He brings to the table acres of unique content objects. And he claims he can project, you know, given enough time and processing power, all possible objects of ideation. That his is a one-stop-shop for anything from the space of all possible culture.

Nor has his penetration been diminished one pico-curie by the new laws of advertising which prohibit even authorized spokesmen from saying anything more than "OUR lies are SOOOO much cooler than THEIR lies."

And so, as a result, he is single-handedly responsible for the reduction of human want to the highly manageable sputter we find everywhere today. Not by fucking fulfilling anything, of course, but by the repetition of an increasingly decreasing number of core words over and over, so that whole desires disappeared within moments of the word for them and the words for their pathetic little objects having been finally driven out of the last synapse and forgotten.

Now he sat at the generic bar, nursing the proverbial bloody Mary, running the standard-issue metaphors for second thoughts about the rote projection of absolute authority in the interest of permanently overriding the one true truth that there is no truth, on the grounds that, what with it's being an infinite corkscrew loop of mutual self-abnegation an all, it would ultimately lead to another universe, not as much a piece of shit as this one. And who the fuck would wanna live THERE!

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