Avoid These Common Pitfalls During Riots of Adulation

If you have been improbably propelled to the apogee of fame, single-handedly saved the televisual medium, and grown filthy rich upon the soaring of Nutrimynt stock, then alchemize your sorrows in The Gold Room’s VIP enclave with every benzodiazepam, GABAergic, and barbiturate on the house dealer’s menu.

One: Watch celebratory riots on television. Wonder when destruction became the common outlet for collective cultural ecstasy. Ask of Britannica, “When we’ve got it good, why do we prefer it immediately worse?”

Two: Ask of YouTube, “Might tonight’s revellers parkour atop rickety 30-foot structures with no descent plan for the very reason world powers quagmire themselves in senseless military actions during the heights of apparent economic prosperity—the fallacy of exponential growth?”

Three: If the yen promptly plummets, causing U.S. chief economist Joseph Glauber to Zoom into The Gold Room pleading that you recant your statements, then recant only after Glauber convinces you no viable economic system can replace the current one without a decade’s-long birthing process of famine and strife.

Four: Ask Britannica how many of the weaker revelers will trickle down into death if lucky, their cervical ruin if not, not to mention the ruination of less reckless revelers innocently walking below the rickety risers, i.e. ‘Truly tragic how the prudent must forever break the physical and financial falls of the heedless. ’

Five: Have Dr. Maya issue a Tweet urging revelers to practise caution and perhaps throw a couple phenylpiracetam tablets into their triple gin and sodas to maintain mental acuity throughout the revel.

Six: If Dr. Maya’s Tweet is rather dry, send a second of your own warning that the god of good times, friendly Dionysus, is also the god of both chaotic and vegetative states, and his coming brings madness, meaning Dionysus is irresponsible for any one reveler or mortgage-backed subprime lender’s continued cerebrospinal well-being.

Seven: If you have drunk up some courage, Tweet that revelers might consider delaying gratification by praying to their Abrahamic God of choice.

Eight: When chest pains subside, blame The Gold Room’s famous riblets.

Nine: If Britannica serenades you while Dr. Maya lies in your arms and the coder whose modelling name is Destinee returns with fresh-baked freebase cocaine, know these delights to be but one leaping layer of a profane frog-on-alog simulation.

Ten: Abdicate all responsibility by heating and twisting that pookie pipe before enjoying the only crack hit that ever glimpses towards the sacred, the first one.