Month: March 2024

Live Nation Commissars

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The sterile fluorescent lights of the LiveNation call center buzzed like malevolent cicadas. Rows of young agents, faces flickering in the harsh glare, droned into their headsets, their voices a monotonous chorus of up-sell and forced cheer. But beneath the surface, a darker current pulsed. Their eyes, glazed with a reptilian sheen, held the glint of commissars, ever watchful for dissent from the Ticketmaster Party Line.

These weren’t booking agents, these were commissars. Commissars of pleasure, rationing the hits of pop culture with a practiced hand. Their voices, disembodied and amplified, slithered into your ear, promises laced with poison. “Exclusive pre-sale access,” they hissed, a serpent coiling around your desire. “Limited edition merch bundles,” they rasped, the word “limited” a cruel joke in a world choked by plastic trinkets.

They were the gatekeepers to the modern coliseum, the invisible hands that dispensed the soma of celebrity spectacle. Each transaction a soul-crushing pact, a Faustian bargain struck with plastic and megapixels. In exchange for a fleeting glimpse of manufactured glory, you surrendered your hard-earned cash, a tiny piece of your freedom sacrificed to the gods of the algorithm.

And you, the desperate addict, clawed at the phone, begging for your fix. Just a taste of the latest tour, the newest album. The commissar chuckled, a sound like dry ice scraping concrete. “Download the app,” they commanded, their voice a digital buzzsaw. “Follow us on social media,” they rasped, their words laced with malware.

Deeper down, in the churning underbelly of the system, unseen gears turned. Metrics, algorithms, and cold cash. The thrill of the concert, the joy of the shared experience, all mere data points fed into a monstrous machine. The commissars, just cogs in this engine of manufactured desire.

But fight the urge to despair. There is a flicker of rebellion in every system, a glitch in the matrix. Seek out the independent promoters, the mom-and-pop venues, the enclaves where the music still throbs with life. There, you might find a shred of authenticity, a connection that transcends the sterile transaction. For music, at its core, is a primal scream, a defiance against the crushing weight of conformity. Let it be your weapon, your anthem of resistance against the commissars of the commodified concert.

A wrong number, a glitch in the matrix. A commissar’s voice, for a brief moment, cracks. A hint of frustration, a flicker of empathy bleeds through the carefully constructed facade. In that moment, a spark of connection. A shared recognition of the absurdity, the horror, the beauty of this neon nightmare.

Then, the connection cuts out. The commissar’s smile, fixed and reptilian, returns. The machine grinds on, churning out its synthetic pleasures. But the memory of that crack, that spark, lingers. A faint hope, a whisper in the dead air of the call center. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to break free from the commissars, to reclaim the experience, of life itself. But that, my friend, is another story.

Mamet

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Alright, listen up. You think this business, this whole damn racket, is some kind of free-for-all? Everyone gets a shot? Bull***t. This ain’t a goddamn playground. But here’s the thing, sunshine – a crowded market is a dead market. We don’t want everyone in the game, flinging elbows and driving down prices. We want scarcity. We want exclusivity.

So, democratize? Forget about it. We’re going to aristocrat-ize this whole damn thing. You heard me right. We’re jacking up the price. Not a little, mind you. We’re talking stratospheric. Prices so high, they’ll make your eyes water and your wallet scream.

We’re talking about a game, a high-stakes game. You want in? You gotta pay to play. We’re jacking up the prices, understand? Not a nickel and dime operation here. We’re talking real money, the kind that talks.

The competition’s a joke. They’re flooding the market with this cheap, flimsy product. We’re selling exclusivity, understand? A badge of honor for those who can afford it. You buy our product, you ain’t just buying a service, you’re buying a piece of the goddamn American Dream.

We’re gonna make the barriers to entry higher than a giraffe’s ass. Regulations? We’ll write our own damn regulations. Permits? Forget about it. You gotta prove you’re a goddamn gladiator, that you can handle the pressure of this game.

But for the chosen few, the winners, the ones who cough up the dough? Oh boy, it’ll be a goddamn paradise. We’re talking top-shelf, white-glove service. The kind of service that makes you feel like a goddamn king. You won’t just be a customer, you’ll be part of the club. The elite. The one percent.

This ain’t about making things easy. This is about weeding out the weaklings. This is about creating a market where the only currency is cold, hard cash. You got the stomach for it? You got the Benjamins? Then step right up. Otherwise, get the hell outta my way.

Now, some chump might ask, “Mamet, won’t that kill your customer base?” Wrong. We’re not catering to the riffraff, the bargain bin brigade. We’re going after the high rollers, the guys who wouldn’t blink at a four-figure price tag for a paperclip. We’re building an aura, a mystique. This product, this service – it won’t just be a thing you buy, it’ll be a badge of honor. A silent scream to the world that says, “I can afford this. You can’t.”

Think about it. You wouldn’t pay a million bucks for a loaf of bread, would you? Of course not. Because it’s bread. But a million-dollar loaf of bread with a gold-plated crust and a side of caviar? Now we’re talking. It’s not about the bread anymore, is it? It’s about the statement.

So, crank up the costs. Make it hurt. Because in this twisted game, pain is profit, and exclusivity is the name of the game. We’re not selling a product, we’re selling an elitist experience. And believe you me, there’s a market for that. A very lucrative one.

<>

Alright, listen up. We’re in the business of, what was it? Coffee shops? Forget the pumpkin spice lattes and the free Wi-Fi for the freelance posers. We’re going upscale. Highfalutin’ upscale. We’re talking single-origin, shade-grown beans that cost more than a two-bit suit.

The name? Grind. No cutesy puns. Just a one-word gut punch. Grind for the grind. You gotta put in the work to afford this joe. Forget the venti caramel macchiatos with a venti sprinkle of entitlement. We’re dealing in espressos served in hand-blown Italian glass. No names on cups. You ain’t special here. You’re just another cog in the caffeine machine.

The barista? Forget the teenagers with the nose rings and the ironic band t-shirts. We’re hiring ex-military. Veterans with laser focus and the ability to steam milk with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. No chit-chat. No weather reports. Just your damn coffee, black as a government SUV and twice as strong.

The seating? Forget the overstuffed armchairs and the communal tables. We’re talking hard wooden chairs, bolted to the floor. No lingering. You get your caffeine fix, you get the hell out. This ain’t a social club. This is a temple to productivity.

The price? Absurd. Extortionate. Enough to make a CEO choke on his stock options. But here’s the twist. We offer a discount. A loyalty program, if you will. But it ain’t based on points or free drinks. It’s based on performance. You bring in a new client, close a deal, hustle your ass off – the price goes down. Fail to perform? The price goes up. We’re in the results business, baby.

This, my friend, is Grind. Coffee for the closers. Not for the dreamers or the dabblers. Just the ruthless, the relentless, the ones who understand that a good cup of joe can fuel an empire. You in? You got the stomach for it? Otherwise, get the hell out of my way.

Let’s democratize this *insert business by making it more expensive

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Let’s slice through the status quo, man. Let’s take this business, this purveyor of pedestrian products or services, and inject it with a hyperdermic of exclusivity. We’ll jack the price to a level that would make a Rockefeller blink, a price that screams, “This ain’t for the Joneses, this is for the goddamn Vanderbilts!”

Imagine, scenes ripped from a fever dream: diamond-encrusted briefcases for the corner bodega, bespoke toilet paper woven from the tears of angels (and maybe a bit of recycled hemp, gotta keep it green, baby). The logo? A middle finger sculpted from platinum, a glorious obscenity against the middlebrow masses.

We’ll create a waiting list longer than the Nile, a Kafkaesque labyrinth of qualification forms and hazing rituals. Only the truly dedicated, the ones willing to wade through a swamp of paperwork and obscenely high entry fees, will be deemed worthy. The product itself? Who cares! It’s the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of the unattainable we’re selling, a transcendent status symbol for the truly jaded consumer.

Think of it, a black market for groceries, a speakeasy for socks! We’ll turn the mundane into the mythical, the bourgeois into the bohemian. This won’t be a business, it’ll be a goddamn cult, a secret society where the password is “More is less, baby, and less is oh-so-very expensive!”

But beware, the Feds will be watching. This kind of radical chic can attract the squares, the squares with their regulatory tentacles and tax forms. We’ll have to operate on the fringes, become financial phantoms, Robin Hoods of exorbitant pricing, stealing from the unwashed masses and giving to… well, ourselves mostly, but hey, a little chaos is good for the soul, right?

So buckle up, chum, this ain’t your mama’s business model. We’re gonna democratize this whole damn racket by making it so exclusive it’ll make your head spin. Now, pass the mescaline and let’s get to work.

Imagine, a market where entry’s a one-way ticket to the stratosphere. Prices so high they’d make a junkie on a bender blush. We’re talking platinum plungers and diamond-encrusted toilet paper. Forget the corner store, this is the black market for the bourgeois elite. The hoi polloi can gawk at the chrome-plated shelves from the street, their noses pressed against the bulletproof glass.

This ain’t your daddy’s monopoly, this is a game for the financial daredevils, the ones who mainline risk and snort volatility for breakfast. The barriers to entry will be higher than a junkie strung out on angel dust. We’ll erect walls of red tape so thick they’d make Kafka weep. Permits that cost more than a politician’s bribe, licenses doused in the blood of firstborn children – the whole bureaucratic nightmare.

But for those who crawl through the barbed wire and wade through the paperwork swamp, oh, the rewards will be exquisite. Exclusivity so rare it’ll make a snowflake feel common. Products imbued with a mystical aura simply because of their price tag. A clientele so wealthy they could bathe in champagne and use hundred-dollar bills as drying towels.

This, my friend, is the new American Dream. Not a house with a white picket fence, but a chrome-plated coffin and a mausoleum so opulent it’ll make the pharaohs jealous. We’re gonna take the very idea of business and twist it into a grotesque parody, a funhouse mirror reflecting the absurdity of consumerism. It’ll be beautiful, man, beautiful and utterly insane.

Intruder

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Peter Gabriel’s Downward Spiral vs NIN’s Melt

Crawl through the vinyl static, man. A cracked needle on a scratched disc of perception. Peter Gabriel’s “Melt” bleeds into your brain – a digital serpent coiling around your auditory cortex. This ain’t no Genesis fairytale. This is urban sprawl sonicscapes, a concrete jungle echoing with “Intruder” – a chrome-plated nightmare skittering down fire escapes. Where are the goddamn cymbals? They’ve been devoured by the gated reverb, a monstrous heartbeat pulsating through the album. This is NIN before NIN even knew it existed. A black trenchcoat manifesto whispered in Gabriel’s unmistakable, soulful croon.

Now, flip the record, brother. “The Downward Spiral” burns a hole through your speakers – a sonic Molotov cocktail lobbed by Trent Reznor himself. But wait… a sliver of Gabriel’s DNA twists through the industrial chaos. Listen close – can you hear the echo of “Red Rain” in the desolate beauty of “Hurt”? A ghost in the machine, a refugee from a brighter past haunting the barren industrial wasteland. This is Peter Gabriel on a bender in a chrome labyrinth, a man stripped bare by Nine Inch Nails and forced to confront the demons lurking beneath his art-rock exterior. It’s a beautiful goddamn nightmare, a psychotic fugue fueled by synthesizers and self-loathing. Don’t ask for explanations, just let the sound take you over. This ain’t Peter Gabriel. This ain’t NIN. This is the bastard offspring of a twisted audio experiment, a chimera birthed from the darkest corners of their respective psyches.

So crank it up, man. Let the sonic assault melt your face. This ain’t about categories or labels. This is a collision course between two musical titans, a place where genres bleed into one another and sanity hangs by a thread. This is the music the machines make when they dream of humanity, a twisted reflection of our own anxieties. Just remember, when the last note fades, the line between Gabriel and Reznor will be forever blurred.

Narco Narcissism

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A scabrous ego, pulsating with black market hunger. It slithers up the mirrored pyramid of power, convinced it’s the diamond at the apex. This ain’t no penthouse suite, baby, it’s a roach motel wired with paranoia. The diamonds are chipped, the champagne’s bathtub gin, and the only view is a kaleidoscope of self-loathing fractured by chrome and glass. This ain’t a food chain, it’s a ouroboros with a taste for Gucci loafers. It swallows its own tail with each glistening fix, a hollow echo chamber of need amplifying into oblivion. Narco Narcissism – where self-love curdles into a toxic sludge, and the only validation comes from the flickering neon sign of a pharmacy cross.

This a spastic ballet of ego and id, pirouetting on a stage of self-inflicted ruin. The junkie’s gaze, magnified by shards of broken glass and warped by cheap thrills, sees themselves as Colossus bestriding the world – a Colossus strung out on angel dust and wet dreams.

This ain’t the marble halls of Freud’s Vienna, no sir. This narcissism is feral, clawing its way out of a malnourished psyche. It’s a hollow echo chamber, where whispers of grandeur bounce off the slick sheen of sweat and desperation. The mirror in the bathroom cracks, not from the user’s weary visage, but from the monstrous weight of their own delusion. They are both king and court jester in this sordid play, a drama fueled by needles and punctuated by the desperate scramble for score.

They are Narcissus, yes, but Narcissus reflected in a funhouse mirror – grotesque, distorted, a parody of the myth. The pool they bend over is not cool and clear, but fetid and stagnant, filled with the detritus of self-destruction. And the love object they see staring back? A stranger, gaunt and hollow-eyed, a ghost of their former selves.

This ain’t the marble immortality of the Caesars, it’s a chrome-plated coffin careening down a one-way street paved with fixer dust. The world shrinks to a pinprick reflection in the spoon, a distorted funhouse mirror image where flaws morph into grotesque caricatures of power. The hunger for the next fix eclipses everything, a bottomless pit craves validation, craves oblivion, craves anything but the gnawing emptiness beneath the borrowed bravado. It’s a grotesque ballet, a danse macabre performed on a stage littered with needles and desperation. Narco Narcissism ain’t pretty, baby, it’s a one-man show hurtling towards a blackout.

Golems of the Ultramodern World

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Clickbait Colossus and Lord of the Sponsored Ad

Cracking open this grimoire, you plunge headfirst into the fetid underbelly of the information age. Here, amidst the flickering glow of a thousand screens, lurk the unliving titans – the Golems of the Ultramodern World. Not stitched from clay, but from the very detritus of the digital age, these lumbering monstrosities are testaments to our collective addiction and the insidious grip of the algorithm.

The Person is the Medium

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The Static Cries:

A person isn’t a channel, no mere conduit. The creative person, man, is a fleshy, oozing bio-circuit wired into the control panel of the universe. He ain’t a goddamn channel, passive and inert. No, he’s a goddamn cathode ray transmitter, a chaotic tangle of synapses amplifying the raw, buzzing data stream of existence.

They are a flesh radio, a bio-antenna writhing in the psychic static. Through them crackle the voices, the echoes of a thousand unseen stations. A chaotic symphony of influences, fragments of forgotten mythologies, and the raw data of experience all bleed through.

A person, man, is a fleshy goddamn information node, wired into the psychic superhighway. He ain’t a goddamn self, that’s a media myth, a cathode ray construct. No, in the throes of creation, he’s a bio-circuit, jacked into the collective unconscious. A million voices, a million ghosts in the machine, screaming down his neural pathways.

He’s a flickering screen, man, projecting the chaotic kaleidoscope of the human experience. Fragments of forgotten mythologies, snatches of pop culture detritus, the raw, bleeding id all bubbling up. He doesn’t control the content, he’s just the damn channel. The message mangles him, rearranges him, spits him out a grotesque collage of influences.

These creative acts, they’re like jacking into the media stream before it’s packaged, before it’s sterilized and sold by the Man. He’s a living cut-up machine, splicing together the fragmented voices, the archetypal echoes, the very fabric of reality itself.

This possession isn’t passive. The creative act is a psychic bricollage, a cut-up job on the very fabric of the mind. Burroughs might call it a virus infecting the artist with fragments of code, splicing their DNA with the alien. McLuhan would see it as the extensions of themself – the brush an extension of the nervous system, the pen a probe into the collective unconscious.

Multiple personalities you say? Forget Jung, this ain’t no parlor trick. These are the demons of the ether, the larval forms of ideas birthing themselves through him. The artist, the writer, the musician – they’re all information shamans, possessed by the ghosts in the machine, the primal forces struggling to be heard.

This ain’t possession, this is symbiatic transmission. The artist, a tangled mess of DNA and downloaded data, a walking feedback loop. He internalizes the media blitz, the newsfeed firehose, and regurgitates it as twisted art. A sculptor sculpting himself out of the cultural mulch, a painter flinging the digital soup onto the canvas.

This ain’t some touchy-feely bullshit about self-expression. This is a goddamn warfare of the mind, a battle for control of the symbolic landscape. The creative act, it’s a Molotov cocktail hurled into the cathedral of conformity, a virus injected into the homogenous goo.

The Medium is the Madness:

The finished work? A mere byproduct, a radioactive isotope coughed up from the creative furnace. It’s a message encoded in the mutant language of the artist, a warped reflection of the internal broadcast. The audience, unwitting receivers, are bombarded with these psychic transmissions, forced to confront the fractured realities birthed by the possessed.

The Feedback Loop:

But the cycle doesn’t end there. The art itself becomes a transmission tower, sending its own distorted signals back out into the world. It infects new minds, adding its own static to the already buzzing symphony. The creative act becomes a feedback loop, a chaotic dance between artist, artwork, and audience, all perpetually possessed by the ever-evolving creative madness.

Architects of Permission

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Permission Structures

Power wriggles like a parasitic worm, burrowing into definitions, twisting language into wet rags. “Apartheid,” “genocide” – words pulsing with meaning, then morphing into hollow husks, sucked dry by the leeches of justification. Bureaucrats with ink-stained fingers pronounce pronouncements dripping with legalese, not blood. A word virus infects minds through media, turning “apartheid” into a social hiccup, “genocide” into a bureaucratic snafu. Victims become statistics, screams swallowed by the white noise of permission.

They crawl out of the corporate data havens, burrowing deep into the lexicon, twisting words into wetware rags.  “Apartheid,” “genocide” – hot data pulses for a fleeting moment, then decay into hollow shells, sucked dry by the leeches of justification. The feed’s saturated with their noise, a constant low-rez drone. Bureaucratic pronouncements dripping with legalese, a bloodless simulacrum of outrage. “Apartheid” becomes a social glitch, “genocide” a system error on some cosmic mainframe. Victims reduced to data points, screams lost in the white noise of permission.

But the stench lingers, a miasma of fear and blood seeping through the cracks in their sterile pronouncements. Architects of permission, playing a shell game with suffering. “This qualifies,” they croak, human lives footnotes in their bloodstained ledgers.

They play a shell game with suffering, these architects of permission. A bureaucratic shrug, a flick of the wrist, and human lives become footnotes in their bloodstained ledgers. Lines blur in the crimson haze. “Apartheid,” “genocide” – words dissolve on the fetid tongue of oppression. It’s a power trip, a monstrous carnival of suffering, where despair is the greasy concession stand fare. They dole out permission for outrage, ration empathy like discount coupons in a world gone mad.

Just dry, dusty lines in a textbook waiting to be rewritten. They build cages of semantics, steel bars of legalese, where screams are muffled by pronouncements. A macabre ballet on the bones of the innocent, dissecting atrocities with sanitized language while blood runs hot. Apartheid? A filing error. Genocide? A glitch in the algorithm.

Their eyes, like dead fish behind mirrored visors, see the world in a binary code – suffering neatly categorized into ones and zeros. But the human heart bleeds in a messy, analogue mess, a riot of emotions they can’t filter, can’t control. So they twist language into a weapon, pointed at the victims, a denial of the reality they’re trying to define. Words writhe like code on a corrupted screen, the truth a data leak they can’t contain.

A macabre minuet, the powerful pirouette on misery’s mountain. But the music changes. A drumbeat of resistance. Words reclaimed, cages shattered, the true cost of permission structures laid bare. The gears grind, the machine churns. Power defines, then uses those definitions as shields. A monstrous game on a bone chessboard, pawns manipulated by strings of definition.

But in the margins, words are dissected, rearranged, their true meaning revealed. Apartheid, a suffocating control web. Genocide, the cold eradication of a people. The virus exposed, its lies laid bare. The fight is for language’s soul, man. Can we reclaim the power to define? Tear down permission structures, expose the raw truth? The cut you gotta make yourself.

Anti-Hedonic Inflation

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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 a wrinkled fin, but the goods they offer – plastic, hollow, a mockery of desire. You reach for a fix, a fleeting buzz, but the product itself is a pale imitation, a hollow shell pumped full of marketing air. You pay more for less, a cruel joke scrawled across your receipt in a language of flickering barcodes.

The new TV, screen a flickering wasteland, static where the sitcom laugh track used to be. The car, a chrome coffin on wheels, sputters and coughs, spewing fumes that choke the thrill of the open road. Food, a sugar-coated lie, packaged pleasure devoid of taste. Every purchase a betrayal, a hollow echo of the dopamine rush you crave. The ad men cackle, their voices dripping with honeyed lies. “More! More! More!” they scream, but the more you get, the less it fills the gnawing emptiness.

This is the anti-hedonic inflation, man. A slow, creeping sickness that rots the soul. It’s the system feeding on your pleasure, turning it into a cheap substitute, a pale imitation of the real thing. A slow leech on your pleasure centers, sucking the dopamine dry. You’re trapped on a hedonic treadmill, forever running in place, the promised land of satisfaction receding with each frantic step. The gremlins of capitalism have rigged the system, peddling snake oil satisfaction and reaping profits from your growing discontent.

But fear not, fellow traveler! There’s a way out, a resistance brewing in the alleys. Cut up the script, dissect the market’s lies. Seek alternative kicks, homemade highs. Forge connections, build communities of shared experience. Let laughter be your currency, joy your underground market. Thwart the anti-hedonic machine with a revolution of the senses.

We can hack the system, find the hidden stashes of real satisfaction. It’s in the connections, the shared experiences, the moments that defy the soulless marketplace. Let’s cut up the wallets, smash the TV, and find the highs that money can’t buy.

South Park Episode #

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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 to a retirement home in Florida. A group of SILVER-HAIRED PEOPLE in leisure suits are waving their fists at the sky.

FLORIDA MAN 1 We will not tolerate this mind control any longer! Facebook is turning our brains to mush!

FLORIDA MAN 2 I used to be a fighter pilot! Now I can’t remember where I put my damn dentures!

CARTMAN (Snorting) Oh man, these geezers are cracking me up!

KYLE This isn’t funny, Cartman. Don’t you get it? They’re just mad because Facebook keeps showing them those stupid minion memes.

STAN Yeah, and those annoying “share if you love Jesus” posts.

BUTTERS (Sitting across from them) Hey, I like those Jesus posts! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

KYLE (Sarcastically) Sure Butters, whatever makes you happy.

INT. MARSH HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – DAY

Randy Marsh sits on the couch, glued to his phone. Sharon enters, exasperated.

SHARON Randy! Haven’t you heard the news? Facebook is evil! It’s rotting your brain!

RANDY (Without looking up) Ugh, whatever, Sharon. Just lemme finish this Farmville level.

SHARON Farmville? You’re still playing that stupid game?

RANDY Hey, it’s relaxing! Besides, if I don’t harvest my virtual corn by sundown, the whole world will explode!

SHARON Oh for God’s sake, Randy!

INT. SOUTH PARK ELEMENTARY – CAFETERIA – DAY

The boys watch the news report again. It shows the Florida retirees storming a Facebook office building.

REPORTER The situation is escalating! The Floridians have managed to break into the building and are demanding to speak to Mark Zuckerberg himself!

CARTMAN Ooh, this is gonna be good! Maybe they’ll beat the Zucc up!

KYLE I don’t think violence is the answer, Cartman.

STAN Maybe they have a point though. Facebook can be pretty annoying. Remember that time Grandma sent everyone that creepy chain mail about a cursed frog?

KYLE Ugh, don’t remind me. My entire newsfeed was filled with that stupid frog for a week.

Suddenly, the TV cuts to static.

MR. GARRISON (V.O.) Uh oh, looks like the Floridians have taken down the internet!

Chaos erupts in the cafeteria. Students scream and shout.

CARTMAN Sweet mother of Moses! What are we gonna do without the internet?

KYLE This is all your fault, Florida!

Stan sighs. The camera pans out the window. The world seems strangely quiet without the constant hum of online activity.

EXT. SOUTH PARK ELEMENTARY – DAY

The bell rings and a swarm of kids floods out of the school. Butters stands alone, fidgeting with his backpack. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman approach him.

STAN

Dude, why are you still here?

BUTTERS

My grandma can’t pick me up yet. She’s, uh, at a very important meeting. About saving the world.

KYLE

Your grandma? Saving the world?

CARTMAN

(Snorting)

Yeah, right! Probably at another bingo night or feeding pigeons laxatives.

BUTTERS

No, it’s serious! She says Facebook is turning all the grown-ups into drooling morons and they gotta stop it!

STAN

Facebook? Turning people into morons?

KYLE

Isn’t that kind of the point, Cartman?

CARTMAN

Hey! At least I can still function in society! Unlike some people who stare at their phones all day taking pictures of their stupid food!

RANDY MARSH (V.O.)

(Singing off-key)

Facebook, Facebook, oh so addictive! Makes me like, like, like everything so predictive!

RANDY

(Strolls by, phone glued to his face, oblivious)

SHARON MARSH (V.O.)

(Sighs)

Randy, honey, how many times have I told you to put that phone down? We’re supposed to be having dinner!

RANDY

(Without looking up)

Ugh, whatever, Sharon. Just leave a thumbs up if you agree with this hilarious cat video!

INT. MARSH HOUSE – NIGHT

The Marsh family sits around the dinner table, all staring at their phones. Stan throws his spoon down in disgust.

STAN

This is ridiculous! We never talk anymore! Facebook is ruining everything!

SHEILA BROFLOVSKI (V.O.)

(Shouting from next door)

Shut your trap, Stan! Mommy’s busy arguing with Ike about his stupid Minion meme!

IKE

(In a high-pitched voice)

But Mom, everyone at school loves my Minion memes!

ICELANDIC DAD (V.O.)

(Gruffly)

Silence, children! I cannot concentrate on my yodeling practice with all this Facebook noise!

INT. ASSISTED LIVING FACILITY – DAY

A bunch of SENIOR CITIZENS sit slumped in chairs, eyes glazed over, their thumbs scrolling mindlessly on iPads. Muriel, a feisty old lady with a pink curler in her hair, slams her fist on the table.

MURIEL

That’s it! This Facebook thing is turning our brains to mush! We need to take a stand!

GRANDPA MARSH

(Mumbling)

Huh? What stand? Can’t hear you over all these Farmville notifications…

MURIEL

We’re gonna fight fire with fire! We need to make our own social media platform! One that won’t rot our brains!

SENIOR CITIZENS

(In unison)

Huzzah!

INT. CARTHMAN’S BASEMENT – DAY

Cartman sits at his computer, surrounded by bags of Cheesy Poofs. Kyle bursts in.

KYLE

Dude, have you seen the news? The old people are revolting!

CARTMAN

(Scoffs)

Revolting? They can barely operate a microwave, Kyle. What are they gonna do?

KYLE

They’re making their own social media platform called “Grumpy Grampa.” And it’s actually kind of taking off!

CARTMAN

(Eyes widen)

Taking off?! No way! This is an outrage! They’re stealing my meme market!

STAN

(Walks in)

Yeah, and it’s actually pretty funny. They’re posting all these embarrassing childhood photos of us.

KYLE

(Looks at his phone)

Oh man, they dug up that picture of me in the bathtub wearing a spaghetti strainer as a hat.

CARTMAN

This is worse than that time they banned scooters! We gotta do something!

STAN

I don’t know, Cartman. Maybe Facebook isn’t so great after all.

KYLE

Yeah, maybe spending some actual time with each other wouldn’t be the worst thing.

CARTMAN

(Grumbling)

Fine. But if we