There won’t be any dystopian overcoming for them when I make grimaced facial contortions directed at their mannecameras to analyze. Their system will self-destruct with all the expressions I can cycle through in a second. I’ll be standing at the foundation of their ivory towers kicking them until they fall, all the while my doo doo farts in the act rise stinky clouds above their glass ceilings. Instead of the sun, they will see a gaseous brown piece of what I did to a glazed turkey dinner the night before with the many visages of my profile superimposed over their disastrous nightmare of a victorious sky.