So far it’s been a catastrophe. Everything has come up ugly. And broken. We’ve gone ahead and put all our effort into this enterprise and clearly, it hasn’t been enough. We planned and planned. We could tell you the exact moment, down to the minute, when children around here would start sprouting antlers like ginger deer, all thanks to our doings. We had all the numbers, everything.

We had Pappy here who’d do a little dance when the numbers got stuck. Just there in the corner, without any music. And he’d come up with the fix. Pappy done a fine job. Never in doubt.

We were sure folks would love to pay us a little money every time they had a happy thought. And give us an extra nickel if it came in blue. We had tried it. Tested everything out repeatedly. Tested it in caves. All this fancy machinery we drug down into caves and had to run cords and everything. We even picked up the equipment and smashed it against the wall a few times: it still told us, “Go on, yer on the right path.”

This path led right up to a big pile of ash. Well. Yes.

We manufacture and sell little packets of dehydrated gravy. This is our American story.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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