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A message from Alpha Centauri

Following a recent governmental lapse in Truth, a scrambled message has been intercepted and somewhat decoded. The communication details an alien overthrow of humanity. Elf Wax analysts were able to decipher certain parts of speech and published them. The translation, in its original form follows:

I am from Alpha Centauri, a star of dead rocks.
I am from another dimension. Another time.
You have lived too long. Your bad vibrations are polluting our air waves.
It’s time now. It’s time to burn. We’ll burn you and your sons’ sons. And then we’ll burn up the sun.
With hungry eyes, we’re looking at you lucky few.

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Gaia Economy in Shambles

Gaia Online has suffered extreme hyperinflation in the past weeks, as the value of gold plummeted. The crux of Gaia’s economy is a steady flow of art-themed posting. Poetry, photography, and art of all kind and quality are equally rewarded. Through time, however, the quality of this art has completely degenerated beyond the point of recognition. For a minor amount of gold, a fraction of a fraction of what one needs to ‘buy’ accessories for their avatar, one user may copy-paste a Wikipedia article into the “non-fiction” category, or perhaps write a paragraph about their abusive families. Webcam photos of things in people’s computer rooms are also a major source of Gaia’s artwork.

Because the value of artwork has bottomed out, Gaia has begun coercing its users into posting even more worthless art to boost the economy. The fact is, that if a computer program were to continuously pick photos from google images, apply an Andy Warhol filter, and post it on Gaia, only to randomly give away all the gold it made, this whole system might be streamlined. Why should human beings post worthless art, when computers are so much more efficient at it?

People like speshelshell22 could continue to comment “i love pop art it looks good,” if they felt inclined, or this system could also be replaced by computer automation.

I will leave you with a poem from Gaia, written by xX_HyperSkittlez_Xx.

While it is not written directly about the state of art in Gaia, I think it’s apt.

youre walkin’ into town
then on your face there is a frown
its diarriayou try to poop it out
but you cant so you just pout
stupid diarria

no one knows how to spell it
so everyone just guesses it
diarria

you are in walmart
when you try and fart
uh oh
THERES A FREAKIN GLOB OF CRAP IN MY PANTS!!! WTF IS WRONG!!!!!! I FEEL ICKY

so you sweep it with a broom
when your in the bathroom
that diarria

you enter into a stall
then you give it your all
uuuurrrrrrrggggg

then you try to flush it down
but all it does is go around
diarria

 

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This just in

Armed cattlemen gather to wrangle up sheep-like capital resource.
Armed cattlemen gather to wrangle up sheep-like capital resource.

Our generation is doomed to the cooperation of all distributors of every major known resource in a valiant effort to turn a buck on the entire human race at each opportunity, degenerating us with PR incentives into an unquestioning, unthinking, digitally satisfied, technologically gratified, self-tending human plantation. If things continue at the pace iPhones and on-demand cable have set out, then we will not evolve, but devolve, the opposable thumb becoming civilization’s fiercest natural enemy.

The total output and sheer growth in numbers of cell phone towers will finally generate a large enough volume of short radio waves through polluted air to double the rate of all conditional cancers so as to make yet more money off the same resource, selling vital medications until the usefulness of a particular hominid’s living insides is so rotted, drugged up and decomposed that only local funeral homes can pick off the last few thousand dollars left in his or her insurance fund. One final score for the cash-vultures willing to carve up your corpse and who don’t mind breathing in a little formaldehyde.

As the Indians took and used all parts of the buffalo but the brain, which they used against the animal’s configurable habits to control it into the killzone, so too does the invisible hand of our unseen master from the front porch of his far-off third-world plantation.

Goodnight.