There is a sixth dimension beyond that which is accessible to men and women. It is a dimension as affluent as Jeffrey Bezos and as impoverished as a young Jay-Z. It is the middle ground between the $120,000 Focal Utopia 18k Headphones and the shitty wired earbuds that come with the phone packaging, between the enlightened and the cringe, and it lies between the armpits of men and the most basic level of comprehension. This is the dimension of fuckery and black magic. It is an area which we call… the No Flex Zone.
In a minute, you’re about to hear the tale of seven biological organisms, each of whom succumbed to the egomaniacal desire to purchase the awfully gaudy $159 AirPods. Released in 2016, the AirPods were the precursor to the legendary $1000 iMac stand of 2019, weathering the test of time through deception, deceit, and an inordinate amount of human-on-human cruelty. Here, as these men and women basked in the glory of their spoils, they will soon learn that all that glitters an off-brand white color, is in fact, stained with the blood of millions. And in a world struggling to get its act together, they will learn the true definition of fear. All’s fair in love and war in the No Flex Zone.
- PRIDE: At 7:59 a.m., Jackie Reefer was running late to class. After grueling hours of late- night studying, she had fallen asleep on her desk and missed her alarm. Now the clock was ticking.
Her eyes darted quickly from her Apple Watch to the road. She was pacing herself out of fear of exhaustion, and an unwillingness to knock out for the second time in a row. With her, symbiotically linked, were a pair of glistening AirPods, sticking out of her ear like an erect mast. Of course, nothing was playing in the earphones. Jackie merely enjoyed the “ambience” they provided as the wind fluttered through her hair. Jackie Reefer was no newbie to the world of opulence. Her Pink Flamed Maserati lay in tow at the San Rafael Parking Lot, her Canada Goose jacket wept tears of sadness as the sun reached its peak, and her Supreme brick (oh yes, a fucking brick) weighed down papers with images of various presidents and numbers. But her AirPods were special. They were not bought on Daddy’s credit card, or Mommy’s credit card, or even her own credit card. They were actually “brought” on, after a month of daily prayer to her Tim Cook shrine which was hidden in the broken heating system, as all secret things should be. She says it was a gift from the GOAT himself, others say it was “Lost and Found”, but she chose a definition that sufficed for her. Upon reaching Campbell Hall, she took her seat at the back of the room, in the upper right corner, to avoid embarrassing the professor with her dankest of accessories. Class proceeded normally until the clock struck 8:50.
Jackie knew the time had arrived to exit the building. She gathered up her things, her notebooks, binders, pens, etc… but then she noticed that her AirPods were nowhere to be found. She tried using its wild mating call: that clicking sound that’s really satisfying when the case snaps shut on its magnets, but, alas, it was to no avail. Upon an inspection of the row in front of her, she discovered the AirPods, but something was different from before: they were merged with the ground. Another classmate tapped her gently on the shoulder asking her if she was going to pick up her precious babies, and she tried. But they wouldn’t come off. The classmate asked, “Um…is there something I can help you with?”
Jackie simply replied, “No!”
The classmate responded, “Oh, it looked like your AirPods were stuck in the ground or something. That’s hilarious because they suck ass! They’re like the worst earbuds on the market.”
Refusing to let the loves of her life take a beating, Jackie instead insisted, “They’re not stuck, they’ve simply evolved. Now you can listen to the voice of all things.” Jackie pressed her lips against the floor and kissed the ground; it was now sacred. Stroking the floor with her ear, she listened… and heard. “I hear it, the voice of the GOAT. He says to call the fellow podders to the ground. Reap and you may sow!” At this point, a flock of AirPodders surrounded Jackie, wanting to be privy to the unusual ceremony she was performing on the floor. “Bend over and pledge allegiance to a brand new AirPod: The GroundPod!!!”
“All Hail GroundPod,” the loyalists chanted, idealistically following Jackie’s every command.
“Oh I can hear it!” said one student.
“Me too!” cried another, unrelated to the hashtag of a similar name.
It is said that Jackie Reefer and the rest of those podders at that fateful 8 a.m. Campbell Hall lecture are still there to this day. Time is at a standstill in their now-vacant mindscapes, subsisting solely on the luscious voice residing inside that mystic GroundPod. On an unrelated note, the janitor noted the AirPods fell within a hair’s breadth of the men’s urinal, whose peculiar flushing mechanisms have commonly been mistaken for gods of a new world.
- LUST: Raised in Topeka, Kansas, Jerome Erwing knew very little of the outside world. To him, life resembled the ramblings of Stephen King’s In the Tall Grass… just basically a bunch of tall grass with no escape. Living in corn his whole life had dulled his senses, making him immune to the judgments society had yet to place on him. Upon getting accepted to the University of Southern California, Jerome came to regret his decision. Despite having to work hard to get into the university, he was competing with kids who could row a boat without ever rowing in their entire life. Students who got high scores on the SAT and ACT, without actually ever taking the SAT or ACT. And there he was, just a young loner from the Sunflower State. More than anything, Jerome wished to fit in. Like an orange at an apple convention, he knew if he didn’t find his hook, he would never get a girlfriend or any friends for that matter. After careful research, he discovered USC kids were attracted to sacks of hollow air called AirPods. Glancing over the price, he noted the large numerical numbers affixed to the dollar sign and quickly did some cost-benefit analysis. “This simply isn’t worth it. It doesn’t even play music,” he concluded, “Oh, what the hell. I’ve got money to spend, and I certainly don’t want to buy a reasonable set of better headphones with this money.” A few days later, Jerome got his AirPods, and as fast as an acid-base reaction, he also managed to get a girlfriend. Her real name was Cassie, but Jerome called her “unimportant” as you’re about to see.
On their very first night, Jerome was a complete gentleman. He only listened to her when his AirPod wealth filters turned off, connected to her iPhone only automatically (he wasn’t about that manual connection life), and politely told her she was a basic bitch when she only brought one half of her dynamic AirPods pair. Infatuated with his AirPod’s devilishly good looks and sexy outer covering, Cassie soon invited Jerome to spend the night at her place for sex. “You start, baby, don’t worry about me. I connect quickly, it’ll come soon enough,” Jerome bellowed, mustering all the concocted bravado two wireless earbuds could muster. As Cassie undressed, she noticed Jerome hadn’t come down yet, but heard some moaning and groaning from her living room. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff. I feel like I’m really connecting with you on a physical level.”
Averting her eyes, Cassie only had the slightest of chances to witness Jerome’s silhouette against the glint of a hard, white plastic. “I can’t go through another threesome like this again. Fuck AirPods for the rest of your life, Jerome, for all I care!”
Jerome had become the very thing he hated: an “Air” head. But don’t feel too bad for Cassie, because if one simply considers the size of an AirPod orifice, it says volumes about Jerome’s own “shortcomings.”
- GLUTTONY: Supreme founder James Jebbia had found success from ripping off simple street art and selling it by the billions to young impressionable teens, but he still always wanted more. Supreme, in his eyes, was too easy a sell. “It’s a cool sounding word. Of course people are going to buy ultra-expensive clothing if it has the word ‘Supreme’ stickered all over it. I need something even gimmickier, sillier, and more conniving than I’ve ever connived before.” In the creepiest manner imaginable, James’ eyes trickled towards the glowing lightbulb he called a TV in time to witness Timothy Chef unveil Apple’s latest product: the AirPods. “Ah,” said James, “a product with just enough lackluster development behind it. I can make this work.” Rushing to his computer, James knew the R&D process would be lengthy. Opening up Adobe Photoshop, he carefully opened the Supreme logo .png file, teeming with more secrets than Gretchen Wiener’s hair. “Careful, careful,” James said as he hit Ctrl-C on the word “AirPods” from Wikipedia. “Almost there, don’t let go of the mouse.” Positioning the “AirPods” logo upon the Supreme logo, James Jebbia hit the magic button(s), Ctrl-V. “All I have to do is superimpose this image over the other and presto, new merchandise here we go!”
Fast forward to six weeks later, James Jebbia surpassed Jeffrey “Balding” Bezos as the world’s richest man. His empire, founded on a few words, bloomed into the world’s largest conglomerate: Syndicated Trademarks Unifying People In Distress (STUPID for short). Jebbia, a man once known for his business prowess, remained bored in his office without a rival. “Who can compete against you when your intended consumer regenerates itself every year with another TikTok, Musical.ly or Vine craze AND you have the largest market share? I need a challenge. No, I need the real thing. I can sell the actual AirPods even better than the word itself!” With the 5 trillion dollars of personal income he’d accrued, James Jebbia purchased Apple Co. for 6 trillion dollars in the spring of that year. With the world’s leading sociologists and psychologists at his disposal, and I guess some computer science people in the mix, Jebbia set out to launch AirPods 2.0 as a competitor to the original AirPods. “Suck on that, James,” he told himself, “Let’s see how you fight back.” But James wasn’t done beating himself over this. After James launched the AirPod 2.0, it only took another 24 hours before James announced the AirPods 3.0. “Hoho, let’s see how that cocky son of a bitch James handles this!” James said, pleased with his new invention.
Then came the AirPods 4.0, 5.0, 6.0, continuing all up until the fated release of the AirPods: Infinity. James Jebbia was stunned. What was going on! Surely the demand for these worthless pieces of plastic couldn’t be this great! Did they not even realize all he’d been doing was adding 1 to the number of each chip, processor, and spec without actually changing the thing in question? “I don’t believe it. How can they be satisfied with this product after an infinite amount of years? How can the demand for this product still even exist?” While quantum theory may deal with the abstract, it was only chaos theory that could describe the world’s obsession with AirPods: pure, unfiltered luck. James Jebbia’s immovable greed was about to meet the unstoppable demands of the toxic AirPod fanbase. Jebbia went on to live to the ripe old age of Infinity + 1, hoping to outlive his audience and get the retirement he deserved. The very next day, AirPods version Infinity + 2 released, and they never stopped. The universe soon imploded on itself as AirPodders ate the fabric of space and time, and reality as they knew it ceased to exist. And that’s how the Big Bang came about.
- WRATH: Sitting in his local laundromat, Brian Perkins leans over to check the wash cycle. The red still hasn’t washed out of his shirt yet… Brian Perkins, an incoming intern at Goldman Sachs, came into the world of banking with hopes, dreams, and optimism. When he was young and played Monopoly, he would always slyly cheat as the Banker, teaching him valuable corruption skills for later in life. In high school, he orchestrated a protest against fair taxes, using Benjamin Franklin as bribery. And in college, his senior honors thesis focused on finding out the applied force the fat stacks of the bank apply on your average Washington D.C. politician. He thought he had it all figured out. Money, riches, and fame—those were the words echoing in his head as he stepped into the firm’s headquarters. Men in business suits were flying around every conceivable corner like octopuses, squirming their way into everyone’s business. At first, Brian felt comfortable in this new atmosphere. It had an old homely charm, reminiscent of the days when the wealth divide in America was astronomically huge. “To be young again,” Brian enthused as he leaned back in his chair.
“Hi, I’m Troy, nice to meet you Brian. I work in the cubicle next to you, so it looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next year.” Initially, Brian was hesitant to accept this gesture of sincerity; on the contrary, it appeared to be fake, rendered, and inexplicably insincere. Yet, he noticed something dangling from Troy’s ear.
“Hey, why does it look like your ear just took a shit?” he asked.
“Oh, these. Well, I don’t wanna brag or anything, but these are AirPods. You know? APPLE AirPods. They cost me about $160 USD. But I paid for them in Canadian dollars because they were more expensive over there.”
“That’s nice, do they work well?” asked Brian, continuing his inquiry.
“I guess so, you can really hear the low quality music coming from the phone. By the way, you know these are AirPods, right?”
“Yes, I believe that’s what you just told me,” quipped Brian. Ok, so these were just some run-of-the-mill wireless earbuds, nothing special about them.
Oh, but they were special. At least, that was what Brian soon began to see. It started out normally at first, just casual chatter between him and Troy, before inverting into a Grimm-esque fairytale. Brian and Troy had developed a sort of daily tradition where Brian walked up to Troy, positioned his phalanges in a position resembling a widespread hi-5, before requesting of Troy, “Hey Troy, high five?” And every time, Troy would look at Brian like he was some sort of madman, and turn back only to get absorbed into his work once again. Once this occurred, Brian would physically disturb Troy’s aura of sumptuousness to make the same request of him.
Troy would respond, “Get money, get rich, get AirPods, Brian. Fuck off!”
Where was this Troy a month ago? Yes, I remember. It was before Troy saw Brian’s broke-boi bank account. It appeared, contrary to popular belief, that Monopoly money didn’t hold the same value in the real world. Brian’s feelings, on the other hand, remained perfectly clear in value. In fact, if one were to invest Brian’s initial anger into Goldman Sachs and let it mature with 15% compound interest, you would find Brian’s final amount of rage to be 159,000,000,000,000x larger than before. In simpler terms, Brian was pissed af. And one day, he just snapped. After making his second request of Troy, Brian had enough of Troy’s antics. Looking for the nearest weapons, he assembled an arsenal worthy of John Wick: a BIC pen, a box of staples, and a TI-84 graphing calculator. Troy, oblivious to this attempt at murder due to the broke nature of the murder weapons, was engrossed in his work. Brian then went in to finish the deed. Using the BIC pen, he wrote an order form for 50 packets of Heinz Ketchup from a local distributor. Using the box of staples, he united the order forms together to get a refund from corporate for his expenses. The TI-84 was the brains of the operation, doing the mathematical legwork to give Brian even more time to enact his devious plan. Oh yes, it was so devious that Brian tickled himself with his finger to reward his own genius. Using the pen to enlarge the hole in the ketchup bottle even further, he squirted the bottle onto Troy.
“Brian stop…stop!” said Troy, struggling to breathe as the vinegar-tomato solution coated his lungs. “Psyche! Ketchup doesn’t kill people dumbass!” Troy chortled, licking himself clean like a cat. Enraged, Brian knew it was time to make the whole company suffer his wrath. Lined up along the building were various ketchup bottles, and on Brian’s command, they all proceeded to uniformly coat the Goldman Sachs building in a beautiful shade of red. This ketchup explosion, commonly mistaken for a massacre, would later become the basis for the experimental horror film The Belko Experiment. The only thing Brian didn’t count on was his shirt getting red with ketchup as well.
“Dammit, now I have to go to the laundromat. This is the type of stain that’ll never come out.”
- SLOTH: In 1955, Jack Finney wrote Invasion of the Body Snatchers, a fictional novel revolving around a species of parasitic aliens who’d come to invade Earth to revitalize population growth after their planet died. Little did he know that the extraterrestrials were closer to home than he could have ever anticipated. The year was 1969, the month was October, and Chippy Tremaine eagerly awaited the arrival of his father at the front door. It had been nearly a month since his father had been deployed overseas… opening Apple’s new branch in Turkmenistan. Hearing the jangling of keys rustling against the pockets of his dad’s all too familiar Levi’s jeans propped Torrance against the door in no time. “Dad! It’s bloody great to see you again!” Torrance screamed, throwing himself upon his father. But rather than entering into the warm embrace of his father, he found himself in the clutches of gravity, slowly falling into the sunken crevices of the cement on their doorstep.
“Hello, homosapien whom I’ve generated with sexual intercourse. My neurons are creating electrochemical signals that are synthesizing a feeling of ‘happiness’ in me. My mouth is turning inside out upon itself to create a crescent. I believe you refer to these as ‘smiles.’”
Torrance thought this was strange, but not entirely uncharacteristic of his father. His father worked for Apple, after all, a company with more secrets than Area 51 and one that derived a great deal of sadomasochistic pleasure from breaking the wills of their employees.
“Oh dad, you prankster! But let’s be serious, how was Turkmenistan? Were the people nice? You can drop the act.”
A look of unbridled rage washed over his dad’s visage, and his tongue lashed out at his son, “Listen, TORRANCE, does it look like I want to give a fuck! I just want to lay down and rest! It’s been a high temperature 60 second period since I have entered a period of relaxed body homeostasis. Allow me my respite, young eukaryotic organism!”
Torrance eventually conceded, not wishing to test his father’s limits. And so Torrance’s dad rested, and rested, and rested. Days turned to months, months turned to years, years turned to centuries, centuries turned to Will Smith, and “It’s rewind time!” once again. But time doesn’t work like that, it’s a linear byproduct of a human concept pertaining to temporal relativity. And so Torrance’s dad passed away, in a method so peaceful it would have moved Jimi Hendrix to tears.
At the funeral, Torrance laid his dad down to rest, with questions lingering in his mind. All these years, and there was nothing he could do for his old man. The man was too “zen” for Torrance. Although, peering into his father’s open casket, Torrance noticed the look of peace, calm, and laziness glazed across his father’s doughy face.
“Wait, what’s that?” Torrance chirped, moving in closer for inspection. It appeared that his dad’s ear had taken a shit and refused to wipe, as there was a white substance dripping from his ear onto the ground…and it was moving towards Torrance. “Oh God, get away from me. I don’t like the color white, it reminds me of virgin ice cream cones, they have no toppings!” But the milky white liquid moved towards Torrance with the speed of a horny cheetah. “Shit, I don’t want to die by my dad’s mystical ear shit, that’s one crappy ending!”
And he didn’t die; he was happy. Funeral goers, who appeared suddenly in this story almost as if the narrator forgot to mention their presence, noticed a sudden mood swing in Torrance soon after that. The young impressionable boy now resembled a corn husk: lifeless, empty, without the drive to do anything. Torrance simply laid there on the floor of the funeral, motionless. His eyes rolled back into their sockets, his hands softened, and his mind unlocked its third inner eye. Or, at least, that was what Torrance envisioned. As the substance of unknown origin entered Torrance’s mind, he saw bliss. It was small, ergonomically snug, and the anthem of millions of satire magazines across the world… it was AirPods. Torrance’s mind began the convergence: he felt his physical being melt away and his emotional state blended with that of his father. He saw what really happened in Turkmenistan.
His father, chief scientist over Project AirPod, worked for Steve Pod and Air Cook to develop a product with the addictive properties and color of cocaine, but the reproductive prowess of a Fibonacci bunny. Steve and Air took off their human masks to reveal their true selves: villainous corporate leaders. It was almost as disgusting as aliens, only these people multiply by the tens and only exist at the very top layer of society. They look exactly like humans, and in fact were rumored to have once originated from humans, but are fueled by a desire to live in EXTREME peace. To achieve this end, they manipulate mass markets of people into buying products to create semi-one-percenters. They are neither the one-percent, but have been duped into believing they are by the steep price point of the products. It’s this illusion that fuels these consumer’s ignorant bliss, and what ultimately provides the substance for the reproduction of the one-percenters as the AirPods feed off their memories. Torrance’s dad was merely a cog in a conglomerate that went all the way back to the days of bartering (calling you out, dude that invented the wheel). And now, it was Torrance’s time to come home. Silence blasted into his ears from the faulty speakers the AirPods had morphed into and triumphantly played Torrance into his deep slumber, forever locked away from worldly activity. And he never moved again.
- GREED: Some may be thinking, isn’t this just the James Jebbia rehash from the Gluttony section? And I bet you’re just frothing at the mouth to hear the tale of Timothy Cook and Steven Jobs, the real-life inspirations for this supernatural tale. Begone I say to you, for whoever runs out of original ideas is soon fired from their daytime job. And so I begin my tale. Wendy, John, and Michael Abomination were the definition of terrible children. They smoked pot, played Fortnite, and understood way too little about proper bathroom hygiene. Mind you, they were 30, 29, and 28 respectively. What they did have, however, were a pair of AirPods each. Their parents, despite not being rich, saved up enough money to buy their kids these small gifts in the hopes of bettering their social attitude. Their response?
“Dammit Dad, you didn’t even get me the model that came out a minute ago!” retorted Wendy.
Michael exhaled, “I wanted one that wasn’t the same color as my skin… to be culturally aware!”
Then John uttered, “But I wanted a reasonably priced earbud. You shouldn’t have spent so much money on such a silly thing, you useless twats!” It should be noted John also had a particularly nasty habit of picking up English insults.
Their parents were aghast with shock. However, they loved their children and hoped that with time, appreciation of these small gifts would come. But nothing happened. The children, consumed by their greed for more and more AirPods (yes, even John), eventually drove their parents to bankruptcy. Moving out of their one-room apartment, the Abomination children duly noted, “Oh well, at least I’ve got my AirPods.” Or did they?
One night, as the three grown adults were being tucked in (I feel the need to clarify here that “tucked in” means their parents tucking the children’s AirPods into their ear), something strange happened. Once the parents vacated the premises of the motel they were temporarily staying at, a magical sprinkle of light jolted the room. A spew of fireworks encompassed the walls, and a magical twinkle reminiscent of a rip-off Disney story lined their sheets.
“By Jove, what child-friendly magic is this?” John asked. Out of nowhere, an old girl followed by a sad-looking elf entered the room. The girl was wearing attire similar to Robin Hood and claimed to be immortal.
“Hello, I’m Polly Pod, and I’m in charge of a marvelous world called Neverbland. This is my partner, SinkorSell the elf. Introduce yourself.”
“Buuuuurrprpr!” was all that SinkorSell the elf had to say.
“Rather than question why I’m seeing random hallucinations, I feel a more appropriate question is to ask you to invite me to this kingdom I’ve never even visited before. Of course I know not to notify my parents about this occult encounter. I’m quite clever that way,” said Michael, his hipster Ray-Bans puffing up with pride.
“Oh, that would be just peachy. Wouldn’t it, SinkorSell? Just peachy. However, there is a catch.”
“What’s the catch? I wear AirPods, so I know all about reading the fine print on important deals,” boasted Wendy, getting ready to strut around the room for a victory lap.
“Nothing, but the cost of admission is one pair of AirPods.”
“What do we get out of this?” the three Abomination children harmonized.
“Immortality, life-everlasting, and everything you could ever imagine,” Polly Pod beamed.
“Only immortality? What a shill! Looks like a rip-off to me. Good thing all the AirPods I have provide me with materialistic immortality. My carbon footprint, resulting from the low quality plastic AirPods use that will eventually suffocate the last breath of life out of some sea turtles, will last forever. I’m out,” said Michael.
“Me too, I only believe fantasies when they’re sold to me by a billion dollar conglomerate and not from my childlike sense of nostalgia. Unless you’re Disney, then you can take my childhood and my money. But this ain’t it chief, so back off!” said Wendy.
“It’s fucking raw! Get out of my kitchen!” decried John.
“Alright, yeesh, I’ll back off. Let’s go, SinkorSell, I’m sure we can get the Jaybirds X2 kid next door and the wired bud kid from #23. They were always good people.”
“As long as you—buuurp—buy me a beer after. Whoops, I forgot there are adults present. I meant special potion. Eat plants, buy gold, and buy JUULry, lots of it!” SinkorSell advised them. And as quickly as they came, the enigmatic pair disappeared.
And so did the Abomination children. For rather than believing the inherent mysticism that reality had to offer, the children chose to believe their own makeshift lucid dreams, fueled by the greed of their AirPods. From AirPods they arrived, and to AirPods they returned.
- ENVY: Finally, a break for the poor narrator. I’ve been doing this late into the night, and I’m too young for this. Let me just get one of these interns in the studio to take over this final segment.
***AirPod Serling doesn’t realize his mic is still hot***
AirPod Serling: Hey…what’s that you’re wearing on your ear? Are those fucking AirPods? C’mon Chad, you’ve got to be shitting me! We’ve been over this; they are strictly against the dress code. And Karen, seriously? Why do all my interns hate me so much? You know what? Give them to me.
Chad: Hey man, not cool. It’s not my fault you’re jelly of these bad boys in my ear.
AirPod Serling: Who said anything about being jealous? This is about principles. I can’t talk smack about something when my own interns stab me in the back.
Karen: Actually, we’d be stabbing you in the ear. You know, because their sound quality is so top notch.
AirPod Serling: Alright, hand them over… now!
Chad and Karen: Never! Get your own pair, you old fart!
AirPod Serling: I can’t! They don’t sell AirPods to sensible people anymore—that was the Steve Jobs era of Apple! Please, I have a high school reunion coming up, and the only way to prove I’m richer than the CEO of Tesla is to show him a pair of AirPods. That’s the only way I can become the alpha male!
Chad: I don’t know, Mr. Serling. Sounds to me like someone is already finishing the final part of the anthology.
AirPod Serling: I don’t like what you’re insinuating there, Chad.
Karen: He’s insinuating jacksquat. It’s a fact. You’re envious of our AirPods and the fact that we own them and you don’t. To all our readers who can still hear you, Mr. Serling, this man is a hypocrite! And I’m addressing the reader personally to ensure you know for a fact that AirPod Serling is the man embodying envy! Don’t be fooled. He’s addicted to Apple, but he doesn’t even own a single product of theirs. He tries buying an Apple a day in the hopes of keeping a Genius Bar doctor away! Who knew after six tales of woe, the worst one would be sitting less than three feet in front of us!
***AirPod Serling realizes his mic was still on***
AirPod Serling: Baby whale! This whole shebang is compromised! Thanks a lot, Karen! I guess I’ll just make up an impromptu conclusion. Both of you are fired, by the way!
Chad and Karen: Fine with me! But doesn’t this story needs some sort of morally dubious ending that makes readers challenge the very foundations of their beliefs in a way that creates positive and potentially widespread change?
AirPod Serling: You two are both full of shit, unlike these AirPods. At least they have more substance than you do.
Chad and Karen: They’re literally full of air. Otherwise they’d call them SubstancePods! No, maybe they should call them DipShitPods, because that’s what you are!
AirPod Serling: Damn… low blow. And here I was thinking that my self-esteem couldn’t get any lower. Oh right, our listeners. You two, get out, for realz this time!
***Chad and Karen exit the studio, and AirPod Serling dramatically turns into the mic***
Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we’ve witnessed the widespread destruction of mankind resulting from the hubris of a small white pair of earbuds. The only other small white thing with that kind of power was Napoleon. AirPods have transformed the modern landscape of the 21st century, turning musical talent into an industry that ultimately capitalizes off of trendiness and false realities. People buy into it, as the great Karl Marx once wrote, because “religion is the opiate of the masses.” Little did Marx ever realize that religion itself has transcended spiritual and physical guidelines into something even more obscure: capitalism. Out of the warmth of his bosom, Adam Smith birthed singularity into the world, sprinkled it with riches, and nurtured it with the “economy,” “free market capitalism,” and “compound interest.” And in these words, humans found comfort. They were smart-sounding, just long enough to ascribe unintentional meaning to, and easy enough to pervert in the right hands. And you can bet that last line was taken straight from a James Jebbia speech.
Driven by their unintentional addiction to money, humans catalyzed their own descent into the pits of hell. Epistemological philosopher Blue Face once said this about our ever-growing world: “I wanna see you bust it down / Pick it up, now break that shit down.” He, for any non-AirPod wearers in the audience, is of course referencing the cyclical nature of human fallacy. Stemming from the original sin of Adam and Eve, GodPods, humans have constantly been hyping these heretical objects to stature never before heard of in the history of the human race before succumbing to its vices.
Let’s reminisce on some of history’s greatest figures. Ludwig van Beethoven went deaf because he decided to use a janky-ass Ear Trumpet as opposed to the AirPods of his time. Louis XVI was beheaded because the AirPods he wore failed to warn him of the impending French crowd assembling outside of his doorstep. Abraham Lincoln died as John Wilkes Booth’s footsteps were masked by the sound of his AirPods. And most importantly, it is believed the Emus waged war on the local Australians because they rejected the patent for their new product, EmuPods.
In the grand scheme of things, AirPods have become the vehicle for so much more than what was intentioned. A small scale project conceived from the brain that brought you the iRAQ ended up reshaping the world as we know it, and it’s definitely for the worse. I’m not going to say it’s one of those “for better or worse” type of deals, because the world has all gone to the dogs, all shitty things considered, in the depths of the No Flex Zone.