(“Study at Harvard!
Here, you will fortify your mind with certainty, immerse your ideas in refined orthodoxy, and synergize your ambitious and amoral soul with acolytes of Moloch in industries operating globally.”
The commercial beaming into your brain as you wait in your auto-doctor’s office shows you, Miriam Makabuck, a diverse group of blood-soaked Harvard students laughing as they whip corralled, naked, mewling members of the meritocratic underclass through the streets of Cambridge.)
When the commercial ends, you think, “Barbaric Harvies, their lashings lack sophistication. Oxford Forev-.”
Two beeps from the auto-secretary of the doctor’s office in which you’re sitting interrupts your thoughts.
It’s your turn.
The floor moves your chair to a room in the back of the office.
As you’re moved, a commercial for Fresh Air Keurig Cups dances on the periphery of your awareness.
(The commercial begins with a well-dressed office worker sitting in an office cubicle taking a deep breath and coughing.
A voiceover from a Social Media Maxfluencer you know says, “Polluted air got you down?
Introducing Keurig Fresh Air!”
The same well dressed office worker, still coughing, places a cup in a Keurig machine.
The machine begins spraying clean air into the office worker’s face.
The office worker breathes.
The office worker does not cough.
The Maxfluencer’s voice returns, “Make the best choice for your health.
Keurig Fresh Air: Because you deserve to Breathe™.”)
The commercial ends as you enter the room.
An auto-doctor greets you.
“What is your health concern?” The device asks.
You slide to a stop in front of the looming metallic being and answer, “I noticed a lump on my throat a few weeks ago and…”
“Reveal.” The device interrupts.
You pull down your collar.
The auto-doctor scans your lump.
After a moment, the device states, “Education and Calculated Potential Productivity qualify subject for biopsy. Remove fabric covering.”
You hesitate as your brain misfires and misunderstands.
“Remove fabric covering. ” The auto-doctor repeats. “Non-compliance terminates service.”
Realizing it means take off your clothes, you remove your shirt.
The machine injects your neck with a numbing agent and extracts a sample of the lump.
Analyzing the specimen, the machine responds, “Neutralizing your cancerous cells requires $1,350,053. Your calculated productivity potential is approximately $560,001. You are ineligible.”
A smiley face emoji beamed into your consciousness says, without moving its features, “Thank you, have a nice day.”
“But, I have an MBA from Oxford!” You reply to the fading smile as you pull your shirt back on and the floor moves you to the waiting room.
A commercial for Johnson & Johnson’s Adderall Vitamins® enters your mind.
(The commercial opens in an office full of sleeping workers.
Coffee cups are turned on their sides.
Spilled coffee is dripping from the desks to the floor.
A Maxfluencer you don’t know says, “Is your optimal productivity leaking?”
“Try® New® Adderall® Extra® Strength® Dissolving® Tablets®.”
An office manager drops three white tablets into a communal water cooler, then blows an air horn.
The sleeping employees snap back to typing on their Work Stations®.
“Wouldn’t hydration streamline our flow?” The manager suggests.
Reluctant workers shuffle into a line at the water cooler.
As each drinks the infused-water, their eyes open fully and they energetically return to their desk to type markedly faster into their Work Station®.
“Turn any worker into a superstar with a single cup of our healthy supplements.
Your stock price will thank you!” The unknown Maxfluencer concludes.)
Shocked by the auto-doctor’s calculations, you find your phone and call a former classmate working as a lobbyist/lawyer in DC.
“Georgette? Hi, it’s Miriam.”
On the other end of the line, Georgette responds, “Hi Miriam, I hope you’re doing well! You caught me between meetings!”
“I just need a moment! You see, I was just diagnosed with cancer, and…”
“I’m sorry to hear that, that’s quite bothersome. I had to take a few days off work to treat mine a few years ago.” Georgette consoles.
“It’s fine, yeah, I might too, we’ll see. But the issue is this auto-doctor told me the operation costs more than my CPP and…”
Georgette interjects, “You have an MBA from Oxford!”
“I know!” You agree. “There must be something wrong. Could you ask around? There might be an auto-healthcare variable that glitched. You know how this stuff happens. I’d owe you big time!”
“Sure thing, sis! Ciao!”
Georgette hangs up.
Thirty minutes pass.
You experience commercials for simulated sexual arousal supplements, mood elevating supplements, a new model of robot butler, and a trip to a theme park that recreates what the rainforests used to look like
In that time, five other patients are moved in and out of the back room.
Judging by the expressions upon their return, their clothing, and overall demeanor, you’d wager two have a Calculated Potential Productivity high enough to receive the healthcare they need, and two do not.
You’re disturbed you’re being serviced by an office in which half the patients don’t qualify for needed healthcare.
A sixth patient, an aged figure bent over and gnarled, the telltale signs of a coding factory laborer, never returns at all.
If this office is seeing coding factory laborers, You worry this office might be mistaking you for a coding factory laborer, or something else menial.
You’re an Influence Maximization Consultant with an MBA from Oxford, damnit!
You resolve to call another Oxford alum who works for Auto-Health and Human Services, to change your auto-assigned auto-doctor’s office.
Just then, the auto-secretary beeps and your chair once again moves to the back room with the auto-doctor.
“What is your health concern?” The device asks.
“There’s a cancerous lump on my throat.” You tell the device.
“Reveal.” The device intones.
You pull down your collar.
The auto-doctor scans your lump.
After a moment, the device states, “Education and Calculated Potential Productivity qualify subject for treatment. Remove fabric covering.”
You remove your shirt.
The device operates on the lump.
During the operation, you experience a commercial to join the military.
(An Air Forcer in an Air Force captain’s uniform sits at a computer, studying the display.
“Want to be a hero?”
The captain monitors an auto-drone flying over a meadow.
“Want to make a difference?”
The captain watches the screen and gives updates into the microphone wrapped around their head.
“Want to enforce with honor?”
The auto-drone sights a village in the distance.
The captain speaks, “Target sighted, rifle, release, impact.”
The captain’s screen shows a guided missile exploding within the village.
The captain shouts, “Count it!”
The Air Force logo appears along with the words, “Be Force.”)
The auto-doctor finishes your operation.
It sanitizes you and says, “Return in one week for further treatment. Auto-secretary contains prescription.”
A smiley face emoji beamed into your consciousness says, without moving its features, “Thank you, have a nice day.”
You pull your shirt back on.
The floor moves you to the waiting room.
You text Georgette.
“Thanks, sis. You’re a life-saver.”
Georgette texts back, “I didn’t do anything? I’m still in a meeting! What happened?”
You laugh, and type, “My CPP qualified…glitch! LOLZ”
“Auto-doctors! But wait, are you in a mixed-merit office?”
“Sure am. Just noticed when I saw,” You lower your voice to whisper into the phone while covering your mouth, “a bent-backer.”
“OMG WHAAAAAAAAA!!!??? Gotta upgrade that auto-doc, sis! Your Location Quality Rating is gonna get got!”
“I KNOW!!! So embarrassing! Big mad! About to call Fatou at A-HHS.”
“Get it, girl!”
“Always! Stay Woke, Oxford Forever!”
“SW, OF!”
Modern Issue 