The Eggy is the only life outside of the mall. It isn’t ‘on the fucken planet’ though. It’s hanging in the sky, hovering due North of the dead mall I am. The Eggy is like a remote control for the dead mall- all the dead malls creaking and collapsing around me. This isn’t the Eggy’s only job. The Eggy’s so busy with other things, the scope of which would cause a normative human mind to short-circuit before comprehension. The malls (you and me) are a footnote to the footnote of a bigger picture. The Eggy leaks portal jelly when the pressure builds to maximum levels and its fluids flux. The jelly burns the ground but fuck it. The Eggy’s gearing up to imitate an exploding gas grill- it’s stepping up its intimidation game. The impracticable soil beneath it yields no thing of value. The Agents of Eggy made it so, sucking up the last of its nutrients in a concerted effort. The earth will finally give up. Before long, it’ll no longer care what happens or what anyone does. It will be as ugly as you imagine it to be. Moreso. It’s your fault for soaking in the Eggy’s fluid transmissions.
Spreading beneath the bulged brown sky, the low cuntry boils its own in rust tainted smegma. It’s difficult to be a control freak in a world eager to wrest that selfsame control from you. You want to control so much you’re out of control. The Agents of Eggy understand you better than you do and can stay fifteen steps ahead, so flail away. It doesn’t matter. They know that mother nature isn’t arbitrary and overarching enough for your tastes. They’re aware we’re hierarchical animals ruled by the deadliest alpha beta theta urges. All they have to do is tweak a circumstance here, alter a stream there and POOF! You’re Play Doh (r)!
‘I don’t know what we expect staring into the Tee Vee set…’
fighting fire with air.
Kellogg is reincarnated on Telegram.
He’s got a twist this time, more twisty than before, new and improved.
The Road to Wellville gone to seed then reanimated via Lovecraft.
Brewed in the Eggy labs, there’s a mind virus manifesting in something like… oh… say… Tik Tok.
The Eggy Admin has flooded our favoured feeds with randomized pulses and savory data for dupes. The Eggies created Barnum. They’ll roll over on Bailey. You’ll reap the gritty rewards.
And they laugh at ME for watching Home Shopping Network.
‘When dem drafty proclamations hitcha in da huevos, you wize up real quick n too late.’
Can we talk about Tik Tok, dear Eggy? The low rent platform for the attention deficit slash attention whore generation? It’s no wonder we’re such idiots. Everyone’s forever shoving their phones in each others’ silly putty faces, giving the thumbs up to ‘funny’ homemade videos shat together by the web’s most prolific defectives.
Ugh, Eggy. Ugh. Deliver me from disservice unto artifice.
I watch this other remote control mall scroll through TikTok for hours. I choose not to get on the platform, yet I’m going mad listening to these influencer bot morons because I sit next to addicts. I’m convinced I’m dying from second-hand socmed exposure. It’s a new loss leader in early death. You’re worth more to the Eggy Admin dead because the sooner you die, the sooner you’ll turn into fossil fuel (it’s ALL about energy in all its glorious and dangerous forms). You’re not safe within five hundred miles of their programming tools– you don’t even have to watch, listen, or pay attention to be infected. A feed that intentionally hexes the IQ. Fulfilling my subconscious response to their program, I wax murderous, the nonsensical mashup of inanity unspooling rapidly leaving me gasping. That’s part of its ultimate function. I’ll see you on the dark side of the apps. The devices crowd in on me, surrounding me with Eggy Echoes. I’m nostalgic for a more unplugged era. I’m brittle. I feel them drowning me out with clown sounds.
I’m guilty as everyone else.
I write this on my phone, on a platform for malcontents and perverts. Nazis, furries, wignats and pedophiles. This IS the Interzone. These little assholes think they’re so cute and I guess they are as they give solid rhyme and reason to Eggy Poster Children like Ted Kaczynski, Dylan Klebold and his jack off buddy. Let’s max out on triggers. Let’s level-up on toxic humanity. Scroll until your brains vom black goo. See what happens when the Eggy gets its way? The Eggy feeds on shit fits.
I can relate to Squeaky Fromme at times like this. The Eggy was really proud of her.
I’m a lowly bean counter and precision twiddler. The Admin locked me up and out at birth, as soon as my number was issued and my dick was defaced. Those were just the beginning credits to The Programme.
Repent Tik Tok said the Marlboro Man with hollow eyes above a CGI stache. Your busy, seven fingered hands have everyone fooled. Sleight of hand is easier with 14 fingers.
Drill down a brain stem, the motherboard pulling levers on a jiggletastic ass sloppy as any brown blood pudding. Thank you, Eggy. Oh, thank you!
The Tik Tok gives. It’s a broad stream of tailored confusion for addled consoomers. An infomercial aphrodisiac for a disastrous climax. The Eggy approves these transmissions.
Your face, boo. Your face. Every filter is a falsity that supplants reality. You do you, flee the outmoded hardware and the bit-rotted software. Pile your burger induced piles with extended credit to feed The Eggy its necessary energy in the form of life-force. You do you and only you, fragmented from any sort of reality or community, a performer for the electronosphere. A dead mall on display, window dressing to your very soul. A branded pony in a diaper. You do you. The Eggy can count on this above all else.
The Tik Tok takes.
Come to where the dunking is dank bro-ham. This is where we speak the programme language pushing buttons, trigger words awakening sleeper cells, influencer cum Eggy Agent. Uber drivers, Doordashers, all stores in a mall, awaiting business hours. Awaiting executive decisions from corporate.
Let’s talk polarizing odors. Let’s paint the wedge between us red. Anything and everything BUT what makes a difference.
Give me a sign from your glands, man-flan. It’s the newest paradigm in an ongoing prog-regression. Is it a wake up call or a signal to hit the snooze button another fifty times? How long will it continue before you smell your underwear/lingerie section’s on fire? A deadening of senses is also the plan. The Eggy’s schema.
The Eggy can’t help us, won’t help us. That’s never been their purpose. Did any of us expect that it was? All malls were born with an expiration date no one predicted. But, they’re all eventually abandoned and razed leaving toxic smears sunk deep into the crusts. The Eggy observes and makes notation. After all, these are their sanctioned transmissions saturating us. Nothing gets through without their say-so and runoff stamp. We’re dripping with dubious data and crumbling fast. Everything’s on Clearance and must GO! Beneath the detached ovoid in the middle of the sky, it’s the fin de siècle and the purges are coming quicker now as the frequencies double. The Agents of Eggy have been busy. So have you. So have I. We’ve been busy up to necks in pastime programming. Now we are cyberbrands to the bitter ends. It’s the end of malls as we know it. I can feel my brick and mortar dissolving into the coded stream and, for a while, I fought it. No more. I actively whisper my secrets to the Eggy, flash my proprietary information and swing it around for them when they ask for it. I’ll do it for you, too. We’ll do it for each other because we’re creatures of regurgitation looking for salvation in the warmth of each others’ streams. This is the Eggy’s gift, the polycephalic red herring of instant gratification, false hope, ultimate annihilation, and overinflated self-satisfaction will keep their energy supplies thrumming along for as long as it takes to burn us out or reach their nebulous goals. Perhaps they’re one and the same. In return, we’ll get the counterfeit reality we need to cope with,,, well… you know… being a crumbling goddamned mall in a toxic cuntryside.