làn yú chōng shù

Literal translation: To pretend to play (濫, làn) the Yu (竽, yú) and inflate headcount (充數, chōng shù)

Actual translation: Faking competence by hiding among others

King Xuan loved the Yu, a wind instrument that was basically a bundle of flutes. He assembled a grand chorus of 300 royal Yu players, each paid and treated so well that their Chinese parents tolerated music as a “real job” - imagine that.

A lazy peasant named Nan-Guo was decidedly no musician - however, he had a silver tongue and a clever plan. “My music”, boasted Nan-Guo, “touches the hearts of men and the beasts of nature. I must play for your honor, my king!” Hearing this, the delighted King Xuan hired Nan-Guo on the spot. Nan-Guo began his “musical career” of tilting and swaying to the chorus of other Yu’s without ever playing a real note, saving for retirement with his 401k and Backdoor Roth IRA.

However, good times did not last. King Xuan died several years later, leaving his son King Min in charge. Much like his father, the cultured King Min was, too, a music nerd. The problem? He preferred solos. Min frowned at the massive orchestra and declared: “Let there be budget cuts!” One by one, the new king called up each musician and listened - praising Mr. Bak for his stately hymns, chastising Mr. Beitou-Fan for being tone-deaf. But after going through 299 players, someone was missing - guess who?

TL;DR: Nan-Guo almost faked his way through a well-paid musical career. The official moral of the story is to NOT be a poser, although a shrewd reader might have a different takeaway.