We collect your name, your hopes, your deepest fears, and occasionally your email address. The fears are stored in a locked chest somewhere in the court. The email we actually use to send things.
We also collect cookies — the digital kind, unfortunately. The chocolate chip ones remain solely your responsibility.
Your data is used exclusively to determine whether you are worthy of a referral code. A panel of three imaginary judges reviews each submission. Two of them are asleep at any given time. The third one is a cat.
We do not sell your data. We tried once. Nobody wanted it. Very humbling.
We share your information with no one, except the Jester himself, his two ravens, and the mysterious figure who maintains the server. We do not know who that person is. They have never spoken. We leave snacks by the rack.
Your data is kept for as long as the candle burns. We use a very large candle. It was lit in MMXXIV and shows no signs of stopping. Should it go out, all records are immediately forgotten — which is perhaps the most honest data policy ever written.
You have the right to be forgotten. You also have the right to remain silent. Anything you type may be used against you in the court of jesters. You have the right to laugh at all of this, which is, frankly, the encouraged response.
Your data is protected by a 256-bit encryption spell, two gargoyles, and a stern warning posted on the server door that reads "Do Not Enter — Jester at Work." So far, so good.
If you have questions, concerns, or simply wish to lodge a formal complaint with a fictional legal department, use the Write the Jester form. He reads everything. He responds to almost nothing. It is part of the charm.