Only instead of a dinosaur in the shape of a vital organ, we cast an obese leprechaun with a voice capable of making speech therapists start grabbing rifles and heading toward the nearest tower. Then, we populate a hideous cinderblock bunker with the most mediocre, banal and insipid people we can find, remove any and all stimulation and sit back to watch the magic.
Nobody sings, heals or fires a synapse.
It's Monday, Day 61, and the overripe avocado we call George is cutting up a can to make letters. To lovingly erect an anniversary memorial for his beloved Teresa. George nails the first half of his message to a wall and stands to survey his handiwork. His command of the alphabet is impressive, but we all know that putting letters in their rightful order can be a traitorous and thankless business. A satisfied George contemplates his ouevre, and, finding it good, continues.