If you’re like Devyn and you’re old enough to remember the aughts but young enough to have lacked autonomy, you might have had an experience where you were sitting in front of a CRT TV trying to watch Rocko’s Modern Life or something and suddenly there were like a million commercials telling you to text a 5-digit number to a vaguely psychotic dancing creature so you could have a heavily compressed snippet of the latest Nelly single on your Nokia flip phone (that said it had Internet but never did), but then your parents or someone else will have had hundreds of dollars charged to their credit card by the end of the year, all because of you.

“What year is this?” asks the stumbling well-dressed G-man by yer side, utterly flummoxed, and just as you’re about to let rip that final deafening scream that wipes the lights straight from the house, a cute quaint old-fashioned phone rings brittle. You pick it up. You hear a familiar voice.

“It’s 2026,” I sez, “and I am not a vaguely psychotic dancing creature, I am a definitely psychotic dancing creature, and I got yer custom ringtonez, free for immediate download, free from shame sorrow irony or tragedy, free strings attached. Yer welcome!”