The Sound of Computer Science
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We push our way through the glass doors of the university computer lab.
Everyone of us has an aluminum baseball bat in hand.
We walk to the front of the room. One kid notices us but most are rapt on their screens. One student out of 40 is in a word-processing program. The rest are surfing the internet.
"Hey," I shout.
Kids look up at me. One in the front row wearing headphones doesn't, so I raise my bat and crack a good hard swing at the back of his monitor. The thing spins, caught on cables, and hits the floor. The tube shatters jaggedly.
The kid takes off his headphones, mouth open.
"All right," I say. "Do I have your attention?"
Kids are nodding.
"This is an impromptu class," I announce. "I'll be your instructor. Assisting me today --" I point with my bat "-- are my assistants."
They stand with arms crossed.
"Now," I continue. "It's not bad enough that by attending this institution of higher learning you're doing the equivalent of subscribing to a magazine: sliding solidly into a demographic and making yourselves the soft target of every marketing firm in the world."
I'm pacing, swinging the bat like a scythe. "It's not bad enough that you're being taught to think by a bunch of academics who are products of the same incestuous mental circle-jerk. It's not bad enough that going into debt to be here is initiating you into the Bulimic credit-frenzy that's got the rest of our irresponsible nation by the balls -- put it on credit, it's okay -- no. Oh, no."
I rub my forehead. "Jesus."
I sneer. "It's not bad enough you're making yourselves the Xerox copies of every other Limp Biskit college fuckabout. Binge spending and binge drinking. Consuming yourselves into oblivion."
"No," I say. "Now you're surfing the internet, too. Surfing, chatting, buying, placing personal ads."
I pause. "I'll bet you're skipping class to surf the fucking internet."
I search the room angrily. "Who's skipping class to surf the web. Show yourself!"
A few timidly raise their hands.
"Gah!" My bat hammers a table and they jump. "The internet is turning you into pawns," I shout. "Every bit of individuality and self-discovery you're supposed to be sucking out of this cesspool is being wasted on you people. Whatever small thing you may learn is wasted as soon as you jack into these damn computers. You are in the process of creating the biggest target market in history. Your generation -- every freaking one of you -- sleeps, eats, shits the internet. And if I want to sell something to you, all I have to do is use your internalized internet language."
Overcome with anger I beat a monitor and and computer into shards before a teary kid with Ambercrombie & Fitch across his chest.
"Now," I say, breathing heavily. "It's not just selling you crap, fruitcakes. It's politics, too. If you all think alike, you're easier to control. McLuhan liked to say television was the opiate of the masses -- but that's old hat. You're smarter than that. Now we've got Metafilter to control your weak minds. You think that's debate? That's slant, kids. You're ignoring the classes your parents are busting their asses and you went into debt to pay for so you can get the message from the perfect sub rosa medium. You want somebody to listen to you, you make them think you're saying what they want to hear. Seventy percent of the profiles on Metafilter are government agents."
I smile at their shaking heads. "Don't worry. It's better if you don't believe me."
Then I point with my bat at a window that's nearly covered by flyers. "See that? It's called the outside world. Get up. Get out there. Lie in the grass. Read some Edward Abbey. Have sex. Ride a bike. I'm offering you an opportunity to live real lives."
I walk between two rows of computers and hold up my bat like a torch. "Take this bat, and destroy these computers. Free yourselves."
Looking around, meeting their nervous eyes, I say: "Who's with me?"
One of my assistants clicks his fingers. "Boss," he says. "Campus security."
"Who wants to live?" I demand.
Ambercrombie & Fitch grabs the bat out of my hand and annihilates the first machine he can reach. He howls like a Wookie.
Suddenly the room is a mess of flying plastic. I nod to my teaching assistants. Fat campus cops are looming.
Chase scenes ensue.
Outside, blinking in the sunlight, I wipe a tear.
James Stegall is home! Glorious, glorious home! Welcome back, baby.