High-Fructose Speech

Algorithms Aren’t Neutral—They’re Editors

[Tone: Direct & Vivid]

Non-Typical Take

If you drive one of the trucks with HD, Max, Extended, or ExtraCab in the name and you don’t haul wood, hay, concrete, or a farmer, stay out of the city. Them shits should be banned—can’t see pedestrians crossing, take up 15 parking spots, and are so damn loud.

That’s what speech online feels like now—supersized for flexing, not for function. A conversation that could fit in a hatchback shows up in a monster truck—blocking views, scaring the pedestrians, and drowning out everyone else. And the companies fueling it? They’re selling the gas, not protecting the roads.

---

Metaphorically, let’s take that ride to the so-called “town square.” The sun’s out, people are debating last night’s game, the new restaurant down the block, or local taxes. The worst interruption you might get? Somebody handing you a petition for a bike lane—or a mixtape (they might have bars).

Now swap that with the “digital town square” Twitter / X: you’re mid-sentence with friends and—BAM! A stranger sprints up, screams, “You’re an ugly loser,” and vanishes like a gremlin on rollerblades.

That’s the absurdity of calling social media a “town square.” It’s not a square; it’s a demolition derby with ad breaks, and the referees are rooting for the biggest collisions because chaos sells tickets. And yet, companies pose as champions of “free speech,” like they’re handing out pocket Constitutions while spoon-feeding you rage posts.

But this isn’t the First Amendment at work—it’s a business model. A business model powered by what I call High-Fructose Speech: communication engineered to be loud, sticky, and addictive, but empty of the stuff that actually sustains democracy—like listening, reflection, or full ideas.

The Digital Town Square Is a Theme Park

The “town square” analogy sounds wholesome, like neighbors sharing ideas over lemonade. But online? Nah. This “square” is a theme park built on a landfill.

Instead of cobblestone paths, you’ve got algorithms deciding which rides you’re allowed on—and the fastest track is always the Rage Coaster. Instead of a mayor, you’ve got a CEO in a Patagonia vest promising “open dialogue” while quietly selling the naming rights to your conversations.

And unlike an actual square, you don’t need courage to harass someone—you just need Wi-Fi and bad impulse control. In real life, yelling slurs at strangers might get you “packed out” (punched) or arrested. Online, it might get you trending.

“Speech online isn’t free—it’s subsidized by algorithms that reward outrage like it’s Doritos dust.” V

Algorithms, Outrage, and Amplification

Here’s the part Silicon Valley leaves off the TED Talk slides: the chaos isn’t a bug—it’s the business model.

Algorithms don’t care if you’re thoughtful or nuanced. They care if you’re loud, polarizing, and impossible to ignore. Outrage is sticky. Fear is sticky. Watching two muggles (probably bots) keyboard-fight about a song from 2003? STICKY! (word to Tyler, The Creator).

Basically, it’s the ultraprocessed snack formula applied to speech: “We can’t stop you from being civil, but we can make sure the loudest, saltiest voices hit your feed first.” That’s High-Fructose Speech in action—conversations injected with algorithmic corn syrup, optimized to make you scroll faster, yell harder, and think less.

And the irony? Companies still market this as “empowering connection.” That’s like Four Loko promising to be the healthiest drink or Trump saying he’s never told a lie. Sure, you could use Twitter to organize some homies, but good luck when the algorithm knows outrage about The Little Mermaid casting will keep people online six hours longer.

What gets lost is what actually sustains community: context, patience, doubt, even the possibility of being wrong. The algorithm doesn’t promote full meals—it pushes the snack aisle, which is why public discourse now has the nutritional value of a gas station hot dog.

Algorithms as Editors

Let’s stop pretending algorithms are neutral pipes. They’re editors. Picture a newspaper that only prints the angriest, pettiest, most emotionally-charged letters. That’s your feed.

It creates the illusion of open discourse, but in reality, it narrows what you see to whatever generates the most clicks and engagement. Free speech? More like curated outrage with a glossy UI.

---

The Sugar Crash

Like corn syrup, High-Fructose Speech gives a rush but no nutrients. You don’t log off more informed—you log off more addicted to the feeling of being right in public.

We don’t crave dialogue; we crave dopamine. Likes, retweets, clapbacks—those are the digital Skittles. Fun in the moment, but you can’t build a society on cavity fuel. And the crash is real: burnout, cynicism, and a public square where nobody’s actually listening.

“The digital town square isn’t a square—it’s a demolition derby with ad breaks.” V

The Real Cost of Reaction-Free Speech

And in the words of one of my cousins– “the gag is”: the loudest “free speech warriors” aren’t defending free speech. They’re defending free advertising.

They complain about censorship while banning books, muzzling teachers, or boycotting companies for exercising their rights (muggles really lost it over the CRACKER BARREL LOGO!). The irony? They’re the most “woke” and sensitive of all—they’ve just rebranded outrage as principle.

These types of muggles want one-way speech—a megaphone with no feedback. But speech without reaction isn’t free speech—it’s a commercial. And in that setup, the loudest, most obnoxious voices win by default.

---

Rewriting the Analogy

So let’s retire the “town square” analogy. The internet isn’t a square; it’s a food court: noisy, messy, overflowing with options, but the easiest thing to grab is a sugar bomb.

And just like food, speech is about what you consume as much as what you produce. If you want a real meal—something nourishing, thoughtful, worth sitting with—you’ve got to step away from the candy aisle. And maybe, just maybe, step away from the algorithm too.

SWIRV. 🖖🏽

V.