The Bullshit Machine – called the Boobbing Costas 18000 – rattled on about various topics fed to it by the PropMasters. “Enough of this!” blurted Ary, and commenced to driving a reinforced steel crowbar into the heart of his set. No sparks flew like he imagined would, just the sound of plastic and metal grinding and writhing, along with the picture trying to continue the broadcast and the voice of the 18000 cutting in and out until alas, the machine was inert and silent. Ary pumped his fist and gave the machine one more vengeful thrust – a “fuck you” gesture directed at this surrogate for the world at large. Quiet. No more hypnotic glow and droning sound putting him into a hypnotic state: he was free. He sat down on the couch and examined his work: a flatpanel tv with a crowbar sticking out from it. He got up, went to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers until he found it: a black sharpie. He walked back to the tv room and uncapped the pen, signed his name in the bottom corner of the screen, and capped the pen. He sat back on the couch to re-examine his work. He nodded. The sun went down. Darkness. Ary sat and smiled and stared and listened to something he hadn’t heard since–childhood, perhaps?—his own thoughts….