Swelteringly hot day. quonsar, sweating like a salty fireboat, pulling a wagon, walks past a bar. Pan back to show the blue marquee: Metafilter Bar & Grill: $5 Cover. He smiles, rivulets of happy sweat gathering in his crow's feet. His smile turns to sadness as he reads a smaller sign on the door: NO FISH ALLOWED. Camera pans over to the wagon, which holds a glass bowl with a goodly sized goldfish.
"You're killing me here, Opus," he sighs.
Cut to inside the club. Everywhere, goateed intellectuals and pointy-headed academics are arguing about inane topics that don't matter. Every so often a phrase rises above the din: "exposed to anus," "the criminally underappreciated Marshall Tucker Band," "I paid five bucks for THIS?," that sort of thing.
quonsar walks into the shot, smiling, giving the thumbs up, squirming to hide the very active flopping bulge in his pants.
And the tagline: Metafilter: 20,000 People Who Think They're So Damn Smart.