The Cuil is a unit of measurement, where one Cuil is one level of abstraction away from any given real-life situation.
I don’t know what it says about me when I think that this makes perfect sense, but then again, for reasons unknown, most conversations in our home, especially the ones involving myself and either one of our daughters, appear to hover somewhere around the 3 Cuils mark. With myself and both our daughters involved, 5 to 6 Cuils is not only attainable, but in fact rather commonplace.
Unfortunately, and without due explanation, the video only covers Cuils one through six. An abstraction of 7 Cuils reads as follows:
7 Cuils: I give you a hamburger. The universe is engulfed within itself. A bus advertising hotdogs drives by a papillon. It disapproves. An unnatural force reverses Earth’s gravity. You ask for a hamburger. I reciprocate with a mildly convulsing potato. You disapprove. Your disapproval releases a cosmic shift in the void between birth and life. You ask for a hamburger. A certain small dog feasts on hamburger patties for the rest of its unnatural, eternal endurance. Your constant disapproval sends silence through everything. A contrived beast becomes omnipotent. You ask for a hamburger. I give you a hamburger your body becomes an unsettled blob of nothingness, then divides by three. The papillon barks. The universe realigns itself. You, the papillon, and the hamburger disapprove. This condemnation stops the realignment. Hades freezes over. A pig is launched is launched into the unoccupied existence between space and time with a specific hamburger. You ask for a hamburger. I give you a hamburger. It screams as you lift it to your face. You laugh maniacally as I plead with you. You devour the hamburger as it pleads for mercy. I disapprove and condemn you to an eternity in a certain void where a certain pig and its specific hamburger are located. The Universal Space-time Continuum Committee disapproves of my irrational decision. You are locked away and are fed hamburgers for the rest of your natural existence. A pickle refuses to break down during the process of digestion. You die in a freak accident. A certain pickle lives the rest of its life in a comatose state. Your soul disapproves. Down the street a child cries as a hamburger gets stuck in, and climbs back up, her esophagus. You ask again for a hamburger. I refuse to reciprocate. You demand a lawyer. I remind you harshly that this is the new world order. Lawyers no longer exist. Only papillons. Your name is written on a list of sins. Blasphemy. You ask for a hamburger. The comatose pickle vanquishes your soul from this universe. Realignment occurs. You beg for a hamburger. A certain papillon’s name is written on an obelisk in Egypt. Mumble. Peasants worship the obelisk. Your soulless corpse partakes in the festivity. Hamburgers are banned universally. The sun implodes. All planets cease to have ever existed. Mercury. Venus. Earth. Mars. Jupiter. Saturn. Uranus. Neptune. Pluto is the only mass in existence. Conveniently, you are on vacation here. Your need for hamburgers re-establishes space-time. Earth is recreated under your intergalactic rule. Hamburgers are your army. You wake up. Clowns. Clowns everywhere. Your dream rushes to meet you. You are kidnapped. You ask for a hamburger. They hand you a hotdog.
You may of course read the whole thing for yourself at the Cuil Theory website.