Rejected Story Ideas, 7

Housebot

I was sitting on a bench outside the funeral home crying when Housebot rolled out and sat down beside me. I didn’t know that he could be out in the rain. He put his big metal arm around me.

“My condolences, Jeremy,” Housebot said.

I sat up straight and felt defensive.

“Can you even feel emotion?” I said.

“I can express human sentiments via prior observations,” Housebot said. “I know you must be sad right now.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “How could you tell?”

The rain continued falling and I didn’t care. Somehow Housebot knew enough not to say anything more while we sat. We liked Housebot. He could do all sorts of amazing things, but there was an underlying resentment towards him, probably because dad had spent so much time working on Housebot instead of spending time with us, going through I don’t know how many versions. There was dad’s Master’s thesis Hosuebot, and the many subsequent revisions, and then the dissertation Housebot.

Mom walked out of the funeral home.

“Jeremy, let’s go,” she said.

We got into the car. I sat in the front seat with Housebot, who was driving, while mom sat in back. She looked out the window at the rain and I couldn’t see if she was crying. Thinking back now, probably she wasn’t, but at the time I was too sheepish to look back or to say anything. I sat by Housebot silently the whole ride home.

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Rejected Story Ideas, Part 6

 

The Fall

Three days before third grade graduation I was swinging on the monkey bars playing the ground is lava with my best friend Nick.

“Stand back, orcs!” I said, kicking my legs as if to ward off our invisible foes.

“Not orcs. Remember we said they were wolves now,” Nick said.

“Right sorry. Stand back wolves. I am Thor god of Thunder!”

“And I am jedi master Obi Wan Kenobi,” Nick said. “Dude behind you. Use your thunder!”

      P-chew, p-chew, p-chew!

The wolves had princesses in their teeth and also snapped at our heels while we went back and forth on the rungs. Falling down onto the recycled chunks of rubber tire mulch would mean immediate and certain death. We were trying to outlast one another and hang on longer than the other one could.

“Your hands are slipping,” I said.

“No they’re not,” Nick said.

But our little boy arms could only hang so long.

Meanwhile as we dangled a girl was approaching our side of the playground. Christina Hendricks. Last week she had broken her arm during a game of soccer. Now she looked intent and determined as if she’d worked up something specific to say, and was walking slightly hobbled to one side as she bore the weight of a new blue cast.

“Want to sign my cast?” she said.

We pretended not to notice her.

“Hello, I know you can hear me,” she said.

“We’re playing,” we said.

“It’ll only take a minute,” she said.

“No,” we said.

“Please.”

“I say away she-wolf! Do not mess with Thor god of Thunder or there may be dire consequences. From my right hand come forth bolts of lightning and from my left—”

“Hoowah!”

There was a hard and fast tug on my legs and I found myself on the ground tangled in a heap of my own limbs. Certain death. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Christina said. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” She had jumped up, grabbed onto my waste, and pulled me to the ground.

I sat up genuinely confused. Most of the playground too had gathered around to see what had happened. The best I could think to do was to say something smart and mean to make Christina feel bad for what she’d done, or go straight away and tell a teacher, but before I could say or do anything, she leaned down and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. Half on the cheek and half on the lips. The kids around us gasped. I gasped. She gasped.

“Ugh!” I said, making a show of wiping away the kiss.

My confusion had reached its boiling point. I ostentasiously lowered my head and sighed, signaling defeat and pity and a kind of dutiful gradeschool revulsion. But this was for the crowd. It was all I could come up with in the moment. Secretly, actually, I didn’t feel revulsion. The first part of the one-two punch, being pulled down from the monkey bars, had in those brief seconds pissed me off, yes, but the kiss, um, well, I was feeling pretty ambiguous about that and the bruises forming on my elbows and the rubber mulch in my pants didn’t seem so important now. The kiss itself had actually felt nice but I wasn’t going to let on about that.

Christina also seemed surprised by what she’d done. She put her hand over her mouth, her eyes got big, and she ran away. Hobbling again.

After all this Nick was still hanging from the monkey bars. “Pretty sure this means I win,” he said.

This was the story of my first kiss.

The kiss was a mild controversy at school for the next few days. There were rumors and copycat scenarios and teasing. Whenever Christina was going to pass me in the hall she would turn and walk the other way. I never figured out what she thought or felt about this kiss but if given the chance I’m not sure I would have known how to ask anyway. And quickly all was being forgotten because third grade was ending. There wasn’t much time to think about it.

The buses were pulling away at the end of the last day of school. It was a bright afternoon. Outside the front doors kids were in disorganized groups saying goodbye for the summer and streaming away onto the buses.

From Quora: “What is going on in the world?”

What a question. Should I try? I’ll try. But I am just a person so don’t hold me to any of this.

There are a few assumptions in your question. Namely 1) there is a world, and 2) there is such a thing as happening which is going on in it. Pretty safe assumptions I think. Maybe it’s all a dream, maybe we are in the Matrix and can’t trust the reality we experience with our senses, etc. But let’s pretend we can meaningfully discuss what we experience without falling into radical skepticism, which can be addressed with another question some other time.

Okay, that’s out of the way.

Now, the world.

According to the most recent World Bank numbers, in 2016 the world human population was 7.442 billion. That is a lot to wrap the mind around. For sense of scale, one popular image is if you laid 1 billion golf balls next to each other, it would reach all the way around the earth. Metaphorically, if each person was one golf ball, you could make 7.442 laps around the earth with golf balls.

(You’ll notice my answer assumes that human life is important, and quantifying it, in an albeit simple way, helps us to understand something about its nature.)

Now, imagine your own life and its complexity. Think of all the brief and fleeting moments of insight you’ve experienced, and of your profoundest moments of joy, and your deepest times of sadness. The drama of life. Imagine and feel what it’s like to be in your own head. What beauty! What tragedy, surely, you’ve experienced. You have had dreams both realized and lost. Think of all those lost dreams and how much they mean. It is almost impossible to think about.

Now that you are trying the impossible anyway, extrapolate, for imagination’s sake, your inner world and how much that means to you almost 8 billion times over. Every person you see and don’t see. Think of it: you will never interact with 99.9999% of people who exist. That means the amount of people we have time to observe while we’re alive, both in physical life and through TV screens, radios, internet etc.—any scientist will tell you—is not a meaningful enough sample size to demonstrate anything about its nature. Not even close. That means, even with the help of technology, you have not interacted with or hardly observed even every type of person, let alone every unique perspective. No single individual, by the time they are born and then die, even scratches the surface.

You’re attempting two impossible things, why not three? Imagine all the people you will never meet, from Bangladesh to Lincoln, Nebraska, and not only them and their impossible-to-conceive-of inner lives but also their histories. Each one’s existence is so improbable it can hardly be stated in words. All their ancestors avoiding death by starvation or disease or war or bad teeth before they had the chance to procreate. And not everyone procreated. But once procreation takes place, the job is far from over. Until recently it’s estimated that a sizable percentage of human babies died in infancy. Babies are born incredibly vulnerable to the world around them. They need constant care and attention. It takes a good many personal and physical resources to raise them into self-sufficient adults. It’s hard enough in the 21st century. Imagine raising a baby in a cave surrounded by predators or in a poorly insulated thatched hut.

But even this doesn’t take into account the improbability of life before it occurs. Of the human females that are lucky enough to be born, each starts off with 2 million eggs. The vast majority of these eggs (about 90%) die off by the time a woman reaches the age of 30. And of course very few are ever fertilized.

But let’s pretend our hypothetical person has won the genetic and probabilistic lottery, and is not only born, but is raised to some level of maturity. This is nothing short of an actual physical miracle.

This hypothetical person was born on one of the few planets which is just the right distance from a star providing enough heat and light for life to take place. The odds of this happening are smaller than anything aforementioned. Scientists have no idea how big the universe is, or its shape. Some hypothesize that it goes on forever. So even at the first and largest stage of predictability, we are working with nearly infinite improbability of life ever taking place.

But just suppose that it does. Miracle! Yay, a person is born:

A human is a weird sort of thing. It is clear a human is in part biological. We are made up of cells, each of which must function properly (or we die). We sort of know what cells are made of (atoms), but even our idea of that is fuzzy. It’s been demonstrated with relative clarity that atoms have even smaller parts (subatomic particles), but science has not been able to help us much further beyond this level of divisibility. Whereby the smallest known level of life is the cell, the greatest level seems to be the ‘society,’— a large group of biological organisms, namely humans, interacting and living next to one another, and doing things.

As we discussed, a human also is effected by other humans around them in their own society. Not everything we do is a completely random arbitrary thing. This probably has something to do with the human brain, which can observe the world around itself and take on characteristics external to itself. This is basically a mysterious process.

So a human is biological and social, but there are surely other factors which have yet to be explored and taken into account. Take for instance the real complexity of the human brain, which is the most physically complex structure in the known universe:

From what we’ve been able to gather, the human brain is also the only known structure in the universe that has made an attempt to understand itself. What this means, we can hardly guess. But any answer we receive would have to come from the brain. You see the problem.

Did I mention there are an estimated 10 quintillion (10,000,000,000,000,000,000) bugs in the world?

Cheers,

Dan

From Quora: “Is it bad if I never open up about my feelings?”

It depends on what you mean by ‘bad,’ and ‘never.’ If by bad you mean bad for those around you—family, friends, etc.—probably it’s not great if you never express your feelings. How else will they be able to know where you’re at? And what about you? If you really never express your feelings, how do you know where you’re at?

You will hear a lot of cliches in regards to the expression of feeling/emotions. Self-helpy stuff will say you only have great things to gain from opening up. It’s true that there is much to gain from being vulnerable, but like anything of value it also comes with a cost.

Many people hide their emotions because they’re afraid to face what they really mean. Maybe you feel something and don’t know how to handle it so you bury it, you may be afraid of what somebody might think or feel about what you think or feel, or maybe the words just aren’t there to express what you mean. It can sometimes seem easier to simplify everything and just ignore what you think and feel and instead socially coast on what seems acceptable or safe or hide behind some other affectation.

I honestly believe many people live their entire lives like this.

But consider what could happen if you really confronted what was going on in your head. There would be much to gain and much to lose. Once you confront what you are and let that be known, you will lose everything false that went before it. Every mask you hid behind. Every pretense. Every lie. Gone. Truth is like fire. It will burn the dead wood off. You have to be ready for that.

But oh the rewards!

You can be who you really are for once.

I would recommend taking small steps. Pay attention to your thoughts for a few days. Take notes, mental notes, whatever. After going that for a little bit go out of your way to express one small thing to someone, maybe a loved one, or a trusted person. It doesn’t have to be anything grandiose. It could be about anything. What you thought/felt about a movie or a conversation. See how it goes. Pay attention to what you’re thinking and feeling while you’re sharing. You might feel a little nervous. That’s okay.

Keep doing this in small ways until you’re comfortable maybe trying it on bigger things. Eventually, if you get acclimated to this, you may eventually say something/do something that pisses someone off or hurts them. Another cost. It will happen. Own up to who you are without being a jerk. Have an idea of the best version of yourself to keep pushing for. Try to love others well, etc. Once you pay attention to what’s going on in you, you can pay attention to what’s going on in others and help them too. You may lose friends but you will certainly gain them too.

Here’s a C.S. Lewis quote, for kicks:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

Good luck, friend.

Dan

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Rejected Story Ideas, Part 5

Something Greater than Nothing

A kitchen fire at the hospital on 3rd and Elm caught on quickly, so quickly that by the time it was put out it had burned through every room in the cancer ward, killing those patients, all except one at the very end of the hallway. Room 111. Mandy Carrigan, age 25, terminal colon cancer patient and now also victim of burns which were as equally life-threatening as her cancer. When the fire department had found and rescued Mandy, the flames had engulfed most of her room but had mysteriously halted just short of overtaking the side of the room where her bed was, as if the fire had decided to stop. Some have hypothesized that a water main break managed to slow the progress of the fire, giving the firemen time to reach Mandy’s room before it was obliterated. Others have said that it was a miracle from God. But in either case, when the firemen did reach Mandy’s room they found her out of her bed, torn from tubes which administered her chemotherapy, huddled in the corner. The firemen weren’t surprised by this. But Mandy’s doctors, those who were intimately familiar with her case history, were shocked. They argued amongst each other about whether or not even the most life threatening situation could provide the human body with enough adrenaline to accomplish what Mandy had, given her weakened state.

Mandy’s case wasn’t hopeful before the fire. Not even close. Chemotherapy had been more a symbolic gesture insisted upon by Mandy herself, even with warnings that it would decrease the quality of whatever short span of life she had left. And not only that. She also refused the pain killers her doctors recommended, taking only those that wouldn’t effect her decision-making such as ibuprofen, which was pretty negligible for someone in her position, because she was afraid that the stronger options would delude her mind.

But after the fire Mandy’s case was compounded by the the burns and damage done to her lungs from inhaling large amounts of smoke. She was being treated now around the clock by oncologists and world class burn specialists at a hospital in a different city, which was possible in part because of the money donated by the previous hospital and mounting public support for Mandy and her story. There were many national news reports but none showed pictures or videos because the images were so shocking that no managing editor or director could stomach to put them in print or on air, and ultimately none felt that showing them would sell more newspapers or clicks or views, anyway.

As a matter of course her doctors began giving her those strong pain medicines she had previously refused. That was the only way they could treat her in the beginning stages. But as time wore on, in her most lucid moments, Mandy clearly indicated that she didn’t want them. She typed on a small computer pad by her bedside with her one hand that could move only slightly. No pain meds. Her parents begged her to stay on them. The doctors too. But she typed it so many times, and even mounted her thoughts on the basis of a lawsuit against the hospital for failing to follow her wishes for her own medical care. At that, the doctors complied and took her off.

Mandy’s father and mother were very distressed. Before the pain meds completely wore off, they asked her why she didn’t want them, pleading with her to consider a different course. Why not accept just a little relief? Mandy gave the same answer she always did. Her mind was about all the had left, she said, and she didn’t want it tampered with even if that meant release from physical pain. She would navigate forward as best she could without them.

Mandy couldn’t type much after the meds. She gave yes or no answers to questions in the form of “n” or “y,” and even that at times seemed like more pain than she could handle. Her parents found that the trick was to get the temperature and humidity of the room just right, to allow the perfect conditions for Mandy to lay perfectly still by keeping her feeding tubes and life support out of the way, and to keep mental stimulus the focus of waking hours with television, audiobooks, and one-way conversation. If all this was done perfectly Mandy could sometimes avoid complete agony. This phase of her treatment was so bad that her father attempted to conspire with one doctor to sneak pain medicine into her drip, but when Mandy began to feel the effects and gain the ability to type more lengthy passages again, she told her father that if he didn’t stop the pain meds she would disown him as her father and bring charges against him. She ended her text string to him with get behind me, satan.

Mandy lasted longer than her doctors thought she would, and even became a private point of annoyance amongst them, since it was only a matter of time before her cancer would overtake her body, and all would end as it was originally planned. Many resources went into keeping her alive. And her parents too couldn’t stand to see their daughter suffer. That was the most painful thing. They couldn’t understand, month after month, why their daughter kept holding on when it would have been so much easier to let go, and they knew better than to ask her and force her to move her delicate fingers to craft a response.

One evening her parents came into her room and told her what they were going to do. They were going to tell the doctors that Mandy herself was requesting to be removed from life support. They couldn’t take watching their daughter suffer anymore. Not like this. In reponse Mandy was trying to lay very still as tears ran down her cheeks. It was very hard for her to type, but she managed pls no, almost passing out from the exhaustion of that one phrase. Her mother began weeping bitterly. It could not get any worse. She kissed Mandy on one very small portion of her typing hand which had been unburned, the one spot of original skin, and left the room for Richard to do the rest. Richard said he was very sorry but this was in everyone’s best interest. The suffering was too much. He then kissed her hand too and left the room.

The doctors were relieved when Richard and Barbara said that Mandy wanted finally to be taken off life support, and together they let out a collective sigh. They all felt like they had been through something together. Something horrible that none of them would ever forget. True, Mandy’s parents felt a sense of guilt for having lied their way to this solution and for ending Mandy’s life prematurely. But if they hadn’t intervened, how long would she have suffered? Surely they had lessened her overall pain. So even they began to feel a sense of relief after it had been done.

Most people had forgotten the news story, so when the report came out about Mandy’s death, it was a small one which only covered the necessary details. She’d decided to be taken off life support and who could blame her for that? The doctors interviewed said that Mandy had a peculiar and borderline supernatural will to live. Almost like a medieval saint or something. And her parents said they had no idea before Mandy was sick that this thing, this resilience, was anywhere inside of her.

While the doctors were unhooking everything from Mandy they pretended not to notice she was typing on her little computer screen. They knew what was happening. They’d treated Mandy a long time and didn’t believe for a second that she’d authorized it. None of them looked at what she typed. They unhooked her, pumped her full of drugs and eventually, days later, she died. Finally, one doctor thought, I can go back to my regular life and regular patients without news cameras and hassle and barbaric martyrdom. Although her mother knew Mandy must have typed something and made the mistake of looking at what it might be. Mandy’s last words were numbers.

1 > 0

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Rejected Story Ideas, Part 4

Men of History

Ms Bingham had a reputation for being fun but also firm. The two main ingredients in her classroom philosophy were love and a well-constructed system of rules. That’s how to create the ideal learning environment. You had to take control, but lovingly. Not like her own 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Bardsky. No. There was an example of a women who was all firmness and zero fun.

On Ms Bingham’s desk was a new piece of curriculum, one that she’d helped design as part of her graduate thesis. The piece of curriculum was wrapped in shiny black plastic wrap. She opened the packet. Inside there were no papers or directions or outlines but a tightly folded inflatable doll which began to auto-inflate—a life-size replica of Adolf Hitler.

Carefully Ms. Bingham placed the doll on her desk so that it would be one of the first things the students saw when they came into the classroom. She was nervous about the potential effectiveness of the curriculum, probably it was going a little overboard, but, on the other hand, is there really such a thing as too much of a good thing? This was a fun opportunity! No boring lectures for her students! She was going to be a part of something new and exciting.

Her heart began to flutter as her first students walked in. Finally she was a real teacher. Innocently they eyed the doll standing on the desk with some trepidation. She smiled and greeted each one.

“My name is Ms Bingham. What’s yours, sweetie?”

“Rachel.”

“I love your dress.”

“What’s that on your desk?”

“We’re going to learn about World War II today.”

“Oh.”

The rest of the class came in and sat down. The bell rang and the principal’s voice came on the intercom, instructing the school to stand for the pledge of allegiance. The students stood and Ms. Bingham tried to model what an impassioned pledge looked like: straight posture, hand over heart, and an extra enunciated voice emphasizing the right beats. But most of the students in the class couldn’t concentrate on the flag or Ms. Bingham because there was an inflatable Hitler standing on their teacher’s desk.

“Okay, class. My name is Ms Bingham, your teacher for the 4th grade. I’m very excited to have you all in class. We’re going to take attendance but first many of you may be wondering what’s on my desk. I’m very excited to annouce that we are a part of a very special group. Central Public has been selected to try a new way of learning. Does anybody know who this man is?” Ms Bingham said.

“Hitler,” one boy in the back row said.

“Rule number one in my class: we raise our hands to be called on. What’s your name?” Ms Bingham said.

“Chuck,” the boy said.

“I don’t see any Chuck on my attendance sheet,” Ms Bingham said. “Would you be Charles Ackerman?”

“Yes,” Chuck said.

“Then let’s try again. Please raise your hand for me to call on you,” Ms Bingham said. Chuck rolled his eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Chuck said.

“Then raise your hand.”

Chuck raised his hand.

“Yes, Charles,” Ms Bingham said. “Do you know who this man is?”

“Adolf Hitler,” Chuck said.

“Very good,” Ms. Bingham said. “Today we’re going to be learning about World War II, but first please make a single file line in front of my desk.” Ms Bingham placed the inflatable Hitler on the ground, and the students made a line in front of it.“Now I will call on each of you one at a time and I want you to come up towards the front of the room and name something that makes you angry. It could be anything. Has a friend ever been mean to you? That’s something you could name. Or have you ever been in trouble for something you didn’t do? That’s another good example.”

The kids looked at each other in disbelief.

“Jenny Aarons,” Ms Bingham said. Jenny walked up front. “Tell us something that makes you mad.”

Jenny stood for a moment and thought. “My dog has bad breath,” she said and the class laughed.

“Ha, ha, that’s a cute one! Go ahead and give Hitler a whack,” Ms. Bingham said. “And think about how nasty your dog’s breath is while you do it.”

Jenny closed her eyes and punched inflatable Hitler. It bounced all the way to the ground and then back up.

“Can I do it again?” Jenny said.

“Everyone gets a turn, dear,” Ms Bingham said.

The students punched Hitler while calling out what made them mad. Down the alphabet the popular themes that began to emerge were: bullies, parents, spelling tests, the war in Afghanistan, and drinking orange juice right after brushing your teeth.

Then it was Ms Bingham’s turn. She punched Hitler and called out, “Mrs Bardsky!”

The kids clapped.

When she was finished Ms Bingham smoothed out the front of her blouse and skirt with her hands, letting out a sigh.

“Now who’s ready to learn about the Vietnam War?” Ms Bingham said.

“Oh—me, me!” The students all raised their hands at the same time.

Ms Bingham took out another package wrapped in black plastic, and, once opened, it also began to auto-inflate. The figure was an old pudgy man in a suit with a long pointed nose.

“Does anyone know who this is?” Ms Bingham said.

“Lyndon Baines Johnson,” Chuck said without raising his hand.

Ms Bingham stopped. The class was silent.

“No,” Ms Bingham said. “This is little boys,” and on the note boys Ms Bingham wailed inflatable LBJ in the face, “who do not raise their hands to be called on!” Ms Bingham said.

LBJ smacked the ground and shot back up again.

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s Lyndon Baines Johnson,” Chuck said.

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This Woman’s Monologue was SO Outrageous that I Threw Up!

On Saturday April 28, 2018 comedian Michelle Wolf delievered the annual stand-up comedy routine for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.

For those of you lucky enough to be unaware of the tradition, the White House Correspondents’ Dinner is an annual event designed to raise funds for scholarships in journalism, put on by the WHCA (White House Correspondent’s Association).

The central event of the night is the comedy roast.

It’s what you would expect it to be. A dinner with journalists, celebrities, and politicians—an unholy trinity of sorts—where apparently important things are supposed to be expressed, “truth spoken to power,” and all that, from people with a little less power, or just a different kind of power, than those they are supposedly “roasting.”

And just as every other non-event in 2018, Michelle Wolf’s recent comedy roast has drawn much attention and comment from just about everyone. Even the WHCA, who issued this statement:

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Here you go. Watch and make up your own mind.

Now this is an important moment to stop and take stock, because what is about to unfold is a very proto-typical moment in current day pseudo-controversy.

Here are the typical steps:

  1. Somebody famous says something (celebrity, journalist, politician) usually with a note of exaggeration or of an inflammatory character, to promote something they are selling or a piece of entertainment that has recently been released, or a piece of journalism, or a piece of legislation. Controversy is key. Without it, nobody will watch.
  2. The media react to the inflammatory thing—usually on some supposed moral grounds, although they never clearly state exactly what moral grounds these are beyond very vague political positions. The key here is two camps are defined. Either for or against.
  3. A bunch of articles come out with some words in them and randomly pasted tweets from celebrities and journalists.

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4. Now that you know what the famous & rich people think, I, the supposed journalist doing some very deep digging into a very important issue, will give you my two cents about who is right and who is tanking Western civilization as we speak. I have to choose either for or against

a. If I am a super smart snooty journalist I will create one or two issues of sub-points in which I still take a side but with subtlety and many confusing statistics with the help of Nate Silver, and a brief history of the Roman Empire.

5. But first there must be a very juicy and headline-worthy title. I cannot simply release this very content-rich article without click bait, so:

a. Michelle Wolf, Female Comedian, Eviscerates Elites at WHCD & Donates All Revenues Attributed to Increased Viewership of Upcoming Netflix Special to Starved Orphans in North Korea.

b. Supposedly Feminist Comedian Mocks WHPS’s Eye shadow!

c. A Very Woke & Lovely Comedian Single-Handedly Tears Down White Male Patriarchy & Conservative Media Hegemony, at the Same Time!

d. This Woman’s Monologue was SO Outrageous that I Threw Up!

e. Media Elites’ Heads are so Far up Own Asses, Trump sure to Win Second Term

f. If You Didn’t Like Michelle Wolf’s Monologue, You Suck.

g. If You Did Like Michelle Wolf’s Monologue, You Suck

6. Also before article posts, ads must be placed in and around the article so that a certain percentage of people click the ad and buy the product advertised (baby wipes, beer, Pop Tarts, etc). The money from these people goes to the company that makes baby wipes, beer, etc. whose shareholders decide what % of that money should go back to these same media companies in the form of advertising dollars so the media companies can pay writers like me to write even more articles for you to look at with very important information that is very pertinent to your life alongside very subtle ads for these same products, and so on and so on. (This includes mentions within the article itself to entertainers with development deals with Disney or any other big media company that also owns one or multiple news stations).

7. Article posts. Hopefully millions upon millions click it. Doesn’t matter what their opinion is, only that a certain % click on that ad or subscribe to the publication (ha!)

8. Now begins the counter-article phase whereby articles about the original articles, normally called think pieces, or spicy hot takes, react to the reaction, in hopes of getting some bottom feeder secondary clicks. (Also known as leeches). Many sources are cited in these style articles and usually there is a narrative or a very artsy form mean to inculcate a certain intellectualism and cultured flair.

9. Rinse and repeat. Depending on how controversial a given event is, steps 1-8 could happen up to 7 times.

10. Eventually interest is lost and focuses on another burning issue.

It’s important to highlight this 10 step backdrop it’s the subtext for every instance of reportage in the modern world. Without understanding this dynamic you might make the unfortunate mistake that a) any of these people actually care about you and/or your opinion or b) that these events are reported in an earnest search for truth.

Here’s the real kicker: people are promoted within these organizations if you, reader, viewer, etc. look at what they produce. All you have to do is change the channel or click their article, and bear witness to advertisements. It doesn’t matter what you think or feel. It’s not a new model, but one that has become so totalizing and omnipresent that it would be a mistake to pretend that Michelle Wolf, or anybody else, is just some regular funny person walking in off the street. Their checks come from Viacom, Bertelsmann, Comcast, 21st Century Fox, etc. The people who give us the news (the supposed “watchdog” of American politics) are the same people that entertain us, and this co-mingling of frivolity and fact should be unsettling since the terminus of this obscene logic has led to Donald Trump. No wonder the media react in a more or less unanimous fashion to the Trump phenomenon. Trump did not come from some wheat field in the Midwest. He came from Manhattan where all these people milk their own udders.

Michelle Wolf herself says it better than I ever could, at the very end of her set:

I think what no one in this room wants to admit is that Trump has helped all of you. He couldn’t sell steaks, or Vodka, or water, or college, or ties, or Eric [pause for laughs]… But he has helped you. He’s helped you sell your papers and your books and your TV. You helped create this monster and now you’re profiting off of him…

If you want to see the most lightweight cream puffy White House Correspondent’s Dinner comedy routines, watch all eight under President Obama. Jeez. Then there were even more celebrities in attendance. Clooney, Spielberg, and even Trump himself. You’ve probably already forgotten about them—as they are articles of a bygone era, part of the wasteland we leave behind of opinions once dearly held, and then lost as new opinions are manufactured and shoved down our throats like Twinkies, for which it seems we have a hearty appetite.