Ron slicked back his hair with a fluidity that only years of greasy movement could create. He squinted into the sun and turned to his actors.

“You just don’t get it. We’re not selling the product, we’re selling you. Who gives a shit about a chicken sandwich with some pickles on top? Even if it is free.”

“I sure as shit don’t,” snickered Stacy, “as long as I get paid.”

Stacy is the pierced surfer girl. She stands on Venice beach, with a backdrop of the pacific ocean, carefully holding her sandwich just the way an acting coach taught her.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” muttered Brad. “Who eats these salt-water filled crap muffins anyway?”

Brad, he’s the relaxed 20-something artist, enjoying a chicken sandwich, talking about being special and making you feel like a mega-corporation with analysts that optimize beef processing really care about you.

Ron wasn’t amused. “Shut the fuck up and let’s get this over with.”

The production crew took its place, ready to craft another consumerist masterpiece.