TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics: The Funbar Disaster – Buzz’d, Bling’d & Burned Out
*Written by: Emmitt Owens*
*Narrated by: Waylon*

Waylon: “Well now, folks, let me tell you about the day a social media app called Funbar turned the Mad Mechanics shop into something resembling a teenage sleepover, complete with constant phone checking, mysterious notifications, and grown men arguing about virtual gifts that cost real money.”

   It all started on a Thursday morning when the humidity was thicker than Professor Thibodaux’s engineering textbooks and twice as confusing. The old clock radio was playing George Jones’s “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” which seemed appropriate since everyone was about to stop loving productivity for a while.
   Reedus came into the shop that morning acting stranger than usual, which was saying something. Instead of immediately diving into his latest contraption or making puns about whatever Chester was working on, he stood in the corner fidgeting with his phone like it contained the secrets of the universe.
       “Reedus,” Gutglor called out, looking up from a carburetor he was rebuilding, “what in the world wide web are you doing over thur? You been starin’ at that phone for ten minutes without saying a word, and that ain’t natural for you.”
     “It’s this dadgum app called Funbar,” Reedus replied, his usual enthusiasm replaced by what could only be described as digital frustration. “It’s supposed to be this raw, unfiltered social media platform where real people share real thoughts. Sounds like fun, right? That’s what the name’s supposed to mean, anyway.”
       “Sounds interesting,” the Professor observed, adjusting his spectacles. “What’s the problem?”
     “The problem,” Reedus said, his voice rising with indignation, “is all these fake people roo-in-in the experience! There’s guys posting nothing but food pictures – especially this Ken-Doll character who’s obsessed with tacos and alcohol-free beer. What kind of man drinks non-alcoholic beer? That’s like ordering a motorcycle without an engine!”
   Chester looked up from the engine bay of a 1987 Ford Mustang he was working on. “Sounds like you need to find better people to follow.”
       “That’s just it!” Reedus continued, waving his phone around like evidence in a court case. “Then there’s all these God Mode parties where people spend real money on virtual power gifts just to show off. It’s like paying for air, except the air has sparkles!”
   Gutglor’s curiosity was officially piqued. “Virtual gifts that cost real money? How much we talking about?”
       “Anywhere from two dollars for a basic thumbs-up moving picture to fifty bucks for a burger with eyes and a king’s crown,” Reedus explained, his voice full of digital disbelief. “And get this – one of the most expensive ones is called ‘Big Red’ – it’s a black and white heart that costs twenty-five hundred dollars! Twennny-five hunnet! For a picture of a heart!”
       “Well,” Gutglor said thoughtfully, “that sounds like the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Show me how to sign up for this Funbar thing.”
  
Waylon: “Now folks, what happened next was like watching a group of adults discover candy for the first time, except the candy was made of pixels and cost real money.”

   Within an hour, Gutglor had created his profile on Funbar and was scrolling through profiles with the intensity of a man studying quantum physics. He’d uploaded a picture of his latest batch of moonshine and was already receiving likes and comments from strangers who appreciated fine agricultural spirits.
       “This is amazing!” Gutglor declared, his eyes glued to his phone screen. “Look, someone in California just gave me a virtual shot glass moovin’ pic.ture! Says it cost them five dollars!”
     “Five dollars for a picture of a shot glass?” Gary asked, looking up from the transmission he was working on. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
       “It’s not just a picture,” Gutglor corrected, showing Gary his phone. “It’s animated! Watch it fill up and pour out! And look, I can send him back a virtual moonshine jug for eight dollars! Or if I really want to impress him, there’s this burger with eyes and a crown for fifty bucks!”
     “Gutglor,” Chester said carefully, “please tell me you ain’t about to spend eight dollars on a picture of a moonshine jug.”
       “It’s not just a picture,” Gutglor insisted, already pulling out his credit card. “It’s a statement! It’s saying ‘I appreciate your appreciation of my moonshine!’ That’s worth eight dollars of anyone’s money!”
   By lunch time, the Funbar addiction had spread through the shop like a particularly virulent strain of digital influenza. Chester had joined to “keep an eye on what everyone was doing,” and Professor Thibodaux had created an account “for research purposes.”
   The Professor’s first post was a detailed analysis of carburetor physics, complete with diagrams and mathematical equations. Within minutes, he’d received seventeen likes and three virtual textbook moving pictures from engineering students around the country.
       “Fascinating,” the Professor observed, purchasing a virtual graduation cap moving picture to send to one of his new followers. “This platform appears to create a dopamine feedback loop that encourages continued engagement through variable reward mechanisms.”
     “In English, Professor,” Gary requested, still trying to resist the peer pressure to join.
       “It’s addictive as moonshine,” the Professor translated, then immediately returned to his phone to check for new notifications.
   Chester’s profile featured pictures of classic cars and engine rebuilds, and he was quickly gaining followers who appreciated quality automotive work. Someone had sent him a virtual wrench moving picture worth twelve dollars, and Chester felt obligated to send back a virtual oil can worth fifteen.
       “It’s just good manners,” Chester explained when Gary questioned the expense. “Someone sends you a gift, you send one back. That’s how civilized people behave.”
     “Civilized people don’t spend fifteen dollars on pictures of oil cans!” Gary protested.
       “Gary’s right!” Reedus chimed in, looking up from his phone for the first time in hours. “You should’ve sent the vintage wrench set – it’s only twelve dollars and shows real class! Chester’s really wrenching his budget with these gift choices!”
     “Are you making puns about virtual gifts now?” Gary asked in disbelief.
       “Can’t help it,” Reedus replied cheerfully. “This whole thing is so picture-perfect with comedy potential! Speaking of which, check out this Ken-Doll guy’s latest post – he’s showing off his taco Tuesday spread with alcohol-free beer and changed his profile photo to Tinkerbell. I’m about to comment and tell him nacho average fairy drinks that pixie dust!
   Gary finally caved and joined Funbar around two o’clock, mostly to see what all the fuss was about. His first post was a picture of the transmission he’d been rebuilding, with a caption about the satisfaction of bringing dead machinery back to life.
   Within minutes, he’d received likes from mechanics across the country and a virtual gear moving picture from someone in Detroit. Gary stared at his phone like he’d just witnessed a miracle.
       “Well, I’ll be Tater Swifted,” Gary muttered. “Someone in Michigan appreciates my transmission work.”
     “Well, Gary’s getting geared up for social media success! That’s some shifting priorities right there!” Reedus punched another pun.
   Right around then, another name popped up on everyone’s feed that stopped the shop cold: MistressLugnut69.
   Her profile featured a leather-clad cartoon avatar holding a tire iron suggestively, with a bio that read: “Don’t fix my car unless you can handle my clutch.” The profile was blinged out to high heaven—sparkling borders, a neon-flashing status saying “Online and Dangerous,” and a music autoplay of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”
   Chester made the mistake of clicking on her profile. A moment later, his eyes widened.
       “She just sent me a moving picture of a spark plug with lipstick on it,” he whispered.
   Reedus cackled. “That means she likes you, brother! She’s testin’ your spark gap!”
       “I… I think I need a firewall,” Chester mumbled, carefully backing out of the page. “God bless.”
   The afternoon productivity at Mad Mechanics ground to a halt as everyone became absorbed in their Funbar feeds. Gutglor was engaged in a virtual gift war with a moonshiner in Tennessee, sending increasingly expensive alcohol-themed moving pictures back and forth. It started with basic shot glasses and beer mugs, but had escalated to the fifty-dollar burger with eyes and a crown, which apparently was considered premium in the Funbar gift economy. The Professor was posting technical articles and buying virtual laboratory equipment to send to fellow science enthusiasts.
   Chester had discovered achievement points and was determined to reach level 59, status by posting engine rebuilds and receiving enough likes. Gary was slowly getting addicted to the validation of strangers appreciating his mechanical expertise.
       “Boys,” Old Pete said, wandering in from his bench across the street, “y’all been awful quiet in here today. Usually I can hear Reedus making puns from across the road.”
    “We discovered a social media game” Chester explained without looking up from his phone, “and it’s more addictive than Gutglor’s moonshine.”
       “What’s social media?” Pete asked.
    Everyone looked up from their phones simultaneously, realizing they’d been asked to explain something that had completely taken over their day but which they couldn’t actually justify.
      “It’s like…” Gary started, then paused. “You take pictures of your work and show them to strangers.”
    “And they give you points for it,” the Professor added.
       “And you can buy them gifts,” Gutglor continued, “except the gifts aren’t real.”
     “But they cost real money,” Chester concluded.
   Old Pete stared at them like they’d just explained that they’d been paying people to watch them breathe.
       “So let me get this straight,” Pete said slowly. “Y’all are paying real money for fake gifts to give to strangers who liked your pictures?”
       “When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” Reedus admitted. “But check out this Ken-Doll character – he just posted another taco picture with alcohol-free beer! I gotta comment that he’s really taco-ing a fairy different approach to refreshing beverages!”
     “Reedus,” Gary said, “you just proved Pete’s point. You’re making puns about a stranger’s lunch and gender choices on the internet.”
    The radio crackled to life with Merle Haggard singing “Simple Man,” which seemed like a pointed commentary on their current situation.
       “You know what?” Chester announced, putting his phone face-down on the workbench. “Pete’s right. We just spent an entire day staring at screens instead of fixing cars.”
   But just when they thought it couldn’t get more ridiculous, it did.
   Because that’s when DJ Forsaken—or as Reedus kept calling him, DJ Forskinn—started harassing Gary online.
       “Y’all seen this?” Gary asked, holding out his phone like it was diseased. “Some clown named DJ Forskinn just slid into my comments accusing me of ‘cherry simping.’ Said I’m desperate for attention ’cause I sent some girl named Red a virtual cherry moving picture.”
   Reedus looked up from adjusting his blinker fluid levels. “DJ Forskinn again? That fool? He tried to troll me last week when I sent a wrench gift to GreasyKitten.”
       “GreasyKitten?” Chester muttered. “Good Lord.”
     “Don’t ask,” Reedus replied. “Point is, DJ Forskank gets all bent outta shape every time someone tries to be polite to a lady on Funbar. Thinks he’s the sheriff of virtual respectability.”
   Gary groaned. “He posted a meme of a cherry with handcuffs on it. Said I was in ‘digital bondage to clout thirst.’ I don’t even know what that means!”
       “It means he’s killin’ your buzz,” Reedus said, already crafting a plan. “Again.”
     “You think he’s jealous of Red?” Gutglor asked, genuinely curious. “She did post that she liked Gary’s transmission photo. Said he had ‘strong hands’ and ‘knows how to handle torque.’”
    Chester raised an eyebrow. “I mean, that’s practically flirting in mechanic terms.”
       “I just liked her comments!” Gary protested. “I ain’t tryin’ to get Fun-married or whatever!”
   Reedus clapped a hand on Gary’s shoulder with mock gravity. “There’s only one way to beat this, brother. Since Everytime I shitface you and he kills it, you gotta bling up with a buzz.”
       “A what now?”
    “A buzz bling,” Reedus said solemnly. “Legend has it there’s a moving picture—twenty-two dollars—that shows a flaming buzzard riding a piston while holding a bottle of whiskey. It’s called ‘Buzz’d Bling.’ If you buy it, he can’t kill your buzz.”
   Gutglor whistled. “I heard about that one. Comes with bonus sound effects. Makes your profile glow for three hours.”
   Gary stared blankly. “You want me to spend twenty-two bucks… on a flaming buzzard bird moving picture… to shut up some dude with a penis name?”
   Reedus grinned. “I mean, if you really wanna flex, you could get gifted it. Makes it even more powerful. Funbar’s weird like that—gifted bling counts double in street cred.”
   Gary looked at his phone, then at the crew, then sighed. “Y’all are giving me a digital migraine.”
      “And DJ Forskinn givin’ you digital grief,” Reedus said. “Get buzz’d, brother. Or stay basic.”
    “Alright,” Chester announced, “new shop rule. Phones stay in the tool cabinet during work hours. We came here to fix cars, not to buy virtual wrenches for people we’ll never meet.”
       “But what about my achievement points?” the Professor asked weakly.
     “Professor,” Gutglor said, deleting the Funbar app from his phone, “your achievement is that Mustang running better after you helped rebuild its engine. That Ken-Doll character can figure out his own beverage choices.”
        “Speaking of achievements,” Reedus said, “I achieved something important today – I learned that real puns are better than digital ones. Ken-Doll can keep his tacos, fake beer and pretention to be Tinkerbell. I got real friends and real work to do. Though I gotta say, Funbar ain’t very fun when you’re funbroke from buying all that bling!”
   One by one, they all deleted the Funbar app, though not without some reluctance—except Reedus, who quietly kept his phone tucked in his back pocket, eyes twinkling with mischief like a man who knew he’d be checking Funbar again after dark. The Professor was genuinely sad about losing his research followers, and Gutglor had to resist the urge to accept that twenty-five-dollar virtual still – and especially to avoid the temptation of that FunPony pict-chur that apparently represented the pinnacle of digital respect at a thousand dollars.
   As the radio switched to Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue,” they all returned to their actual work with a newfound appreciation for fixing things that existed in the real world.
       “You know,” Gary said, getting back under the transmission, “I learned something today. Real appreciation is when a customer shakes your hand and thanks you for fixing their car. Not when a stranger in Michigan sends you a picture of a gear.”
     “Amen to that,” Chester agreed, returning to his Ford rebuild. “Though I still think that Ken-Doll fella needs to reconsider his beverage choices.”
         “Ken-Doll taco-ing the wrong approach to life,” Reedus replied, then caught himself. “Sorry, force of habit.”
   And so another educational day came to an end at Mad Mechanics, leaving behind deleted apps, a few regretted credit card charges, and the kind of wisdom that comes from temporarily losing your mind to the digital world before remembering that the real world has better rewards – like the satisfaction of a properly running engine and friends who appreciate your actual talents instead of your ability to buy virtual moving pictures.

Waylon: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a modern cautionary tale. Sometimes the newest technology isn’t an improvement, and sometimes the best social media is the kind that happens face-to-face over the hood of a broken-down car. And if you ever find yourself tempted to buy virtual moving pictures for strangers on the internet, well, just remember the day the Mad Mechanics crew learned that real achievement points come from real achievements.”

🍺 LEGAL MUMBO-JUMBO: Funbar ain’t got nothin’ to do with Fubar.com, and Mad Mechanics ain’t affiliated with any real shop (thank the Lord). This here’s what fancy lawyers call “parody,” which is perfectly legal and protected by the First Amendment – unlike Gutglor’s moonshine operation. Any resemblance to actual mechanics, social media apps, or buzzards ridin’ pistons is purely coincidental and probably a sign you need better hobbies. 🍺 *Cheers*