"Give In" by the Bravery starts playing, and a million balloons in Yale Blue and Grey fall from the ceiling. They are full of fifty-dollar bills and blood diamonds. Serena and Blair stare across the room at each other for like a million years, then slowly their shoulders drop as they realize there was…never actually a problem. They were just being stupid drama queens the whole time. As the song speeds up, they make their way across the crowd -- losing sight of each other, pointing and laughing at the less fortunate, catching sight of each other again -- and everybody else seems to melt away. Finally they meet: first their hands, then their cheeks, then their lips. Blair and Serena begin to make out furiously in the middle of over eight million American dollars in couture that will never be worn again, and never even see the poor people busting down the door, led by Vanessa's older sister, opening fire. "Your wasteful lives are at the expense of everyone in the bottom 99 percent income bracket! You feast on our blood! Welcome to The U.E.S., bitch!" they scream. Finally the screams reach their ears, and they try to run -- but begin slipping and sliding in the fat of every liposuction ever performed in the borough! You cannot get traction when you're swimming in ass-fat! This is why freedom fighters don't wear Blahniks! Holding hands, these two luminaries of the social set, these muses to rock stars, fashion designers, and filmmakers, finally go down in a hail of bullets. And the last thing Serena says, her hand casually brushing her BFF's right breast, is: "OMG. Conscious neglect is totally equal to perpetration."
Blair awakes in a sweat, choking on fear and bulimia! It was all a dream! Push that WASP white guilt down, down, down! This is America! "It wasn't even a funny dream, it was just weird," she grumbles, climbing out of her REI Couture sleeping bag and into some fur-lined Choos. She reflects on how much she's grown in the past few months, and how little she cares for fashion, here in the land of the Midnight Sun.
Who was that spotted trip-trapping over the snow, chewing patiently on the last bit of Nate jerky? Why, our old friend B., asking her Sherpa and professor if they believe art of lasting value and social commentary can really be accomplished with what amounts to a handful of vapid, feral paper dolls. The Sherpa [played by an inebriated Patton Oswalt] simply shrugged, my spies tell me, but the last tenured professor in the world [Enrico Colantoni] apparently went on at length about the subjective quality of entertainment and the etymology of π or some shit. Eventually B. set off into the Antarctic wastes alone, with only his endless droning echoing in her ears. "When I get back," she was heard to murmur, "I'm totally going to get a bestselling ghost-written series out of this." I think she might make it after all.