly turned a blind eye to Jerry’s desolation, remaining preoccupied with the pressing issue of ensuring that their next campaign fundraiser has an adequate selection of craft beers. However, one concerned senator did express sympathy, suggesting that they could consider offering “a few well-timed tax incentives,” which seemed to translate roughly to “good luck with that.” As the plea echoes through the cornfields of Illinois, despair hangs heavy like the humid summer heat. Jerry remains hopeful, or at the very least, hopeful that someone somewhere may find a way to bring jobs back—or at least provide a miracle of good WiFi at the old factory so he can stream inspirational TED Talks while he wonders where it all went wrong. In the meantime, he invites the public to visit the abandoned building with the newly installed sign out front reading “Closed for Miracle Maintenance.” No one is quite sure when this miracle for the working class will arrive. Until then, Jerry will keep seeking a revival amidst empty hearts and empty assembly lines in a state desiring change more fervently than a cat wishes for a warm lap to curl up in.