We've awoken from dreams of scripted households to a nightmare of a microwaved world. Instant gratification comes to the front door dressed in blood-stained Gucci, a warning tattooed on their fingers: “They've planted viruses in suburbia. Run for your lives!” No one's hip unless they run in a square and we're driving comatose. A shanty town has been built at Lincoln's feet, held together by dollar bills. The residents listen to eyeliner symphonies sung by an army of underage prostitutes (we gotta soften the shells!) Everyone plays Big Brother today since their peers shoveled artificial sweetener into the corneas. Dear uncle has decorated our faces with a money shot and asked “Are you full?” We're not even half.