Why I'm Not A Mad Man

Hey everyone, sorry about lack of new posts recently; it's been a crazy summer! Over the past few months I've had the opportunity to intern at one of North America's most esteemed advertising companies, The Finger Firm! Under the tutelage of Frank Finger, I learned all the fundamentals advertising: dreaming up world-changing ideas, wooing big clients, using exclamatory words like "wow" as verbs, and "wowing" those wooed clients.

Frank Finger

But I also learned about the dark side of the ad business. It's a psychological oligarchy that influences all of humanity, but is controlled exclusively by old, straight white men. Sex is the primary currency of advertising, which ironically uses female bodies to warp the minds of women everywhere. But as long as they can sell Axe Body Spray.

Moreover, advertising reinforces stereotypes and tokenism that keeps all minorities in a steel box with a glass ceiling. And the commercial despot insists that ultimately, we only exist to buy products.

So the lows are pretty low, but the highs are pretty high! It's really just like the TV show Mad Men! So I will now chronicle my adventure, discuss what I've learned, and share some of my innovative work, all of which was strangely rejected.

First Day 

I'll never forget what Frank Finger said to me when we first met: "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my office? And where are your clothes?"

Confidently, I replied, "I'm Alex the intern! What am I doing in your--oh, this is your office? I am doing yoga, specifically the downward dog pose. And my clothes are laying on that fancy space-age bench/sofa you got here, being protected from wrinkles and rips."

Touché, he thought to himself, probably. Didn't expect to get such a quick and specific answer to his triple-headed question. He was being aggressive with me because he knew that I'm an alpha-male just like he him. Only I'm younger, more fit (thanks to the yoga), and poised to take over the business that he built from the ground up. Symbiotically, his fatherly instincts kicked in because he sees himself in me; a young protege whom he can mold and nurture as a means to make a difference in the world before he leaves it. This dichotomy would prove to be a source of tension, as well as creative fuel for both of us.

"Go down the hall to Mel Condo's office. You're working with him." Finger bolted out of the office with the sort of reckless speed you'd expect from an exec. One day I'll be that rude and fast.

"Wait," I shouted, "Check out these cool dress clothes I got from Express!" (HOW DO YA LIKE THAT PRODUCT PLACEMENT? SEE, I'M A GREAT ADMAN!)

As I clumsily pulled my abrasively shiny lime green shirt over my head, I heard Finger in the hall speaking with Carla, the sassy ginger office administrator.

"The intern," Finger said. "This 'Alex the intern'? I thought that was gonna be a fucking girl!"

"Well you were halfway there," said Carla. "You had him waiting in your office bending over with no clothes on! Ha!"

"Real funny, Carla. Make sure you go back into the resume pile real soon and find me a viable piece of ass. And for God's sake, get one without a unisex name!"

They were taking about me! As I sat eavesdropping, hidden behind the door, I thought, boy this feels familiar. I had the most surreal flashback to my parents' divorce. I could hear my old man yelling like he was right outside. Wow, a psychological sub-plot! This really is just like Mad Men!

So I began working with Mel Condo, and I actually liked him much better. He's edgier; Mel is closer to my age, which means he has A.D.D. too. He's a Gemini--which  you would think meant split personalities or whatever, but Mel is the same razor-sharp gangster-ass Mel 24/7. I told him "you're more like a Scorpio like me!' When I was a kid there was this show, a Power Rangers rip off, called Tatooed Teenage Alien Fighters From Beverly Hills. And instead of colors/dinosaurs, all the different characters where represented by zodiac signs. It was crazy, here it is on YouTube.

But back to Mel. OK his last name is fucking Condo! His full professional moniker is Mel L. Condo (his middle name is Liam, cool!) and to his friends, he's known as "Mellow" or "Mellow Mel L". He used to live in New York! And now he lives in, you guessed it, a condo! He's about the coolest guy I've ever met. 

Mel's not a "hipster" per se, but it was his idea to put hipsters in every commercial. Ipso facto, he has defined American pop culture. Or as Mel put it, "I can't change America. But I can design a sick flag with fucking stars and stripes and shit. And I can write a phrase like 'Land of Opportunity'. Then you tell me what you think of when you hear the word America."

First Project

My first assignment was a true challenge: the taboo task of creating a cigarette ad that attracts young kids, without looking like it's trying to attract young kids. I had to make smoking look Kool, but make it look like an accident. And I came up with a bright idea that was going to light up the Newport company like an after-sex fag!*

*Guys, "fag" is what they call cigarettes in the UK. I'm not being homophobic, I'm being intercontinental!

But Frank Finger, ever the straight-shooter, had nothing good to say about it. Specifically, he said: "Awful! It looks like a six-year-old girl drew it... With her feet."

Jeez, tell me how you really feel, Frank. At first, his little quip made quite a dent in my still-developing self-esteem. But then I remembered that Frank ain't nothing but a big ratfink and I don't really give a flip what he thinks! Even Newport's opinion doesn't matter. Clients are idiots. Customers: idiots. I'm the expert, the only one who knows what's good for them.

I'll tell you the only important about an ad campaign: does it work? Does it make the customer want to smoke? Well I can confirm the effectiveness of this ad because I saw it with my own damn eyes.

Minutes after my debut presentation, Frank Finger walked out to the parking garage, with yours truly about, say 10-20 meters behind him. I studied his every move from the shadows. And what's the first thing he did upon exiting the building? Smoke a stinkin' cigarette!

And just like any day in the office, Frank didn't notice me at all. So I proceeded to follow him home to conduct "important market research." I'll disclose my findings here, as this may be a valuable guide if you're thinking about pursuing a career in marketing, or you're just interested in the Finger family.

Things I Learned About The Fingers:

- Wow, their house is huge!
- Frank goes to bed pretty early. Maybe he's depressed? Maybe sometime I could tell him about all the great things Paxill has done for me.
- Frank's wife is hot, hot stuff. She goes jogging every morning and likes to wear tight, fancy neon outfits. And she even has on full makeup, or looks that way.
- The Finger's ten-year-old son is responsible for taking out the trash. He's very good at discovering anybody that maybe be observing his family. Fortunately, his secrecy can be bought for just a few packs of Newport cigarettes.
- The amount of good food this family throws away daily would constitute a world-class feast in the house I grew up in. I wish I would've grown up in the ditch in front of the Finger home.

Next Attempt

Lowes and behold: my opportunity for redemption arrived. Lowes, that was the next client I got to work for. (Did you notice the pun? Lowes? See, there's another advertising slogan--that one's for free!)

Obviously, a celebrity endorsement is all you need for a high-impact ad. So I had one of today's top #trending celebrities, Zachery Ty Bryan, to be the figurehead. Boom, done.

Frank Finger's take: "It looks like an eighth-grade girl made this with a cut-up Tiger Beat magazine. So, technically, it shows improvement."

My response: "You mean it shows HOME IMPROVEMENT?"

Frank's response: (none)

Then I ran into Mel's office and said the Home Improvement pun. Then he goes "UGHHGHGH?" like the Toolman; we laughed our asses off. Then we did this:

Office Drama

So working in a real-life advertising office is a lot like Mad Men. The main difference is that Carla Doosby is no fucking Joan. (Carla's body sucks!) She looks like Reba, everybody said, especially Carla. She would always make comments about how much she looked like Reba with this outfit or that haircut--I mean she'd say this shit on a DAILY basis. It was so annoying. She may have been 100% correct, but I don't have any idea who Reba is.

One day I overheard another conversation between Carla and Frank Finger.

"I want that Alex-fucker out of here! He's an idiot and a pothead and he's going to ruin the company." Frank shouted harshly.

"Yea right," Carla rebutted. "Don't you know who his dad is?"

"No. Who is he?"

"Well I don't know," Carla continued, "but he's some guy who knocked up Meg Whitman. You know, the HP CEO and founder of eBay? That's his mom. You can't fire Alex, his mommy will ruin us."

"Son of a bitch."

Once again, this reminded me of my parents' divorce. 

Quest To Become King; My Best Work

At this point it was clear that an Oedipal dynamic had been established in the office of The Finger Firm. I was destined, determined to take over the throne as the Commercial King, and the only thing in my way was Frank Finger, my pseudo-father. It was time to slay him, figuratively speaking, by producing my best work ever. It was prophecy.

But there's one component of the Oedipus narrative I will be omitting. If Frank is in the father role, I believe that would make Carla the workplace-mother. Well, may I say here on the record, that I have no desire to have sex with Carla whatsoever. And she will, without a doubt, try to bang me once I'm the CEO. But sorry, Carla, no dice.

Wal-Mart - I made this commercial to promote Wal-Mart's "Low Price Guarantee." They are very proud of hindering price hikes and inflation, thanks to their globalized exploitation of labor. Wal-Mart wants an ad that tells trashy people that they can empower themselves by buying a bunch of cheap shit. But I'm making the ad to tell the truth! And the truth about inflation is, it has to go somewhere. If you keep prices down, something else will inflate. It's like holding in a fart: it might not come out of your butt but it will come out of your head; that's what an embolism is. 

Apple, or any vain bullshit tech company - This ad can be accompanied by either dramatic electronic music, or an acoustic guitar with a bunch of bearded bitch boys shouting "Ho oh ho ho ho oh oh!" It shows that the company has a huge heart and loves you, but also has a HUGE brain and is more brilliant than God. ULTIMATE HYPERBOLE! BUY OUR SHIT!

One Last Chance To Clean Up My Act

At this point, my reckless style and wild antics had landed me on thin ice with The Finger Firm. The stakes were at an all-time high when I was approached by the Zest soap company. They knew they needed a maverick adman to make them relevant again. 

Bathing habits were changing fast in the United States. Axe was using "sexiness" to take over the young men market, young women were buying only soap that could give them orgasms, and poor Wal-Mart-shopping families were presumably foregoing soap altogether. Would I be able to--Zest desperately wanted to know--converge these contrasting markets? Could I reconcile, or "mashup" the essences of wholesomeness and sexiness? 

Yes, Zest. I can.

But Zest was very unhappy with this ad. I thought it would appeal to the entire family. But maybe times  really have changed. Families aren't singing and showering together anymore like on The Partridge Family, they're just sitting around, stinking, staring at their iPads. 

My Coup De Grace

After several weeks of hard work, I was finally relieved of my duties at The Finger Firm. A shame, but all things must end. Maybe my work will be remembered and revered in the next generation, maybe I'll be just a footnote. Maybe not even that, maybe I'll just be the guy in Frank Finger's ditch. 

Where did my career fall off the tracks? Well once HR found out that my mom wasn't really Meg Whitman, I think it freed them from any implicit obligation of keeping a brat like me around. Also, I was caught in the break room putting ex-lax in the coffee--BUTTT!--I wasn't doing it to sabotage my co-workers! I was just seriously backed up for a few days and I needed the relief. I suppose, if we're going to dissect this scenario, I could've just put the laxative in my personal mug and left the community pot alone. But maybe that's my "problem", I'm always thinking about everyone else and how I can help them.

But in this business, it's every Mad Man for himself.

If you're a girl (or someone thinks you're a girl) sorry, you'll never make it in advertising. Your job is to watch commercials and go shopping. And if you ever luck out and get an internship at The Finger Firm, it's only so Frank Finger can fondle you. Hey, I wish it wasn't that way, but it is. After all, I know what it's like to be a woman in the working world.

Now I'm back to square one, passing out my résumé. If I ever get another call, I need to make it clear that I'm a MAN right up front, because otherwise the employer and I are going to get off on the wrong foot.

I'm not here for the fucking lipstick market research study! I'm here to wear suits, drink whiskey, and grab ass... LIKE A MAN!!

A Picture Spreads 1000 Germs

Sometimes I see strange things in the real world and choose to take a picture of said thing. They say a picture says 1000 words. So I'm choosing to write 1000+ words about the person/place/thing that I chose to take a picture of.

I hope to make this an ongoing literary feature of WFJ. In the debut addition, we will explore themes of love and FEAR as they exist in our 21st century suburban society.

Sí, She's Dead

The hot sun pressed against the Mexican restaurant, crunching the brick exterior like a corn chip, very slowly. The smell of tasty food being grilled coalesced with the sun rays, the pavement, the carbon dioxide, and the phantom breeze to produce a warm, summery scent-sation. Then a sugary, flowery, funky odor entered the smell periphery. A cloud of perfume moseyed toward the door and behind it, three females.

Christal, Sara, and Meegan were on another routine trip to Donde Padre's Mexican Grill. They're all lower-middle-class indentured workers at the tanning salon in an adjacent strip mall, where they all make $10/hr. If the monetary system were to collapse tomorrow--not that they would notice--but the three women could begin accepting payment in the form of sodium, trans fat, cholesterol, and (most importantly) alcohol, without much inconvenience or lifestyle disruption.

Ding. The bell rang as the door opened. This was how the restaurant staff knew the customer occupancy total was changing. Three more were added to the total. The total was now pretty high: happy hour! 

The host, Fernando, was twelve feet away from the door, around a slight corner. Upon hearing the "ding", he glided around the corner as if he were on a mini train track, like an amusement park ride. "Hello. How many?" he said melodically.

"And I said, ‘You’re not getting any of this, this is my shit,’" Christal said to her homegirls, continuing the convo that began in the car.

Shit, that's not a number, Fernando thought to himself. He knew it was probably going to be tres, but maybe not, maybe they had some guys joining them. Fernando just wanted to make sure, ultimately he just wants to keep the seating situation non-catastrophic. If the table assignments we misconfigured, or the servers got confused, it’d be all Fernando’s fault. 

"Three?” he asked again.

Sara texted somebody instead of answering the young man in front of her. Meegan assuaged the confusion, "Ya, three." Fernando took them to a booth. He didn't know for sure whether he's adverted a disaster or not. 

Jorge, the server, noticed the familiar trio and his heart got hot. His smile stretched out like an accordion because he loved Meegan. He found it easy to crush on many of the cute girls that came into Donde Padre's, but none of them had the appeal of the angelic Meegan. Jorge loved how confident she seemed, and how her voice was sort of froggy. Her hair was like silk spun on a star, and her lips were like a two dolphins hugging. Jorge closed his eyes, rhapsodized for a moment.

He emerged out of the kitchen like a float in a parade. His rotund body seemed to be holding a few extra volumes at this moment. It was sweet puppy love making him swell up. He approached Meegan's table with conflicting emotions: trying so hard to exude charm, which he had plenty of, but his shyness was stuffing it all back into him. 

"Hey ladies," Jorge said suavely to the three young women. But then no one said anything. Several long seconds went by, no response or acknowledgement. Christal looked at Jorge briefly and let out a sigh, that would've been the closest thing to a response. 

Sara squealed, "We'll have three margaritas!"

And so began the party.

-----------------------------

The sun orangified and leaned backward as the afternoon went by. The drinks kept coming to the party girl table. 

Each time Jorge brought a refill or an enchilada, he'd try to make conversation. He thought this would maybe be the path--albeit only the beginning of a very burdensome path--to Meegan's affection. But the thin phrases like nice dress and how's work were answered thoughtlessly, like an automated telephone survey. 

The drinks loosened up the three ladies socially; they became more loud and obnoxious, and more willing to move outside the isolation of their three-way conversation. Jorge was the only person in the restaurant that wanted to be in that conversation, but a few random patrons got to meet the ladies, whether they wanted to or not. 

Christal rolled her had back over into the booth behind her, which was occupied by a couple in their 50s. The man drank a beer, while the woman nursed a margarita, and they were doing a great job of not acting like insane party animals. Really, they were putting on an outstanding performance of being old and somber.

Christal, trying to bond with the auntie-esque woman, shouted, "Whoo! Yea my girl is doing the margarita thing, shake it baby!" 

It was like a cartoon coming into the real world. Shaking her glass, Christal swung her arm over the seat to try to "cheers" the woman. Her husband was visibly quite excited that the young lady was engaging with him; his big ears wiggled and his eyebrows shifted. His wife had been married to him long enough to know what those facial expressions meant. Another trick she picked up in the super-long marriage: physically shutting her husband down with a facial expression of her own. 

Sara left the table for the bathroom. She opened the door to see a tall man with his young son. Oh that one was the men’s room.

Jorge and Sara returned to the rowdy table simultaneously and very awkwardly. He acknowledged Sara but was so puffy and gaga over Meegan, it could be read right on his round face. "So are we celebrating tonight?" he asked. 

"Yea! It's Meegan's birthday!" shouted Sara. 

"Ohh...? Ohhhh!!" Jorge uttered. "Hang on!"

He ran back to the kitchen and hollered for Fernando. Upon the verbal cue, the kitty cat-like Fernando leapt off his invisible mini train track as if he had springs on his feet. 

"It's not my birthday, you betch!", Meegan squawked at Sara. 

Inside the kitchen, the young men converted to Spanish for a private conversation.

"What is it?" Fernando asked as he slipped through the kitchen door. 

"Meegan! The girl I have a crush on. It's her birthday."

"Ok. We'll do the birthday song! I'll go--"

"Fernando, is this a good time to ask her out?"

"Yes," Fernando spoke sentimentally, "Just tell her she is very special and you wish you could get to know her. She will like you, Jorge. You're the best."

"Thanks, amigo! Now hurry, let's go!"

The birthday procedure of Donde Padre's was about to commence. This typically entails at least two sombrero-wearing staffers playing guitar and singing a special birthday song, as well as a Mexican ice cream sundae. Lately they'd been using a small strobe light, which some people liked, while others were bothered.

Fernando burst out of the kitchen with his guitar, a sombrero, and the strobe light. His uncle Raul, the mustached assistant manager, joined him at the girls' table. They began the birthday song in two different keys and tempos, but found a harmonious middle ground after a few seconds. Out came Jorge with the cake. He sat it down and snapped a picture of the celebration. 

Meegan started feeling a bit uncomfortable with the attention. Sara and Christal were L-O-V-I-N-G I-T. Their half-hushed squeals of delight were like a siren that added to the blaring festivities. It was getting intense in Donde Padre's. And there was a goddam strobe light going off to boot.

Jorge pushed the cake towards Meegan as gently and sweetly as he could, which was slightly more gentle than a moose. He showed his beloved Meegan a smile that made her pupils shrink.

"Make a wish, betch!" Christal said.

Meegan wished this shit wasn't happening. She didn't mind being the center of attention, but she was used to having control over the situation: emotional control (in real life) or editorial control (when it came to her social media persona). She couldn’t wrangle control this time. This was just her friends teaming up with a few creepy guys to make fun of her.

"Happy birthday, Meegan," Jorge said softly, "I can tell you are a very special girl..."

Whoa, WTF Meegan thought. 

"I would be the happiest guy if you would please go on a date sometime with me." Jorge had forced the phrase through a gauntlet of nerves and self-consciousness, but consequently felt happy and proud. Simply asking Meegan on a date was a true accomplishment.

Conversely, he had a full-blown B.O. problem at the time, but was not terribly phased by it. He figured he could blame it on the fajitas nearby. If Meegan asked "Jorge, do you have B.O. right now?", he could say “No, Meegan. What you are smelling is the fajitas right there.”

As more anxious thoughts occupied his mind, along with a long drumroll, Jorge awaited a response from Meegan. Christal, Sara, Fernando, and Raul were all awaiting Meegan's answer. 

Meegan's eyes looked deader than a pan of ground beef. Her brain was fried; whaaaaat? These judgmental eyes attacked her like a gang of hornets; they sucked her dry and she was empty inside. Jorge's roly-poly figure hovered over her like the shadow of an A-bomb. 

Suddenly Meegan's neck and shoulders let go of her head. She folded 90° in a second. SPLAT! Face first into the ice cream she went. 

Meegan's body was completely limp, the company surrounding her was unanimously shocked and confused. 

"Ohhhhhhh," whimpered Jorge. "What is wrong?" It was the strangest moment of his life. 

Christal whispered, "Meegan?"

Meegan showed no life whatsoever, still sitting with her face in the ice cream. Her friends figured out where Meegan was going with this; she’s playing possum. Through girly telepathy, they began to improvise.

Sara looked at Jorge and said,  "She's dead." She pronounced dead as dud.

"Oh my god," Jorge replied. "She's dead?" He pronounced dead, deed.

"She's dud!" Sara shouted, thinking that she was correcting his pronunciation. 

"Dead?", Jorge asked.

"Si!" shouted Christal and Sara in unison. "Si, she's deed!"

Thinking that he had to call 911, Jorge spun around and bolted toward the front desk, his heart racing. But as he grasped the phone he suddenly realized that Meegan was perfectly alive, only faking a sudden death to make him go away. This realization made his heart slide all the way down his colon. Jorge just kept walking, right past the desk and out the door. Ding. The doorbell rang gloomily. Jorge started his car and drove home. 

Raul shrugged and walked away from the table. Fernando ran out the door after Jorge, who was supposed to be his ride home. But Fernando saw only an empty parking space with a large oil stain. 

Meegan slowly raised her head up from the dessert and said, taking a small breath between each syllable, "Oh my god, y'all. That was THE most awkward thing ever." A chill came over her and she shook in her seat like an old washing machine. 

"You always know how to handle your shit, Meegan," said Christal.

Sara added, "You're our hero."

"Lets get the hell out of here," Meegan told her friends. 

"Hang on," said Christal. "Let's take a picture." She snapped a shot with the camera Jorge had left on the table. Sara snapped one with her phone as well.

"Hey amigo, can we get the check?" Sara asked Fernando. 

"That man has paid for your meal and drinks!" Fernando responded. He was referring to the one-half of the middle-aged couple that'd become acquainted with the young women. 

"Hey," the man waddled over to the girls like a walking tree. "I hope you have a very, very happy birthday," he said ghoulishly. He was crawling into Meegan's personal space like a miner, trying to get closer and closer. His wife came out from the bathroom in time to witness his encounter and he quickly retreated. He was most definitely about to crawl into the doghouse, and probably wouldn’t come out until Meegan is his age. 

---------------------

Jorge returned to work at Donde Padre's the next day, but he had seen Christal, Sara, and Meegan for the final time. The treacherous three would soon find a new hangout: a trendy, faux-fancy brick oven pizza joint called Romeo's. Martinis became their new poison; prices at Romeo's were much higher, and none of the waiters would ever fall for Meegan. Although Sara slept with a bartender. 

It was several months later when the film in the restaurant-owned disposable camera was filled up. Fernando brought the developed photos back to Donde Padre's, and he and some other workers sorted through the pictures of all the happy customers and workplace shenanigans. And then Fernando came to a picture of the cream-faced blonde, Meegan. He thought of Jorge, afraid that seeing the picture would resurrect his heartache.

"Let me see that," Jorge said, emerging from the walk-in freezer, thin clouds of steam billowing ethereally behind him. Distant and pale, he resembled an angel, perhaps a ghost. It was as if Meegan's rejection had forever evicted every bit of joy from him.

Jorge held the picture an inch away from his face. Meegan looked more beautiful in the photo than he could every remember. 

Right next to the bathrooms, there was poster frame with a dozen slots for individual photos. Jorge walked to the frame and jerked it off the wall. He took out all the photos and inserted the single picture of Meegan. Jorge still showed no emotion. With a fierce stoicism he hung the frame back up. He then said a Hail Mary and went to retrieve the chips and salsa for table número cinco. 

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The Ballad of Dean Wheat

Dean Wheat waits for the man in a sticky booth near the concession stand of the theatre. Another matinee of the summer's hottest blockbuster is about to begin. 

The dealer arrives, asks Dean if he's seen the hottest new movie, the one that has swept the whole nation. Dean had not seen it.

The entire world mind is focused on this movie, Fixar Planet 3D. Cineplexes everywhere are bustling with Fixar fans running in and out. It's pure, nonstop, electric mania.

If you could witness the total collective thought of all first-world humans, it would be nothing more than a trailer for the film. Any fast food chain worthy of their salt and trans fat has toys, cups, and cardboard standups dedicated to Fixar's characters--not to mention the billboards, crossover promotions, commercials, and Internet pop-up ads that blanket the dominant Western culture. So it seemed odd that Dean wasn't at least a little familiar with Fixar Planet 3D.

The dealer gives Dean a hit of LSD with a Mickey Mouse logo on it, tells him to go Fixar (it's life-changing!) The hit goes down the hatch.

Dean zig zags through the elephantine herd of large adults and children to find his seat in the theatre.

Lights out. Here comes the first trailer. What will be the next big thing? 

Coca-cola commercial. 

The blaring audio from the sound system slopes down into a silence at the end of the advertisement. There's a brief pause, the hyper-bright screen descends into darkness. 

WWSSHHH! POPP!! Dean's ears snap. The sound of a hundred high-pitched pops and micro-crashes pierce his skull. Dean is startled severely; he feels his primal animal instincts kick in, sensing extreme danger in the dark theatre. 

Relaxation has fled his body, a racing heart jacks his chest. His drug-accelerated alertness pins him to the edge of his seat as the next trailer begins. This one features dull visuals and audio. The texture on the screen is soft, but not like an animal you'd want to pet. It's like a chemical-stained carpet. 

When the sound winds down again, Dean revisits the auditory horrorhouse. POP! SZZZ! CRACK! It seems--EEEEYYYAAAHH!!!--there are sonic predators all around Dean, who is a wingless bird; a turtle outside of his shell.

Bewildered, Dean bends his beady eyes around the corner. He sees a huge man--who seems much closer to Dean than he really is--lift a heap of popcorn into a hole in the middle of his face. The load gets thrashed around in the man's lawnmower teeth. Little bitty flakes escape, the lucky ones. The excess popcorn debris and blasts of spit hit the floor like a rainstorm. Dean can hear clearly the screams of every kernel, and even each little grain of salt.

Chomp! Chomp! The violent strikes echo through the theatre like an avalanche. From the back row fat man to the family of toads in the front; left to right, it's a symphony of big bites. Not one creature in the room is without armfuls of enriched, processed snacks. Dean is the only one that's candyless.

The concert proceeds: Sticky lips smack under slimy noses, sinuses suck up quick shots of air like face-zeppelins. Dirty gums rub against gelatinous globs of sugar, smothered in the moldy mouths of small children. Their young teeth are as good as dead.

It's a 7.1 surround-sound score of disgusting bodily noises. The grotesque parade of dietary squalor is giving Dean a grisly migraine. How can such unnatural chem-concoctions even be digested? Dean discovers the sound of intestinal thunder: the rumbling gas and bubbling acid being brewed in their stomach cauldrons. Eww.

And now here's your feature presentation. The movie rolls, bit nothing but a faint white noise seems to emanate from the theatre speakers, and the screen contains only a flickering paper-thin image. This is what everyone is so worked up about? Fixar is like a big hokey magic trick that draws a vast, unwitting crowd (the whole world?) But Dean sees the strings and the little man behind the curtain. And he's not impressed.

Dean wants to know just who is in the theatre, taking in the panorama around him seems to give him an aneurysm in his brain, a hundred tiny ruptures in all his veins. He sees these big smiles on everyone, eyes completely glazed over and spinning like the roller skates of a psychotic clown. Hahahauhhahaha! They love this garbage. The moviegoers shovel even more cruddy morsels into their beaks; they appear to be in nirvana. 

The nasty bastards gnash and nosh like there's no tomorrow. Dean starts to figure that they are totally insatiable. But is artificial sugar and fake food a sustainable resource? What do they eat when the candy is gone? Dean feels the real possibility that they may eat him. They're already eyeballing him; they all know he's an outsider. 

Attempting to pre-empt a cannibalistic attack, Dean stands up, turns around, and faces the crowd. With violent, swiping hand gestures, he yells bravely at the Fixar freaks. Something like: you're all sheep, product-addicted gluttons. As he jerks around fervently, Dean's arm is sucked into the mouth of pig-dude next to him. The greasy lips envelop Dean's forearm, which does not taste like sugar or food dye, so the pig-dude spits it out. 

No one in the crowd cares anything about Dean, the only concern is Fixar Planet 3D and the sugary refreshments that enhance its sensory euphoria. This fact doesn't comfort Dean. Another paranoia wave eclipses his consciousness; he's in hell. In a room full of people, but alone in hell.

A LITTLE PIG-KID JUMPS UP AND BITES DEAN’S ARM OFF!

Dean Wheat screams, it sounds like a soft super-low bass note. He blacks out.

Suddenly, Dean awakes in the sticky booth by the concession stand. He’s got his arm back; he is shrouded in a giant Hershey's Bar wrapper. Baffled and paniced, he kicks off the foil blanket and heads toward the glowing glass doors.

Like the last drips of hourglass sand, Dean sprints to the door through the counter-momentum of the cineplex receding into nothingness. Dean is the grey moving between light and dark.

He pushes the door open. In the courtyard he is face to face with the SUN GOD! Dean Wheat melts into a syrupy sludge.