Features, Shitegeist

Deadline Day: But Who’s Really Dying?

Deadline Day: But Who’s Really Dying?

The Jim White Scandal

Spare a thought for Jim White today. Not the one who signs off triumphantly an hour before midnight with a relieved and still playful glint in his eye. That one is already dead; being chaperoned into a car during commercial break where, contract honoured, Murdoch’s hookers will attempt to service out what little life remains from his short-circuiting mainframe.

“Ah, yes”, he will say, powering-down in the 1st person, “Jim White is currently enjoying every moment of this terrific slop-job.”

No, instead, spare your thoughts for the Jim White’s that won’t even get out of deep-freeze tonight.

The truth is, your average deadline day Jim isn’t like the others, he doesn’t live much longer than twelve hours. Unlike the similar in appearance low-energy, low-intensity versions that can last all of a week, he isn’t powered by the sun. Instead, his cerebral cortex and supporting cast of limbs draw their energy from four interlocking animatronic hearts that suck juice straight from the centre of a 4×4 car battery. The power is tremendous, of course, but residual battery poisons that naturally occur when energy is siphoned off at such an exchange rate will kill anyone, not least Jim White.

The great horror in all of this is that Sky, in their mad-dash scramble for viewers,  actually create too many deadline day Jim’s on purpose in-case one breaks down, or  something momentous happens at 11pm, but it never does. I don’t need to tell you that a Jim White in deep-freeze serves no use after half a day. The copper wiring is ionized with rust, the AI is scrambled. Five years ago they could serve as dog walkers running on 5% capacity but international condemnation has seen an end to even that. Not even the hearts, said to have been sourced from the lifeless chests of civilians in unknown warzones, survive. Power fades, pulse is fleeting.

I suppose this is true of everyone. But at least we have the chance to experience the illusion of choice. The tens of deadline day Jim White’s that are destroyed tonight, thrown face-first into a furnace where they can be heard to scream:




for several minutes, as platinum-hot metal drips onto artificially-driven organic parts that should have never seen the light of day in the first place, won’t have that illusion. It’s a tragedy, a scandal, and we are all to blame.

Who’s dying tonight? Jim White is dying, and he will continue to die as long we sit by and crave the hot, creamy explosion of gossip and very immediate nothingness. Also, if we do nothing about the stuff just mentioned in this article about Jim White.



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