"That Loud Ass Colored Silence."
Human Beatbox.
So we are going to have a simulation of democracy.
I'm going to give you four choices.
You don't know what each choice actually is.
But you are going to choose one and you
will be happy and satisfied with your choice.
And if you are not happy and satisfied with the choice made,
if it's the last president, concentrate on breaking up
all of the proceedings.
Epigraphs, your choice is between four epigraphs.
And I'm going to have you clap because that will
make me feel good about myself.
So the one that claps the loudest using a rubric
that only I know, clap calculated technology that I
patented and own, will win the epigraph of their choice.
Everyone who wants epigraph A, Clap.
[CLAPPING]
This is like playing rock, scissors, paper.
I'm learning something about most of your strategies.
I have said you will have four choices.
They will each simply be epigraph with a letter.
Waiting as though you will receive more information
is magical thinking.
How many in favor of epigraph B?
[CLAPPING]
My snark has made you self-conscious.
You are thinking to yourself, I better clap now
or he'll think I'm a magical thinker.
But you don't know my opinion of magical thinking.
You are assuming I don't like it or think it is
an inferior mode of thinking.
Epigraph C, clap now.
[CLAPPING]
Some of that clapping is because I'm funny as fuck
and you are really enjoying this.
Epigraph D.
[CLAPPING]
So it is between B and C. C had so many people
clapping for it who are outside of the special first class row.
So as if by natural decree, you're clapping
was not as loud.
Perhaps that reinforces pre-existing ideas
about your seating position.
But if I can assert that it is natural,
then perhaps I can make the argument that it is the way
things should be.
I ended with B. Epigraph Be Bring the noise, Public Enemy.
Human beatbox.
Beat yourself up, that's short the fuse of machine skin.
Patterns spattered, your seat rulers, the suit groupers,
for to repeat the Google of the future.
Beat yourself up.
Don't forget that short fuse of machine skin.
Pattern spattered, your seat rulers, the suit groupers
for to repeat the Google of the future
Shut your trap.
Shut your trap!
Picking up a rock with the noise,
brought the music that your mouth made.
We see a cool trap hit.
Mumbo jumbo, welcome to the jungle, baby.
Talking drum become drumming talk.
Shut your trap!
Shut your trap.
[APPLAUSE]