STRAITJACKET

Theodore imagined himself as one of the Founding Fathers. He said, ladies and gentlemen, your emcee...
The crowd booed.
He bowed...

Ladies and gentlemen, he began reading from a scroll, it occurred to me just the other day that computers are a real gas...
The crowd was silent.
Yes, he continued, a real gas, but did you expect such great consequences...?
The crowd began to boo...

No, Theodore began again, don’t say that your computer is just a purse full of data, that those MIDI files, operating on an inter-dimensional plane, whispering devious binary to your little tot while you’re off polishing QWERTY, is worth less than the price of salt.
No, I should say more personal servers and wicked mainframes loom over our exhausted salt mines than the grain that falls by the laborer’s sickle...
No, indeed, more to be said about grain, digital grain, those fuzzy buzzy humdingers that shuffle along any given buffer...!
... We weary at a loading screen, unfulfilled, the downward repetition of refreshing ends only in utter, utter death, folks...
The crowd booed...
... Folks...
Theodore was losing the audience...

Ladies and gentlemen, he began again, let us talk about hardware, since your grasp of the oblique violence of machine language is as impressive as a turd in the sink.
You, he pointed toward the crowd, Finish that drink and hand me a stylus. Bartender, top that man off and toss over his smart phone. As for me... the wireless headset...
He turned to reveal his profile to the audience.
They began to cheer, finally on their feet crying, screaming bravo! bravo! encore!

... And Theodore thrashed around: a mostly ineffective method to move and stretch his arms.