Mrs. Mini and Mr. Malcolm and the New Commandments

Tweeney did what was lucrative, so dropping her pants to outrage feminists was perfectly aligned with the business model. She had retro mansions to remodel, after all, and retro mansions required all the latest technology.

The new economy—which was actually the old economy with better tracking software—was simple:

Sort-of Young Attractive Person, a YAPPER, who was sort of talented does something antisocial, rebellious, or outrageous.

Outraged Spectators, or OSes, rush in to have Opinions, or O’s.

Opinions increase Tweeney’s brand recognition.

Brand translates to clicks.

Clicks become money.

“Algorithm” was the old buzzword. SEO was another old buzzword. Engagement. Reach. Impressions. Conversion. The internet had been doing this for decades now, and marketing had enjoyed plenty of time to evolve.

Only decades?

It felt like forever.

Life was increasingly shaped by these things while everyone continued insisting they were moving independently through it.

HA!

Plenty of people were annoyed. Plenty were uninterested. That was fine. There were click farms to compensate, along with the senior citizens of Fakebook, the professionally outraged on TikerTape, the recreationally offended in group chats, and millions of ordinary people who had made the catastrophic mistake of pausing for three seconds when they opened their browser to check their email.

The machine did not need love.

It needed attention.

And maybe attention was even too strong a word.

It needed...

Habit.

Hold the eyes long enough and you could slip in a suggestion.

A cream for creping skin.

An insecure fifty-year-old woman might unconsciously compare her arm to the thirty-year-old actress who looked twenty.

A supplement.

A membership.

A streaming service.

A little distraction relief.

A QUICK SALE ending in fourteen minutes on Amazing.com that would, miraculously, happen again tomorrow.

Meanwhile, coupon codes from Ebu, Etzy, Tume, and GetTar flooded email and SMS.

BUY NOW.

LAST CHANCE.

WE MISS YOU.

YOUR CART IS LONELY.

The machine was glorious.

And Tweeney was simply this year’s pair of shiny new tits replacing the tarnished, exhausted shiny new tits from last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.

Cash in before they forget you.

“Who is this person, dear?”

“I don’t know. Actress, maybe?”

That was being famous now.

You were recognized.

People had feelings attached to you.

Love.

Hate.

Envy.

Disgust.

Imagine having no control over what was attributed to you, clipped from you, invented about you, memed from you, sold beside you, attached to your name, detached from context, and recirculated FOREVER.

“Here Lies Tweeney. She Had T&A That Could Have Been Better.”

“Who is that, dear? Some actress?”

“I don’t know. Don’t care.”

You might cash in before that happened.

You might figure: fuck it. Get the mansion while the mansion is available.

Because soon someone younger arrives.

Someone prettier.

Someone willing to reveal one additional square inch of something.

Someone so humble and obedient they’re willing to do anything they’re told.

Someone who creates a new argument.

A strong feeling.

Everyone rushes over.

The old scandal sits abandoned beside the highway, hugging her T&A.

“Here lies Tweeney. It was good while it lasted.”

“Who is that, dear? An actress?”

“Don’t know.”

Delete.

Everyone hollowed themselves out trying to get rich enough to escape the machine hollowing everyone out.

Was there an amount of money that fixed that?

Could you purchase a spiritual awakening?

Perhaps it came with concierge service.

Perhaps there was a retreat.

FireMenPalooza: Reconnect With Your Authentic Self — $18,999 Early Bird Pricing.

Mrs. Mini looked up from her tablet.

“Who is this person, Malcolm?”

Mr. Malcolm adjusted his glasses.

“I don’t know.”

“Actress?”

“Possibly.”

“Was she in something?”

“I assume so.”

“Was it good?”

“No idea.”

“Then why do I know her face?”

Mr. Malcolm considered this.

“Because you have been shown it. Again.”

Mrs. Mini frowned.

“That isn’t the same thing as caring.”

“No.”

“Or importance.”

“No.”

“Or relevance.”

“Not remotely.”

Mrs. Mini looked back at the screen.

“Well, everyone seems terribly worked up.”

“That is how it works.”

“How what works?”

“The new old machine.”

Mr. Malcolm leaned back.

The new old economy, he explained, was actually the old new economy with better surveillance. A popular formula was simple:

Young Attractive Person—a YAPPER—does something rebellious, antisocial, dangerous, sexy, offensive, ridiculous, or preferably several of those things at once.

Outraged spectators rush in to have opinions.

The opinions become engagement.

Engagement increases distribution.

Distribution creates the appearance of importance.

The appearance of importance creates more engagement.

“So people create the importance by complaining about the importance?”

“Precisely. Or they argue about the lack of importance. Any quality of engagement works as long as engagement is achieved.”

Mrs. Mini looked impressed.

“That is wonderfully stupid!”

“I know! It’s been made extremely profitable while being completely useless and requiring almost no effort once it gets moving.”

The machine did not require affection.

It did not require admiration.

It did not particularly care whether anyone enjoyed themselves.

Sometimes it worked better if the experience was extremely unpleasant.

Derangement was amazing!!!

It all extracted attention.

Hold the eyes for another four seconds and you could slip in an advertisement.

Crepe-skin cream.

A supplement.

Some Halloween decor.

Christmas decor for people hooked on the idea of the War on Christmas.

MAN!

What a lucrative campaign that was.

Better than Cat People versus Dog People.

A streaming subscription.

An Angel Network subscription for the War on Christmas crowd and the homophobic types.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Family Network for those with kids.

What wonderfully defined markets.

A meal kit.

PROTEIN! ORGANIC! GLUTEN FREE! VEGAN!

Encourage the group identity.

Define the market.

Sell to the group.

Then put it on sale.

A seventy-percent-off sale that had somehow been seventy-percent off every Tuesday since 2018.

BUY NOW.

LAST CHANCE.

WE MISS YOU.

<3 YOUR CART MISSES YOU. <3

YOUR CART HAS DEVELOPED ABANDONMENT ISSUES.

WE WANT TO HEAR YOUR OPINION!

WE CARE WHAT YOU THINK!

And while we have your attention... WE HAVE A SALE ON TOILET PAPER. WHILE SUPPLIES LAST. SHORTAGES!!! ENVIRONMENTALISTS ARE TaKiNg OuR TOILET PAPER AWAY! BUY BAMBOO TOILET PAPER. RECYCLED TOILET PAPER! Ew... BUY TOILET PAPER WITH A POLITICIAN’S FACE ON IT. HA! BUY TOILET PAPER WITH LAVENDER. THERE IS A SHORTAGE! With options. “What are we short on?” “Double ply.” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” It was the apocalypse.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mini’s email announced urgent coupon codes from Ebu, Etzy, Tume, GetTar, Amazing.com, and seventeen companies she could not remember ever encountering.

“Malcolm?”

“Yes?”

“Why does Amazing.com tell me this sale will never happen again when it happened yesterday?”

“Perhaps time is nonlinear there.”

“Har har, smarty-pants.”

“Perhaps tomorrow it will be sold by a new Smash Keyboard company.”

She deleted the message. Another arrived.

The seller via Amazing.com was KLJOPIDSFUPOIHJFreed.

She deleted that one too.

Then PIOHYDF(SY**&KissXOXO had a sale for exactly the same thing.

The celebrity economy worked much the same way. There was always someone newer. Someone younger. Someone prettier. Someone more willing to cause an argument. The fresh face replaced last year’s fresh face, who had replaced the fresh face before that. Everyone was encouraged to cash in quickly.

Fame (it’s shadowy form that is very forgettable) had become produce. It was farmed. Like Brussel sprouts or asparagus.

Best consumed before the date stamped on the package.

“Imagine being famous now,” Mrs. Mini said.

“I’d rather not.”

“No control over what gets attributed to you.”

“None.”

“Things clipped out of context.”

Always.”

“Things you never said.”

“Certainly.”

“Things turned into memes.”

“Immediately. Now produced infinitely by AI and distributed by chatbots.”

Mrs. Mini thought about this.

“It’s rather like erroneous historical quotations.”

“Ahhh!” Mr. Malcolm nodded.

A secondary source incorrectly attributes something to a famous person. Someone copies it. Then someone copies the copy. Eventually ten thousand graphics appear containing the person’s portrait and something invented by a wellness blogger in Tampa.

Like Pew studies and Graduate Study dissertations. Medical studies. Polls.

Mrs. Mini raised one finger solemnly.

“I shall never tell a lie.”

“Lincoln?”

“Jesus?”

“Oprah?”

“Who was that? An influencer?”

“Did they have those back then?”

Neither knew. That was the point. Once enough people repeated something, origin, authenticity, accuracy, verifiability ceased to matter. Visibility impersonated Truth. Unlike Tweeney, Truth put on clothes to appear respectable, even if it was discussing her shiny new tits that were already starting to tarnish.

Repetition impersonated importance. Popularity impersonated value. Mrs. Mini set down her tablet.

“This seems unhealthy.”

“Yes.”

“What should we do?”

Mr. Malcolm considered the matter carefully.

“Perhaps a new civilization requires new commandments.”

Mrs. Mini found a dry-erase marker.

Mr. Malcolm got the old large whiteboard out.

THE NEW COMMANDMENTS Thou shall unsubscribe. Thou shall click Not Interested. Thou shall block freely and without ceremony. Thou shall not hate-follow. Thou shall not mistake repetition for importance. Thou shall not mistake virality for truth. Thou shall not mistake visibility for value. Thou shall remember that outrage is engagement. Thou shall not donate free emotional labor to an attention machine. Thou shall meet thy friends somewhere without a comment section. Thou shall make dinner. Thou shall walk outside. Thou shall read things longer than a caption. Thou shall listen to entire songs. Thou shall make things badly and enjoy making them anyway. Thou shall create more than thou consumes. Thou shall permit beautiful things to remain unphotographed. Thou shall allow experiences to occur without turning them into content. Thou shall remember that a quiet life is still a life. Thou shall remember that something can matter deeply without trending. Thou shall name the media cycle when thou sees it. And when the machine cries— LOOK HERE. LOOK HERE. LOOK HERE. Thou shall look somewhere else.

Mrs. Mini read the list twice.

“I like these commandments.”

“So do I.”

“We can update and change them as needed.”

“Do you think we can follow them?”

Mr. Malcolm put down his tablet. He looked out the window. A bird landed in the yard. Neither of them photographed it.

“I think we already do.”