How to Rekindle a Celebrity Romance

If TMZ reports that Britannica has entered the addictive phase of her celebrity cycle, glean that her M K ultra programming has gone haywire.

One: Even if Britannica does look wild of eye and frothed of mouth in video journalism of her confrontation with a latte artist, experience what Dr. Maya has accurately diagnosed as your “fear of missing out” and send a reconciliatory text expressing regret for having started her down this particular primrose path, but also for a cultural milieu that must MK Ultra teenagers as grist for its popular pabulum thrill.

Two: Arrange to meet Britannica and Tony Bennett at Giordano Bros. Find nothing on the menu all that ketogenic. Pop a Scurry™. Pop an Acetyl-L-Carnitine.

Three: If Britannica arrives in Majthenyi’s clutches, compare the look of bewilderment on her face to the 3-Quinuclidinyl-benzilated blues that afflicted Britney Spears and Amanda Bynes when they emerged, fundamentally unwell, bald or else fat, from their respective programming.

Four: If the ALCAR kicks in right on time, chastise the Maj:

“Listen here deadbeat, Don Lemon and the consensus makers are with me now, meaning you’ll be the one going down for Keats pyres and all the wolves of the night. I simply want my son returned. And yes, I remain egocentric and labile, so what? Would I be the first self-absorbed man to set aside delights of flesh and solvent for twenty-odd years of temperance borne solely of loving fatherhood?”

Five: If Ron’s snapped fingers malfunction Dr. Maya facedown into her arugula and cranberry salad brought from home, then no-sell Maj’s magick by forking up some liver and onions with the impertinence of someone who’s seen his share of parlour tricks.

Six: If the cartoonish squishing noise made by Dr. Maya’s face-plant alerts a counter of young women to your celebrity presence, regard the inferior mirage of their desire heatshimmering above the Giordano Bros’ griddle.

Seven: “You have all this”—Majthenyi, pointing to the estrogenic shimmer of aspirant coders and actresses, each the prettiest or else most code-savvy from their hometown, here to serve at the twin mecca of pleasing aesthetics and computational demon summoning—“You can’t have young Marc. ”

Eight: If Majthenyi snickers and hands you the business card of San Francisco’s head of Child Public Services, quasi dicat, ‘Do something about it, ’ before turning dramatically into his cape then towards the exit, know you’ve been railroaded anew by Ronald Majthenyi.

Nine: Pay the $61 bill, speak the words, “Maj, you must be puttin’ me on, ” and indulge in life’s most self-pitying indulgence—fries: the oil within and without like the fires of hell, the opposite of a smart food like the lima bean. Signal the estrogenic gals over. Admire their necks as they nod consent to a round of polite handshakes. If the nature of sampling is to mix indiscriminately, sample their chicken and waffles. Read their white papers. Jostle Britannica from her beta-wave trance and offer her a forkful of fries. Lift Maya’s head from her lima salad and seek out a switch or something. Dust arugula sticks from her lovely brow. Snap your own fingers to find her revived.

Ten: If nearly time for the Nootropics Makeover finale, assemble an entourage, allocate your takeout boxes, bilocate briefly back to the pit, bind yourself back to this world by worrying about your son, and wonder what agents of stupefaction might null the cruellest rages of parental guilt while still being good fun for a culture-shifting televisual watch-party.