The creepy part is that everyone in there is an actor and pretending to have fun. Kinda like what they did on Vice with the simulated Internet cafe— Mia Nyx 🇺🇦🇹🇼🏳️⚧️ (@fiendishMia) August 12, 2022
Today's show is going to be another one for the ages. My character is going to go to the grocery store set and bag groceries -- these props are real food! -- from 9-5. Other actors in my troupe will pretend to buy them -- with real money, to maintain the verisimilitude! -- in exciting crossovers with shows like "coming home from pretending to work at a department store." I even get to do a crossover with the guy pretending to drive the bus later!
My character goes to work every day pretending like he don’t want to kill his boss, goes to the grocery store pretending like He’s happy to overpay for food, hands over rent pretending like he doesn’t want to kill his landlord, and pretending like he’s perfectly ok living in an apartheid police state without being absolutely disgusted by it and wanting to utterly destroy it and every pig that enforces it.
Good thing I’m just an actor paid to act that way.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Today's show is going to be another one for the ages. My character is going to go to the grocery store set and bag groceries -- these props are real food! -- from 9-5. Other actors in my troupe will pretend to buy them -- with real money, to maintain the verisimilitude! -- in exciting crossovers with shows like "coming home from pretending to work at a department store." I even get to do a crossover with the guy pretending to drive the bus later!
My character goes to work every day pretending like he don’t want to kill his boss, goes to the grocery store pretending like He’s happy to overpay for food, hands over rent pretending like he doesn’t want to kill his landlord, and pretending like he’s perfectly ok living in an apartheid police state without being absolutely disgusted by it and wanting to utterly destroy it and every pig that enforces it.
Good thing I’m just an actor paid to act that way.
Foucault, but all society is performance instead of prison.
The cinemopticon.
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms; And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.