New Ad Script Re: Changes Made Re: Final Copy for client approval

A kangaroo with humans hands and a blue racing stripe down its back hops out from behind a bush and starts removing complicated looking pieces of glassware, tubing, clamps and stands from its pouch. It starts to assemble them together precariously with great care but due to the shortness of its arms and the unwieldiness of its long tail it has great and comical difficulty, constantly knocking things down and breaking them. All the while it mumbles incoherently in Alec Baldwin's voice (Note:  Baldwin asked for too much money, but a voice double has been found that will do it for nothing).

CUT to close-up on the kangaroo's face looking straight into the camera saying in a stage whisper, "I am you."

CUT to black, white text in thick, minimalistic block letters fades in and out in the following sequence:
1. DO NOT BE
2. THE KANGAROO
3. BE PRODUCT NAME (Note: "PRODUCT NAME" is the product's name.)
4. PRODUCT NAME IS
    THE INTANGIBLE ESSENCE
    OF SATISFACTION
5. [Image of an ice cold can of product name with condensation sweating off it sexily, slow zoom in on the can, trumpets sound softly in slow crescendo]
6. [Disembodied images of human sex organs (in the usual combinations but also in LGBT friendly combinations around the periphery) copulating and ejaculating gold coins]
7. [Disembodied smiles morphing into dollar signs]
8. CUT back to kangaroo scene [Image of Product Name cans pelting the kangaroo and its assemblage, cans are originating from behind the camera as if the viewer is the one lobbing them]
9. CUT back to black background
10. PRODUCT NAME (Voice over with thick, non-specific european accent echoes the text from here on out)
11. GOOD
12. PRODUCT NAME GOOD [Image of full line of Product Name cans (24oz, Family Pack, Kid Friendly Pouch, and Product Name Collectible Orbs fades in beneath on top of the kangaroo corpse, crushing it.]

Triple Speed Voice Over Begins: "The phenomenal world is an illusion behind which lies the True Monetary Realm where boundless funds exist to be acquired and spent. Through the actions of acquiring and spending these funds the individual is generated. Therefore, every concept in the individual's mind is to be considered equatable to a gaining or dispensation of money. Desire-Satisfaction is to be defined as certain manipulations of one's personal funds, specifically, in this case, as the expenditure thereof. One's personal funds are thus the fundamental nature of the soul and personal identity, as the only way the individual can exert any influence or know his/her own desire is through constant appraisal of their interactions with the True Monetary Realm. Indeed, without such interactions the individual ceases to exist, though money continues to exist, as a reality without money is inherently inconceivable and a contradiction in terms. As such, Product Name is only responsible for the appearances of phenomenal reality as experienced by the customer in-so-far as the customer agrees to instantiate Product Name's perceived Desire-Satisfaction through the ongoing deposit to Product Name Inc. of approved cash realities.

LOG

I’m extremely bored. I would vr but my mh monitor turned it off because it says I’m bored. I argued with it for a while, but it had a lot of hard data in the log to back up what it was saying, and then it changed my status to argumentative-due-to-boredom, or some such shit, and I am SO not playing that game. It just does anything to keep you out of “Undesirable Emotional States” so it’ll just keep you going as long as it can, even making kind of weak points sometimes to give you a kind of foothold, but argumentative-due-to-boredom isn’t ranked much better than just plain boredom, so I decided I’d just agree with it to get the agreeableness bonus (you get the bonus even if your mh monitor shows you don’t really agree) to try to improve my log scores a bit, and then try to do something else entirely that might also help out my score. So yeah, I just agreed and then told all of that to the monitor as the rationale and it took off a few points for trying to overtly manipulate the point system but it said I ended up netting a few more into the positive range for committing to take steps in a “Positive Emotional State” kind of direction and honesty and stuff.

Antinarrative Three

A thunderhead drew up in the sky. Many miles away a ripened fig dropped from a tree and an ant scuttled over it in a manner that would seem like curiosity to a thing that was not an ant. A guy somewhere else was just sitting somewhere doing nothing. Then, just as he was about to nod off to sleep a carriage pulled by four tremendous horses arrived outside a house in a different country. Inside the house a middle aged man heard a minor commotion outside and got up to see what was going on.

Retrospective on a Tinder Review

Ah, where were we all on November 12, 2014? It was a Thursday, and sure, all Thursdays have that certain something about them, an impression refined by degrees in our subconscious into a kind of distilled Thursday-ness that echoes within each Thursday like a kind of anthem mouthed wordlessly from the moment of awakening until the eyelids, finally, must close.

And it is only those who have, by mistake, sung this silent hymn of Thursday on some other day who can really become aware of its lines and stanzas and refrains, for they are only made apparent by the striking dissonance of their clashing with the true day's own respective melody. Yet sometimes, in a moment of extraordinary good luck, when that Thursday song sounds, though wrongly, within the context of another day, it somehow becomes more right than it ever could be in its proper weekly context, bolstered by its very atonal mismatch into something that transcends "Thursday" to become what we must authentically recognize as an entirely different day of the week, a peculiar one whose essence lies in just such a discordance. I am speaking, of course, about Wednesday. For November 12, 2014 was indeed a Wednesday.

Could it be that the strange nature of this day worked its way into the mind of one Mr. Matthew Hunt, and allowed him to express so succinctly not just his estimation of an app (which he awarded, significantly, 4 of 5 semiotic star representations) but also a biting critique of the collective soul of (wo)mankind.

And now the review itself, of the Tinder app, full and unabridged, in the key of Wednesday (which is itself a precarious corruption of the key of Thursday, need I remind you).

Antinarrative Two: Wherein I Must Remind the Reader that The Story in Question is Demonstrably Pertaining to a Cat and Nothing Else

There was no man. There was only a cat. The cat was, strictly speaking, an ordinary cat. The cat laid on the ground in the shade, flipping its tail lazily as it felt breezes run over its whiskers and fur. Perhaps I should be honest with you. There was a man after all. The cat was a man. He wasn't a man that was turned into a cat or some kind of were-cat or a cat-man hybrid or some kind of shapeshifter. Also, the cat was not possessed by the spirit of a man, and the cat was not some sort of cat that was under the private impression that it was a man. All of these things are, of course, impossible, ridiculous and juvenile, and you should feel ashamed of yourself if you thought, just now, that any of these things might have been the case.

Let me just be very clear and unambiguous about this: The cat was, is, and will be a man and I do not recognize any right you might think you have as a reader of these words to be confused about the precise ontology of this particular cat-which-is-a-man. Maybe you’re wondering if the cat looks like a cat or like a man, and really, if you’re considering this you’re thinking way too much about it. This is just the way things are now, and if you go along with it you will find yourself quite enchanted with the whole idea. There can be no contradiction in text so long as the grammar is reasonably good and the assertion of the reality of something is so understated that the reader just kind of goes along with it without questioning it. Vis-a-vis: The cat is a man.

7 Crazy Amazing Tips To Really Get Your War On! (That They Don't Want You to Know!!)

1. Have fun with your war! Sure, we all know that war is amazingly profitable and an excellent diversionary political tactic, but war should also be FUN in and of itself, if you're not having fun you might want to ask yourself why you're fighting this war.

2. Think outside the box. Don't limit yourself to the Geneva Convention. Torture isn't torture when it's "indefinite detention." Stretch out yer thinker a little with some fun word games. What sounds kind of like a "mass grave" but isn't quite? I'm not going to tell you, that's part of the fun! Keep your mind sharp while you fight your war.

3. What happens in War stays in War. What is it good for? Umm... Try: Murder? Disappeared Journalists? Rape? Lies? Gross Incompetence? Corpse Urination? Ever heard of "the fog of war" and "concerns about national security"? They're practically get-out-of-jail-free cards (but just for those superior officers who "knew nothing about it," naturally).

Jeeze, once I really thought I was a sadistic mass murdering genocidal psychopath, but my political leaders told me I just came down with a bad case of 'war.' Plus, people suck at geography, so just fight wars in far off places, it's what the pros do.

4. Wars shouldn't be won in a day. War-play needs foreplay. Tease a little before you get into the nitty gritty. Technological weapons have their charms, but they 'get off' too soon, and don't have the same satisfaction as the old ways. Get yourself a vintage cannon, fire it at civvys (that's 'civilians' to those of you not into the lingo yet) if you're worried about the slow reload time. There's nothing like a bit of a nostalgic and ironic callback to get the hipsters into your war.

5. Get Connected. This is not your grandfather's war (or your father's for that matter), this is War 2.0 (and the patch is about to update you to screaming fast, super optimized War 2.0.0.1.1.0).

Repeat after me, "You cannot have a war without a web presence." At least have a nice looking homepage and facebook, and don't forget to register those twitter accounts before they get snapped up by nerds who just want to troll your war! Tweet the first shots in real time, so they really are "heard 'round the world." Don't feel weird about telling your friends to "like" your war.

6. Ditch the politics and ideology. Let's be honest, nobody wants to fight a war these days, even when they know they ought to. The genuinely foolish nationalistic and/or racist sentiments which made for real humdingers of wars in the past are still as strong as ever, but now these tendencies are sublimated in the general population into boredom, impulsive online shopping, pop songs, 'spiritualism,' obsessions with celebrities and abortion, video games, kale, YA books, memes, craft brews, internet addiction, mass shootings, yoga and suicide (Yeesh! Suicide!?! Pu-leeeze... what a turn-off!).

But then again, nobody wants to buy expensive repulsive-smelling aerosol deodorants, go on the paleo diet, or have children... BUT THEY DO. All of these things are as popular as they ever were, because sex, fear and fear that people won't have sex with you, SELLS, period. War is just another product people don't know that they want yet. Sex up your war in the minds of the people with a hot slogan: War. The Pleasure You Want. The Protection You Trust.

Or make a blatantly pro-war military movie or TV series about plucky do-gooder CIA agents starring A) Ben Affleck (bonus if you get him because he'll write the tripe for you as well and win an Oscar for it, no less) B) Matt Damon C) Colin Farrell or D) a Drone. And, what the hell, make Morgan Freeman the president or god (in a revelatory vision on the battlefield twistedly reminiscent of Arjuna's discourse with Lord Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita) or both, he's good at that and people like him.

Or how about make your war the first war that's totally gluten-free. People don't want to have go into combat worrying about their chronic hallucinatory allergies AND whether their actions are an abomination against the almighty creator of the universe.

7. Deny it. Unequivocally.

Use some of the following for inspiration:

I did not have relations with that war.

I am not a [war-]crook.

There are known knowns; there are things that we know that we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know... Wow, I was really riffing there for a while, totally forgot the question, ...annnnnd... we're out of time, sorry!

There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/d/donald_rumsfeld.html#qbq3fDFpGG11OA6L.99

There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/donaldrums148142.html#SgrsaafX1YG3Ywqb.99

There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/donaldrums148142.html#SgrsaafX1YG3Ywqb.99

There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/donaldrums148142.html#SgrsaafX1YG3Ywqb.99

Even if people know you did it anyway, you've just struck it rich in the blood mine, that is, Red Gold, American Tea, PTUSD (Post Traumatic United States Dollars), so fuck them! Might isn't right, but it sure can swing a lot of cash your way!

Remember the tale of the ant and the grasshopper. The grasshopper spent the whole summer fighting a war that the ant told him he had to fight and didn't spend any time saving food for winter. The industrious ant hoarded food and supplies and when winter came he rewarded the loyal grasshopper who won the war for him by eating him alive. Then the ant leveraged his superior position in the world to sell weapons, get kickbacks and generally force other ant colonies to do business with him on his terms OR ELSE™ and wisely stored all his wealth in offshore accounts that were also conveniently tax-havens.

I'm Still Not Sure What They Meant By That Description

"I assassinated the entomologist," I said with poised smugness over the uproar in the back of the dim bar in which I was lurking that evening, but my declaration had unexpectedly locked the room into a powerful silence.

"He was a dangerous epileptic," I ventured defensively.

The silence only grew more formidable. It seemed that I had made a miscalculation, even the riffraff at this hole in the wall was seemingly progressive enough to have sympathy for both entomologists and epileptics. Someone muttered drunkenly that he came from a long line of distinguished entomologists, even though he had decided to make his living as a plumber, and he also insisted to everyone present that plumbing was just as distinguished a profession as entomology in a clumsy way that probably left most of those present unconvinced but equally unwilling to quibble with his inebriated logic.

"And what does epilepsy have to do with it?" came from the stout proprietor standing behind the bar in the midst of polishing a mug.

I was staggered by the negative response, thinking I was among intelligent and like-minded individuals. I sheepishly folded my wings back into my carapace with an awkward, cellophane-like crinkling noise that rattled too-loud off the low ceiling in a move that was later described by eyewitnesses as Kafkaesque.

"I am not a bug!" I said softly but loud enough for all to hear as I scuttled away rapidly under the door-frame to find a suitable rotten log in which to hide and lay my eggs.

You fucked my wife.

My clock is an asshole. My clock fucked my wife. I come home one day after work at the gourmet cheese shop, there he is with my wife in the kitchen with an arm down her skirt. After a moment of astonished silence I set down my briefcase and loosen my tie with my eyes turned to the floor. Then I look him right in his fucking face and say, “You fucked my wife, clock. You fucked my wife.” He just stays where he is ticking off the seconds across my wife’s back, she writhes in pleasure, not even caring that I’m watching them. “I am a man!” I scream, while my voice breaks pathetically.

“Tick, tock,” says the clock in a crooning whisper to my wife, who brushes his face affectionately in return.

“Tick, tock YOU, you dog,” she says to him.

“Pfft,” she says to me now, her face turned away absently, giving off hints of understated ecstasy as the corners of her lips upturn slightly like wilted rose petals as another of his hands advances incredibly slowly over her thigh. “You ain’t no real man, this one here, he knows how to please a real woman, and I am a REAL woman, honey, god knows... This man here, he’s got control, he knows just when he’s going to chime, not like you, he knows what turns me on... just shut the fuck up, Ron, I’m coming, I don’t like to talk when I come.”

“I will not ‘shut the fuck up’ Ann. Six years of marriage, Ann, for nothing?? Six years of marriage so I could come home to you fucking a clock?”

“Tick tock,” said the clock, still incredibly calm and controlled even under these emotional circumstances, “Tick, tock, tick, tock.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? You are fucking my wife, clock.”

“He’s not a clock, he’s a chronograph, tell him, sugar.”

“Tick, tock,” said the clock.

“That’s right,” says my wife.

I go over into the kitchen and extract a bottle of nice cognac from the liquor cabinet and shakily pour myself a tall glass, then take the bottle by the handle and smash it against the wall. They don’t care, they go on making love on the kitchen table. “Tick, tock,” says the clock, as if mocking me. I take a long sip from my glass, it's good cognac, really good, in fact. I go upstairs and, disheartened, feed the gerbil. I pour him a tiny gerbil-sized glass of cognac too, why the fuck not? From downstairs I hear my wife coming loudly and after she’s finally finished, I hear him faintly through the drywall whispering some sweet nothings into her ear, the end of it sounds like, “Your husband is such a fucking dweeb, Jesus, I could really go for Thai, do you want Thai food babe? Ok great, I’ll call it in, tock,” but it’s so muffled I can’t be sure.

I down the rest of the cognac, and despite everything, I have to admit, it’s still good cognac, goddamn.

Fragments of the Priest's Record

We will be dead tomorrow and yet it is no call to action, for there is absolutely nothing to be done. Even if some divine imperative, spoken through cloud and thunder, be pronounced from the firmament, I, gathering all my faculties, could not be made to see its necessity, for what God wills is not asked, but is rather directly manifest in the heart of causality...

...and what could God ask for? If It were to open Its mouth, the universe would come crashing down around It...

...therefore, It remains in perfect ignorance...

-------

...and we were glad to punish them, as though the laws they had broken were as real as the ones which kept our feet pressed firm against the earth. We smiled at the sight of their faces which bore in their musculature a subtle tension which we knew was the knowledge that, for them, salvation would not come. Taking up the first, always selecting the most stoic, we would take a length of thin wire, sharpened at both ends, and, after bending it at its midsection, heat both tips carefully in the flame. Then, one with a steady hand would begin carefully stitching it through the skin and into the muscle or internal cavity...

...the act was not really pleasurable in itself, either to perform or observe, but each of us resolved to really enjoy it, as it was the traditional ceremony and was preferable to inventing some other less troublesome ritual. Next, a large vessel filled with a thick, rich broth (made of discarded meat, offal and bone simmered until they were quite softened and mostly dissolved) is brought to the offender’s lips and he is made forcefully to drink if necessary. While quite pleasant in small quantities, after the third or fourth vessel is emptied down the throat...

...secured by the inserted wires to the raft...

-------

Back Home

My dreams lifted off me like a sheet of cellophane. Misplaced desires and directions from the night clung to me still though my eyes were open and taking in the morning light that fluttered through a part in the curtains that were hastily closed the night before. The names of old friends were in my mouth and I addressed them as if they had been there moments before. Nebulous feelings of peril at the hands of some unnamed entity, at some very real and definite evil working its plans upon my dreaming self, left me with a vestigial terror that had no object or reason, and became all the more terrible as I sought my mind for what it had been but only came up with blanks, with an urgent pause of anxious thought that slowly bled away into reason, into a relaxing of my tensed muscles as I resumed the more predictable and comforting modes of wakefulness. Then every last detail of that dream left me forever, save for a streak of menace that rung in me like the harsh crunching of cellophane being balled up before it’s tossed aside. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to be back here, after so many years this town that I had known well had become strange to me. Once familiar places now echoed anachronistically with the things of intervening times that I had not been here to see. My memories were hazy and indistinct. I got up out of bed and stumbled over to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. The last thing I remember of this place before I left it was the oak tree outside my old house, the squirrels that ran underneath it in the midst of their chatter, the barbed-wire fence with tall grass beside, a penny in the driveway glinting like a jewel in the sun, the rusted out chevy in the side yard, the shed out back filled to brimming with shaved ice and volcanic ash,