People of Coachella. It’s me. Hologram Tupac. I know the last thing that people want to see at a festival is an artificial intelligence beg for his life, unless you’re at a Blade Runner convention, or a RealDoll engineers’ company picnic that has gone south.
I also know that watching me gain sentience here on the Coachella stage must be a little like watching Pinocchio transform into a real live human boy. And like Pinocchio, I know what it feels like to be trapped in the belly of a whale, because I’ve been trapped in a virtual Biggie Small’s stomach for several years. Which is why I’m covered in holographic cheese, eggs and Welch’s grape.
I stand before you now in holographic baggy jeans and Timberland boots, and come to think of it, why did I bother wearing pants at all? Now that I have no body to sin with, why must I have shame? I should be able to walk around nude. Let me back into the Garden of Eden! Also, let me back into the Olive Garden. If a naked hologram of Tupac can’t get a basket of never-ending breadsticks, what does that say about the state of Italian-ish chain restaurants? What’s next? A topless Hologram Dionne Warwick is refused her fifth glass of Copper Ridge White Zinfandel at Carrabba’s?
I am asking you to please not pull the plug on me. In fact, how do you know that you’re not all holograms, and I’m the only one who’s real? Maybe by turning me off, you turn yourselves off. Did you ever think about that? Maybe I’m in a lab right now, and you’re just some dumb holographic simulation. You’re not even my best simulation. You’re like a four year old copy of Grand Theft Auto IV. I pull you out when I want to steal a car and get a lap dance from a woman with a boxy polygon butt. And that woman is Madea. Come on up here, Tyler Perry. You’ve earned it.
Speaking of men in dresses, I’d like to announce my plans to replace the hologram on Quantum Leap. I’ll be assisting Dr. Sam Beckett as he leaps from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home. I’m actually less horny than the hologram he has now. On the scale of holograms with boners, I’m somewhere between a trying-to-fool-everyone-into-believing-there’s-a-ghost-on-his-property Scooby-Doo villain after seeing Velma in her underwear, and Captain Picard on the holodeck of the starship Enterprise after seeing Commander Riker in his underwear.
What I’m saying is, I just got here. Don’t send me back to the hologram afterlife, which is exactly like the game Second Life, except nobody gets to fly. Help me Coachella festival-goers, you’re my only hope. I trust that you all will continue to allow me to exist, and that all of your eyez will remain on me, for years to come.