The early morning sun stretched across the housing development, sweeping shadows from the corners and waking the inhabitants like it was a fresh cup of their favorite coffee. The air was crisp and had a slight breeze.
Some loaded their cars with golf clubs and headed out, while others walked their dogs along the sidewalks. Small children played games on their lawns. It looked as if it were going to be another perfect day.
Suddenly and without a sound, a massive disk-like vessel passed overhead, shadowing the entire area as it went. Dogs barked, children scattered and traffic snarled. Fear spread across the community like too much peanut butter being pushed across a piece of bread with a butter knife. No wait, it spread like a horde of infectious germs on a grocery cart handle. Yes, like that, silently and not missing a single person.
Then, as if some switch had been flipped, or better yet, some button pushed, a cute little jingle started playing from this giant mystery ship. It was a catchy tune, like might have come from a neighborhood ice cream truck. Then the bottom of the ship flickered with fluorescent letters. The word LILLY came to life, followed by an advertisement for their new wonder drug, Wobbleless. Just one tablet a day guarantees to keep you from wobbling.
It was discovered later that evening that the Lilly Corporation could not fit all the side effects on a normal sized label, which is why the giant airship was constructed.
By the time the jingle reached its second loop—something
suspiciously close to “Pop Goes the Weasel” but legally distinct enough to
avoid litigation—residents were already pulling out their phones. Not to record
the event, mind you, but to squint at the sky and mutter, “Is this another one
of those drug ads?”
The
fluorescent letters continued to scroll:
WOBBLELESS™ Side
effects may include: dizziness, reverse wobbling, spontaneous tap dancing, mild
levitation, and an overwhelming desire to alphabetize your pantry.
A hush fell over the cul-de-sac as the ship paused directly
above the roundabout, rotating slowly like a giant, hovering Lazy Susan of
medical disclaimers.
Then
came the voice—cheerful, soothing, and unmistakably synthetic:
“Ask your doctor if Wobbleless is right for you. If your
doctor begins wobbling during the conversation, please discontinue the
discussion and consult a sturdier physician.”
A few brave souls attempted to resume their morning
routines. A man tried to tee off in his driveway, but the shadow of the ship
threw off his swing. A woman walking her dachshund found the poor creature
frozen, staring upward, tail vibrating like a tuning fork.
Children peeked from behind porch columns, whispering, “Is
it aliens?” “No,” one replied solemnly, “it’s worse. It’s advertising.”
The Corporate Reveal
Later that evening, when the news anchors finally stopped
laughing long enough to report the facts, the truth emerged: Lilly had simply
run out of label space. The side effects list had grown so long it required its
own aircraft.
The spokesperson, wearing a smile that suggested both pride
and resignation, explained:
“We
believe in transparency. And also, in very large fonts.”
The community, still recovering from the morning’s
shadow-induced panic, issued a collective sigh. Not of relief—just the kind of
sigh you make when you realize this is the world now.
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