Scene: The Alibi Room, dimly lit, filled with the usual crowd of South Side regulars. Frank Gallagher stumbles onto an improvised stage, pint in hand, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Frank:
Ladies and gentlemen—well, mostly degenerates and barflies—lend me your beers. I’m here to talk about a tragedy, a calamity that’s befallen us all: the death of analog.
Remember the good ol’ days? When you could adjust your thermostat with a gentle twist, finding that perfect “not too hot, not too cold” spot? Now, it’s digital buttons—press up, press down, overshoot, undershoot. It’s like trying to thread a needle while wearing boxing gloves.
[Laughter from the crowd]
And volume knobs! Those glorious, smooth-turning beauties. You could fine-tune your music to the exact decibel your hangover demanded. Now? It’s buttons. Click-click-click. Too loud, too soft, never just right. It’s like foreplay with a robot—mechanical and unsatisfying.
[Cheers and raised glasses]
Cars? Don’t get me started. Used to be, you had a gas pedal connected to the engine with a cable. Press down a little, go a little faster. Now, it’s all sensors and computers. You press the pedal, and the car has to “think” about it. By the time it decides, you’ve already rear-ended a Prius.
[Applause and hoots]
Cooking? I tried making my famous chili on one of those digital stoves. Set it to “5,” and it’s lukewarm. Set it to “6,” and suddenly I’m summoning Satan himself. Give me a gas flame I can see and control any day.
[Nods and murmurs of agreement]
Digital technology has taken the soul out of our interactions. It’s binary—on or off, yes or no. But life, my friends, is analog. It’s a spectrum, a range, a beautiful mess of in-betweens.
So here’s to analog! To the knobs, the dials, the sliders. To the tactile, the intuitive, the human. May we never forget the joy of fine-tuning our lives, one smooth adjustment at a time.
[Raises pint]
To analog!
[The crowd erupts in cheers, clinking glasses and shouting “To analog!”]
End scene.