Is a $400 foreign jet really free? Or does the taker suffer from a malady that impedes him from seeing the true cost? Let us look at this malady more closely.
Freemium Delirium (n.): A catastrophic collapse of judgment caused by the sight or sound of the word “free,” triggering a euphoric brain fog in which dopamine floods the system, common sense goes on sabbatical, and the recipient willingly gallops off a financial cliff waving a complimentary tote bag like a victory banner. Those afflicted experience an ecstasy of acquisition so potent it renders them blind to the small print, the asterisk, the national security briefing. One minute they’re unboxing a “gift,” the next they’re staring down a multibillion-dollar forensic disassembly project worthy of NASA.
Take, for example, an avaricious hypothetical Commander-in-Chief, struck dumb by Freemium Delirium in the presence of a “gifted” $400 million foreign jet. So enamored is he by the glittering concept of free, he fails to consider the trillion red flags waving in his face. No concern for spyware, sabotage, or sovereign dignity—just glee. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, a battalion of analysts and mechanics is forced to gut the plane like a blue whale on an operating table, its metaphorical intestines stretched across five football fields, each component tagged, bagged, scanned, and ritually exorcised to ensure there’s no Cold War bug in the cupholder. The final bill? A billion dollars and the last shreds of taxpayer sanity. But sure, free.
Cinemorphosis 
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