With the sweet singing song of Curtis' Earth Angels buzzing in your ear, and vibrating your essential insides, you sally forth. Once again, like so often happens to your manic mind, you are invincible and not but good can come of you. Nay, not just you, your entire generation has been freed from the judgmental authoritarian burden of the Hegemonic Capitalistic Aryan Patriarchy which has mashed their minds to mush. No, you are free, as are your brethren, and now, with the ultimate edible ally, your lovely, lovely Earth Angels, you can bite back, and change the flow of societal tyranny.... and maybe get your student debt erased while you're at it.
So how are you going to get out the word that you can feed everyone on roaches, while simultaneously seeking investors to help bolster your own private monopoly on bug crunching? Wait, maybe don't say that last part out loud, either way, you'll need a social media expert to help design a website. You recall a mate from uni that specialized in socializing, he hid in his dorm room, zoomed to the screen, and amassed like a bajillion facial-friends, he must be an online genius! You dial up Macplonder Tydelfart with your proposal. He asks for dollars immediately as he begins crafting your immortal online presence. You lay back and enjoy the platonic caresses of the bugged masses, and dream. Oh you dream! How long have you been lazing static? A month? You telephoney your main man and learn that he's oh so busy, but just this week he's about to complete your webbed masterpiece! Oh glee! You toss off for another few months before remembering that your contemporary molder of minds is busy whiling away on your dime. You contact him again, and he again informs you that it's JUST about ready, oh joyous, joyous, eternal plotterdamn! Time to take another multi-month nap.
When next you ponder the state of your global domination of the sexpedal meat market, you find a blank empty space where once you heard news from Macplonder. You try a few more times, but to no avail. Well this simply will not do! What sort of example is he setting for your generation's domination of the future space station? Not much really. You launch into your bug suit, and go zipping off into the sky, their million antennas tuned into Macplonder's specific life vibrations. Soon you narrow in, and swoop down through an apartment window high in the sky. Tydlefart is splayed out on the ground, eyes spiraling around deep into an open world video game. The limitless possibilities a group of overworked programmers conceived at gun point floods his senses.
“What the hell man!” you scream. “What happened to the youth food revolution?”
“Oh man.... look, you see, it's not my fault. Like, I got a degree in social media engineering and everything, but I also learned in my social studies class that, like, I probably have this really rare disease, well, like, it's not rare annymore, but just not a lot of people know about it. So like, most people our age, like, have Umlauter's Affliction. It like, makes it really hard to do anything, because, like, Post-Modernism, and like, nihilism, and like, existential-whatever. Like, God is dead right? And nothing matters? So like, I just don't have to do anything if I don't wanna right. And like, this video game is WAY more fulfilling than actually like, doing what I've been paid to like, do. And like, robots or whatever are going to do all the work stuff anyways, so like, I'm owed a salary man, and like, what's the point? So like, ya, you should pay the second half of my salary for this year, because like, whatever. I'm mentally ill right? Like.... feed me”.
It is at this point you start to ponder whether the human race deserves to eat anymore. Of course you could have just, you know, like.... done the work yourself too, but like, that's not what you studied in school, and like, well.... god IS dead and all......