So Many Channels,
So Tiny, Media Brain
Helsinki, Finland - (March 20) - Over a hundred million foreign drifters filled the streets of Helsinki, Finland, early this morning, to attend the opening of the Crystal Meth Hall of Fame.
Chewing on cheap beaver spinal column and sipping blood-alcohol 1.1 through a straw from a jar, the drifters quickly grew disillusioned, because there wasn't even any, like, free heroin, while they were waiting.
"We are sick of eventlessness," said a member of the crowd, who was wearing the "Mars on Smack" Medal of Honor.
"See this medal?" he said, holding up the medal. "I didn't receive this for NOT trying to offer a superior value proposition to each of our targeted customer groups. -- If ya know what I mean."
The crowd grew noticeably angry when they learned they wouldn't be allowed into the Crystal Meth Hall of Fame because some world leaders and their entourages had booked the place for a world summit meeting or something, and needed all the crystal meth for themselves, for the next few days.
The crowd quickly turned into the kind of knot of pure resentment where, either conscience has to masquerade as a psychopath, or vice versa.
Inside the Hall, a week's supply of crystal meth was already almost all used up in the space of a few hours.
One side was bitching about how they were tired of making limp actuarial responses to cascading demographic nightmares.
The other side was insisting that, "Shit, if we could just start a magazine for cyclops athletes called 'One-Eyed Jocks,' then maybe we could reverse the accelerating trend towards raw caretaker capitalism."
Secretary Pkorno held up this month's copy of "The Nude Republic," which contained mostly a diary which was made up of mostly entries like "dear diary, today I wrote in my diary."
Secretary Mahoney held up a copy of this month's "American Expectorator," which was mostly about trying to reconcile the brand-building ability of broadcast ads, with the niche-market, customer transaction appeal of fascist, push-media, buy-or-else retail.
Of course, everyone in the room had the attitude that the work of paid hacks was a much more valid representation of the struggle of the human soul, than were the attempts by honest, driven, unpaid, fucked-up people to accurately represent the struggles of their own fucking human soul.
Yet, at regular intervals, someone would stand up and suggest that maybe this attitude was what consistently led them to bogus narratives of anger and dispute and humiliation and redemption and devastation -- narratives that couldn't be expanded into anything more, say, than just a catalog of hi-emotion incidents involving success and failure and face and sex.
Eventually the staff was found dead from too much passing out from too much trying too hard to come up with the best data structures for low-level language-generation algorithms.
As they were all leaving, at the end of the conference or whatever, and the crowd had all long since dispersed or killed themselves with hopelessness, the President of Russia said to the President of the United States, in phonetically perfect English, "Remember when there weren't enough drugs and the only way to appreciate the range of human drama was to check into the Mickey Mouse Clinic and get some neuro-surgery from either Goofy or Roadrunner?"
The US President thought for a moment and responded that, in fact, he did remember those times.
"Come for the cold reality," he said. "Stay for the rank hallucination."
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Copyright (c) 1997 by C3F