…And it came to pass in those days that a piece of toast was decreed by those in the vast spaces of the meeting. Behold ye, sinners, the dynamic culture thereof, and how a world did end.
“Toast”, cried the dynamic geriatric, famous for his ability to almost use furniture. “Yeah!” yelled the multitude. “…But how?” they wailed. The challenge was great; the minds were flickering with the implications.
“You’ve got a plan, boss!” said the perceptive young 50 year old sycophant, astutely.
An expression, perhaps, or possibly erosion, crossed the enigmatic features of the boss. It was a look of greed, power, and lust. Or maybe the senility was trying to escape again.
The insiders looked on admiringly but with caution. The boss had an unusual hairstyle, largely because his hairdresser hated his guts, and the resulting haystack was sometimes a clue to the dark logic under it. If the mess on top moved, something was actually going to happen. If it didn’t, they could go and frolic in the park unless those big butch butterflies were around.
The hair moved, erratically. Something was going to happen. The level of tension rose. You could feel the dynamics, oozing out of their various orifices.
“Yes”, he replied eventually. He looked around at his cohorts, his legions in this war on toast. They were a good bunch. Loyal, punctual, and absolutely talentless. They were the perfect mix of futility, cheap greed, and utter dependency.
“We need thought leadership!” he exclaimed. “We need insights, inputs, and outputs. We need people called Nigel making passionate evangelisms among the masses. We’ll form a working group, and start a project.”
The hordes swooned. Action! Decision! A room full of ties straightened up in their chairs, instinctively.
The perceptive young 50 year old was chosen to lead the team. He was a real go-getter that got. He started with the thought leadership. He scoured the Earth, or somewhere similar.
He found Ard O’Veering, the dynamic instigator of seminars which appeared out of nowhere in New York. The crusty old 20 year old was full of vinegar, pithy observations, and about three bottles of Jack. Just the guy to really pin down the ethics, meaning and spiritual flavors of toast.
He found Pew Tress Smugly, hard case marketing genius and occasional arsonist, perfect for the difficult task of making toast. Smugly was able to expound the true values of thermodynamics, oxidization, and flammable materials to any business gathering. He was a persuader, an influencer, a clairvoyant, and able to kill people with a mere 5 hour monologue on any subject. Talk about dynamic.
He found Lucid Van Duh, too… A master of social media, capable of turning Big Data in to meaningful slop with a single nuance of moving priorities and personally responsible for the Louvre becoming a dry cleaning franchise. “Him look dynamic”, reasoned the 50 year old sycophant cunningly.
Didn’t know that, eh?
The team was assembled at a meeting, and the feathers flew as these experts battled for supremacy over the toast project. The conversational got technical, fast, and most of the audience were lost early in the melee of ideas.
Ard O’Veering: “We toast, do we not? We estrange the carbohydrates in coarse gestures, do we not? We singe We howl at the moon, but do we gyrate at the tides?” he asked.” We should become as one with the toast!” he roared.
Pew Tress Smugly disagreed, vehemently: “We should create new meanings! Is it enough to merely toast, when we could incinerate our way to a whole new civilization on a single slice of bread?”
Lucid Van Duh threw a colossal monkey wrench in to the meeting with a savage riposte: “Flard. Sub toastal ecumenical leanings. Drive toast to movies. Zab woof. Nootle not lest your smoods betray your true objectives.”
They didn’t actually start beating each other up, but wow, was it dynamic. The only thing they agreed on was that media coverage of The Toasting was required, and their fees.
The boss smiled, and the mob cringed. He got up on the table and said, “Agreed! A budget of $15 million will be used for the project.” Then he did a little dance, singing Camptown Races in the nasal tones so popular at karaoke nights. The crowd went wild.
Dynamically, they set up the dynamics of the project, which obviously had to have good dynamics or it wouldn’t have been dynamic. People were sent on working retreats to learn how to antagonize carbohydrates with coarse gestures. Haggard but mindlessly optimistic faces appeared in the malls. They arranged groups to howl at the moon while others surveyed recruits for gyrating at the tides. People who identified strongly with toast were surveyed, and had to be restrained in some cases.
Other groups were sent in search of meanings, with orders to capture them and return them to the office for evaluation. Serial toast-burners were brought in for questioning and training purposes. A group of specialists were sent looking for a civilization to compare to slices of bread.
A Flard Task Group was set up to find flards for staff indoctrination, preferably those flards with strong but discreet religious ties. Cinemas were besieged with people bringing their toast to premieres. Zab woofs, a particularly cynical type of dog, were bred in huge numbers. Nootles, nootling, and any other activities were banned, causing some annoyance among nootle-vendors around the town. Smood management (the art of smoothing your moods until you don’t know what you think about anything) classes were rigidly enforced for all staff. Objectives of any kind were forbidden to be mentioned.
The media production people were invited, then found themselves subject to non-disclosure contracts, orientation lectures, and seminars from the three stalwart thought leaders. They agreed that $15 million sounded about right for the project. Allowing for other costs, that blew out The Toast budget to about $40 million.
Nobody cared. Life was good. Ideas were challenging and exciting. Many of the staff had never tried Smooding, and found it very helpful in their relationships, personal and professional.
Talkback radio stars had orgasms on air about The Toast. They proclaimed it a moral essential, a key issue in modern democracy, and rather cute. Game shows and reality shows included people talking about The Toast to the exclusion of all other subjects. Even the standing room only state of North America, now covered five layers deep in management consultants, was rarely remarked upon.
It was perhaps inevitable that a wider stage for The Toast was envisaged. The three deus ex washing machina decided that political leverage was required, and managed to persuade representatives from government and opposition to provide inputs. Another $20 million sailed majestically by as the organization, tired but proud, cheered.
Soon, the world was involved. National budgets included funding The Toast as a core economic policy. Huge amounts of business were generated for toast training, therapy, and related needs. Flards roared. The moon was howled at by millions of people. Tides were gyrated at, whether they liked it or not. Smooding was entered in to civil law, and included in corporate law as a nice touch.
The military industrial complex, of course, couldn’t be left out. Toast bombers, Toast ICBMs, and Toast robots with Stealth Smooding capabilities were churned out in vast numbers.
Zab woofs were appointed to executive positions, mainly because unlike the constantly smooding humans, they knew when and whom to bite or urinate upon. Arson became an Olympic sport. Toast burning was carried out in mass ceremonies, oversighted by High Smooding Priests. The Toast Day became a public holiday.
Then a revolutionary idea occurred – Why not put something on the toast, like marmalade, or jam or something? It took the mighty intellects four years to think of it, but it was a major, and for a while, significant, revelation. Fortunately, no actual wars occurred, but global tensions were high, even when subjected to Mass Smooding.
Came the big day – The actual Toasting. Expectations were high. The boss appeared before the world in his Smood Suit, his haystack hair gleaming in the sun. The sound of a world saying “Goshickles!” was heard.
He placed the toast in the toaster. It arose, glowing crisply from the heat of the 4000 degree, ultra-tactful, super laser toaster. He smiled. He buttered the toast, added jam, reheated, and ate it.
A silence ensued.
A voice was heard – “You mean… That’s it?” asked the voice.
The global economy collapsed. The Toast-oriented society, its ethics, its values, and most importantly its stock prices, lost all meaning. The chaos was un-Smoodable. A world ended, if not before the next thing it toasted was the boss and his haystack hair, which turned out to be an actual haystack.
Moral of story – If you believe for a minute anything means anything but exactly what it’s supposed to be and what it’s supposed to do, you’re even dumber than you think you are. Smood if you can.
In keeping with the practices of other highly reputable scientific journals, a small fee of anything which can actually be processed by PayPal to the tune of $2938443982473497429384 is payable for reading this article. If enough people read it, I’ll be able to pay my phone bill for all the counseling I have to do as a result of writing it. Your cooperation and prompt payment is much appreciated – If not entirely believed.
Sydney Media Jam is now back. Seems the changeover from Yahoo meant that some stuff went missing, too. I had entries for June 2015 as the latest…. Anyway, we has returned, so there.