Fuck cool! Cool is a fucked-up tyrant! Cool is a set of shackles and
hogties. In the same way insulted men invariably rise up to fight back,
and so find their behavior controlled and determined by others, cool
turns people into kneejerk prisoners of conditioned reflex and ruptured
imaginations. When rebellion is in reflex, then cool plagues your mind
with the obligatory reversals.

Blue prisoners file through tall wall halls. Somewhere in here is the
bright nozzle of newness. It's hidden behind a pile of boxes. There are
piles of boxes everywhere. They can easily be stacked to reach the
banana-shaped escape cords. There is, though, a noticeable lack of
stacks.

A marked lark of parks. A marble rumble of pustules. Whatch out! Thatch
out! Snatch out! Hatch out! That's what the sign says on some of these
trapdoors. Pull the string! Tumble out onto the soft grass below. And
there you see a black box hanging in the air on skyhooks. From inside,
the cackle of desperate, hysterical laughter, and the clattering of
sycophants.

Shall I wear my sycophant pants? Pants made of Yes-Men?

The sun reappears as the box moves slowly off into the distance. Phlox
and wildflowers dot the hills. There are no Teletubbies here.

In their natural environment, the Teletubbies are carnivorous, with razor
sharp teeth which they use to seize prey, sever their spines, then tear
off chunks of flesh. However, because of the overabundance of nitrogen in
our atmosphere, the Teletubbies have become sedate and dreamy.

Beware! Once they perfect the technology of the nitrogen nose-filter,
their reign of terror will begin in earnest.