McSweeney's draws attention to some of the ripple effects of the writers' strike:
Lack of scripts means pilots are unable to perform "welcome from the cabin" announcements, which are customarily lengthy, loquacious, and infuriatingly drawn out. Having dedicated their careers to the complex task of operating commercial aircraft, pilots reveal themselves to be woefully inept at extemporaneous speaking, as their attempts ("We're in air. High up. Weather. No crash. Temperature!") prove disastrous. Filled with self-loathing, pilots refuse to leave their homes and eventually die. All air travel ends.
Without the assistance of professional writers, such droll puns as "purrfect pets" prove impossible, leaving shopkeepers to describe their offerings as "perfect pets." This results in unrealistic expectations being placed on the pets. Eventually, an acrimonious pet/owner dynamic emerges that proves impossible to overcome. After a surprisingly short period of time, cats say, you know, fuck this shit and they leave. The human/cat arrangement, which, to be honest, has been on thin ice for centuries, finally collapses and the domestication of the cat ends.