Scooby Doo and the Curse of the Algorithmic Overlords

In a staid boardroom in Los Gatos, California, a brunette in a charcoal grey double-breasted skirt-suit rises from a Hermon Miller chair and clasps her hands. “I want to start by thanking each and every one of you for coming out today. My name is Gloria Slopmire, Chief Content Officer here at Netflix. I know that I speak for everyone in the company when I say we’ve all worked hard to make this deal happen, we’ve all wanted it for a long, long time, and it is my immense pleasure to finally welcome Mystery Inc. to the Netflix family!”

Across the table, a familiar gang of meddlesome-kids-cum-intergenetational-pop-culture-icons sit side-by-side. Professional sandwich inhaler Norville “Shaggy” Rogers turns to his famous canine companion. “You hear that Scoob? We’re gonna be live action! Again!”

“Rive raction.” The Great Dane yips.

Gloria Slopmire gestures to the table. “Now each of you has been supplied a binder—it contains preproduction work, concept art, a pilot script; everything we need to get started. Our best writers are already hard at work prompting the latest ChatGPT model—4.7o-mini-high-low-deluxe-358/2-Twilight-Panty-Head [Experimental]—and we are confident we can churn out exactly 3 and a half seasons of this show over the course of two decades. Assuming we don’t cancel you out the gate, of course.”

“Far out,” Shaggy says.

“Naturally we’ve updated the content for modern audiences, so please feel free to review the changes and let us know if you have any questions or suggestions.”

Shaggy, Velma, Daphne, and Fred open their binders. Scooby stares at the binder before him, then glances down at his paws, realizing once more that he lacks opposable thumbs. An existential cloud descends as the suffocating gravity of his condition bears down all at once—the mind of a man forever trapped in the body of a simple four-legged beast."

“Hey Scoob, check it out! We’re girls now! And we got big honkers too!”

“Rig ronkers!” The Great Dane yips.

“We wanted to explore a new dynamic,” Gloria says. “In this version, you’ll both be women. And lesbians.”

“Resbians?” Scooby strikes a Shakespearean pose.

“Not Thespians, dude. Lesbians! You know, carpet munchers.”

“Shaggy.” Velma scowls.

“Rarpet Runchers?” Scooby glances at the floor and pulls a face. “Blegh.”

“Excuse me.” Velma raises a hand. “Gloria?”

“Yes Velma.”

“I love what you’re doing with the show. Taking a new, bold direction. Challenging the status quo. It’s all great. It’s just that the lesbian angle is really more of a me and Daphne thing—”

“No it’s not,” Daphne mutters without looking up from her binder.

“—and I’m afraid it might confuse viewers if there are too many lesbians. You know?”

“But rear rall resbians!”

“Goddamnit Scoob.”

Gloria nods. “Velma, I hear what you’re saying and I am so glad you feel comfortable voicing your concerns with me. We here at Netflix wouldn’t want to do anything that hurts the brand and we are committed to doing what is best for Scooby, for the viewer, and for you as the talent. We’ve thoroughly polled our audiences and intend to give them exactly what they’re looking for.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Velma sighs, sinking into her chair.

“Which is why, in this version, you’ll be a slutty goth mommy with a domination kink.”

Velma freezes. “…what?”

“I’m afraid survey results show that Velma on MAX not only underperformed, but did some damage to the brand. Considerable damage, actually.”

Velma curses under her breath. “Fucking Mindy.”

“As such, we need to rehabilitate your image with the core demographics.”

Velma hops out of her seat. “I was just thinking we could do something a little more drama oriented, you know? Not so sardonic and self aware. Really dig deep into the pathos!”

“Velma, I don’t think that’s what people are looking for in Scooby Doo…”

Velma leans forward, lowering her voice. “Have you ever seen Blue is the Warmest Color?”

Gloria pauses. “…the 2013 French lesbian romance drama with that blue hair girl and the infamously graphic sex scene?”

“Exactly! So I was thinking, we film a scene like that with me and Daphne—”

“Velma, this is a family brand.”

“—and it lasts for eight uninterrupted hours.”

“…”

“Rat rounds rek-rhausting.”

“Quiet Scoob.”

“Velma, I really don’t—”

“It’ll be great! It’s what the fans wants! You have to give the fans what they want!” Frantic, Velma turns to the stylish red-head, desperate for backup. “Right Daphne?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t listening.” Daphne slaps her binder shut. “Here’s what 𝑰’𝒎 thinking: you know that TLC show? 19 Kids and Counting?”

Gloria shifts uncomfortably. “…with the Duggars?”

“Right, so here’s the pitch: Fred and I get kidnapped by an old villain we put away—the Creeper, Space Kook, Scrappy Doo, I don’t care—and we’re stranded on an uninhabited island where we do nothing but eat fruit and go at it like monkeys in the tropics. We re-populate the island by having endless sessions of sweaty, unprotected sex, morning, noon, and night, and I spend the next twenty years of my life waddling around like an engorged balloon.”

Gloria stares at Daphne, speechless.

Velma pouts. “But I wanted to have endless sessions of sweaty, unprotected sex.”

“Ha!” Shaggy guffaws. “Well like, it doesn’t really matter right? Cause like, it’s not like either of you have a—”

“Shut up, Shaggy.” Velma glares daggers.

“Reah.” Scooby puts an empathetic paw around Velma’s shoulder. “Rut up, Raggy.” Velma buries her face in the Great Dane’s fur.

Shaggy sneers. “Traitor.”

Scooby sticks out his tongue.

Gloria pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. “Fred!” She claps her hands and turns to the last member of the gang, the de facto leader of Mystery Inc. “Do you have any input? Any big requests or barely sublimated psycho-sexual wishes we can make true?”

“Oh.” Fred looks up, caught off-guard. It’s clear he hasn’t been following the conversation. “Um. It looks good. It all looks good. I just hope there are a lot of neat traps.”

Gloria squints. “…like trap traps or girls-with-dicks traps?”

“What?” Fred blinks, taken aback. “Trap traps, of course. It’s not a proper mystery if we don’t snare the crook in a good trap.”

“Oh thank God.” Gloria slumps in her chair. “At least one of them isn’t a deranged pervert.”

“I don’t even know why you would ask me that. It’s preposterous. Sick even!”

Gloria points. “But Daphne-”

Fred throws up his hands. “Why on earth would I wish for a girl with a dick?”

“Well-”

Velma yanks her head out of Scooby’s fur and bursts out, “I WISH I WAS A GIRL WITH A DICK!”

She crumples to the floor, sobbing. All gathered stare in awkward silence.

“Hee hee. Rick Rirls.”

“Not now, Scoob.” Ω