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Anti-Hedonic Inflation
The market, a writhing flesh-mass, pulsates with a cancerous growth. Price tags morph into malignant tumors, ballooning on cans of joyless beans and flickering simulacra of entertainment. The grey dollar bleeds. Shrinks in your pocket, a junkie fiend on a score. Price tags balloon, neon tumors on the storefront whores. You reach in, pull out…
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South Park Episode #
INT. SOUTH PARK ELEMENTARY – CAFETERIA – DAY Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny are picking at their mystery meat lunch. A news report blares from the mounted TV. ANCHORMAN (V.O.) In breaking news, a group of elderly Floridians have declared war on Facebook! STAN Huh? KYLE Floridians? Declaring war? This sounds stupid, even for Florida. The camera cuts…
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Pulling the plug
The Zoog faction, wired on a hyper-flux of information, their minds flickering with memes and TikTok ephemera, regard the FaceBook with a cold, reptilian disdain. It is a monolithic grey slab, a mausoleum of outdated statuses and vacation photos, where their parents – the Boomers, once flower-power radicals – now shuffle through a senescent digital…
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SXSW and the Military-Industrial Roach Motel
They bug you with sponsorships, man. Like a roach motel for your soul. Take Raytheon bread, they say, it’ll get you in the door. But the door just clicks shut behind you. You’re trapped, see? Stuck shilling for the very machine you thought you were subverting. They hooked me, man. Raytheon, with their cold chrome…
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Financial Nihilism
The American Dream, that technicolor hallucination flickering on the screen of your youth, melts into static. it’s a roach motel. Checkin’ in easy, checkin’ out? Forget about it. The Boomers, fattened on Reagan’s trickle-down that never trickled, hoard their loot in gilded cages on the hill. This, chums, is Financial Nihilism, a virus lodged deep…
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Morning Execution
Scene: The Absurd Choice Setting: A bare, concrete room. Three metal chairs are the only furniture. A single, harsh bulb hangs from the ceiling. LUCIEN, a wiry man with haunted eyes, sits hunched. INES, a woman with a defiant chin, paces the room like a caged animal. ANTOINE, portly and sweating, mops his brow. A…
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1984
Forget dials and telescreens for a sec, man. Orwell wasn’t just serving up Big Brother’s boot on your face, he was carving reality with a rusty switchblade. This perpetual war, it’s like a roach motel for the Oceania proles. Stuck in a feedback loop of fear and propaganda, pumped full of manufactured enemies – Eurasia…
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Tragic Flaws and Best Qualities
This, my friend, is the truth. We are all walking contradictions, teetering on a knife-edge between brilliance and oblivion. The key is to remember, the ride is the point, not the destination. So, crank the dials, push the limits, but keep an eye on the flickering red lights on the control panel. This meat machine…
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Selling Shovels to Miners is Always a Winning Strategy
Scratchy black vinyl rasps a forgotten blues dirge as you stare into the roach-mottled motel mirror. Another gig economy hustle, another city bled dry. This time it’s pickaxes, not poems. Steel gleams under the flickering neon, each one a promise, a chimera – fortunes forged in the sweat of strangers or another dead end. The…
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