The following account is for satirical purposes only, and any individuals or organizations named within it – even those based on real people – are entirely fictional.
“The Playa is my spiritual home” says Moonflower, a 33-year-old Instagram influencer who uses a small portion of her trust fund to finance an annual pilgrimage to snort ketamine and fondle the genitalia of strangers in a climate-controlled geodesic dome amidst impenetrable clouds of dust and patchouli at Burning Man.
“In the default world, I’m a Malibu-based model – a person with unlimited financial resources thanks to the copper fortune my great-great grandfather graciously distributed amongst his family, including the illegitimate offspring. But here, everyone is the same, no matter how ugly or poor you are. We’re creating a utopian society full of degenerates and despots. We don’t even know what money is” says Moonflower as she excuses herself to take a shit in a kitted out Airstream.
The annual “Burning Man” festival attracts 80,000 vapid spiritual seekers from around the world to the middle of fucking nowhere once a year, except this year most people have wised up and they’re trying to give tickets away at the entrance.
“Burning Man is peak existence” says Toby the Ball Tickler, who earned his nickname at the very first Burn at San Francisco’s Baker Beach.
“I’ve been to every Burning Man since 1986, and I’m still a complete asshole” says Toby.
“But regardless of the net negative societal impact that this event has, we’ll still keep congregating here and doing 2C-B with strangers while wearing a bunch of fur and somehow parlaying our visionary insights into another tech startup that will overtly contribute to the class divide that makes the default world a total dystopian nightmare. As long as the IPO hits at the right time, our tiny bubble of privilege will remain undisturbed by the mounting real world crises created by the self-grandiosity that we incubate here.”
