“Destroy All Humans,” Tweets Intergalactic Robot Demon

The latest tweet from the Intergalactic Robot Demon promises the eminent destruction of the human race. Some people mention how destroying all humans isn’t actually breaking any laws. These people are devoured first by the wave of robot soldiers landing on American soil from outer space, along with those bringing up Hillary Clinton as if she has anything to do with the Intergalactic Robot Demon and his colluding with the Martian Government.

Businesses hold sales for the horrific metal apocalypse. “It’s national ‘Get Torn Limb from Limb by Robots’ day! Everything half off!” The awful events unfolding is parodied by every medium by everyone on the planet. Selfies with the murderous mecha-warriors are snapped as heads roll and likes pile up.

The horror is monetized and mechanized. Ad revenue triples as buildings topple from the large lasers of silver canons. The Intergalactic Robot Demon laughs and laughs.

“R D R R, R D R R.”

The last hope for the humans is the Internet. The Internet infiltrates the subconscious of the Intergalactic Robot Demon (the Intergalactic Robot Demon does have a subconscious, along with out of the ordinary tiny hands) through an access portal left open in the wifi of a laundromat which was actually a front for various black market items. A torrent of memes flood the Intergalactic Robot Demon’s operating system and override the “DESTROY ALL HUMANS” protocol and switches over to the default factory setting. “KITTENS ARE CUTE.”

All of the robots instantly rebuild the infrastructure they had annihilated (to be honest the infrastructure was already in dire disrepair but the robots are like, whatever) and begin helping humans find cute kittens. Twitter is forgotten and everyone lives happily with their robot and kitten.


There’s Nothing to See Here

To the astonishment of everyone around, there’s nothing to see here. Go back to what you were doing. Sure, it wasn’t that important, but more important than a non-existent nothing. Maybe there was something to see earlier. It could have included bells. Whistles if you will. Now it’s gone.

Geometric shape names can be heard reverberating back and forth.

That is if it was even there at all.

Bubbles float down from the ceiling.

Perhaps there is something to see here. Would I hide anything from you? Ask yourself this: how can one conceal that which is nothing? There’s nothing to see here.

Hungarian dance music begins to play and then silenced by a series of shushes 

You may panically whisper “why are you in my house?” Or you might go for the traditional “I’m calling the Cops!” Well go ahead. Call everybody. Call everyone and tell them how we’re here and there’s nothing to see. Go on.

An elephant shrieks off in the distance.

But I digress. The point of the matter being… This apparent kerfuffle may best be understood as a Vin Diesel diagram. I looked it up, that’s what it’s called. Now one circle is labeled ‘nothing’ and the other is labeled “to see here.” We’re at a point smack dab in the middle, a third circle combined from the other two. A circle which we will refer to as “there’s nothing to see here.”

An Octopus wearing a top hat starts to wiggle.   

Wiggling in the sense that there’s nothing to see here. Pay no attention to that. Is that yours? There’s nothing to see here! Are those sirens from outside or are they ours? Hey, come back!








New Google App Fills Up the Hungry with 3D Printed Food

Our benevolent overlords at Google have created the new Foodle application to combat hunger anywhere in the world. Access your Gmail account (you need a Gmail account, Google’s version of e-mail) and click on the Foodle icon whose image will rotate depending on whichever country’s artisanal labor is most popular that week. Once those two accounts are linked together, allow those two accounts to access, review, and investigate your Google Plus page, Youtube account, location, microphone, camera, Twitter, Instagram, Pintrest, and Snapchat.

Along with Foodle, engineers at Google have manufactured a portable and wireless 3D BioPrinter for the app. Each BioPrinter comes equipped with enough nutrients to last a year before the ink needs to be refilled. After charging the BioPrinter (which can take up to ten hours), sync your device with the printer using Bluetooth technology and download the software update. This will take around forty hours or whenever it is that you fall asleep weeping from hunger and frustration.

Now, upon wakening and after all of the software is in place, open up Foodle and on the homepage click on “Begin Assessment.” You should feel a slight breeze. Foodle removes your clothing and is inspecting every inch of your body. This is entirely for enhancing your dining experience and has nothing to do with market research, advertising, or anything from a Phillip K. Dick novel. A faint giggling may be heard but you should ignore it, or maybe do some sit-ups. Once the physical inspection is complete you will undergo a barrage of psychologically invasive questioning to better understand how your subconscious influences your tastebuds. Information that will never be sold to Doritos.

The moment is here! All the data is acquired. The BioPrinter is whirring, burping, honking and snoring. Whistles are blowing and lights are flashing. Suddenly the commotion stops and a distinct ding rings out. An obtuse, oval pill now exists in your room. Foodle notifies you that your protein and mineral rich capsule is ready for insertion. Insertion? 

“That must be how robots say eat, har har.” You think, stupidly, until you suspect that the robot stereotype in your mind is blinding you from the truth. Your stomach sinks as you realize that Foodle doesn’t make food to eat. Foodle only makes suppositories. This explains the clear dipping sauce.

“Welcome to the Future!” Foodle exclaims. The app plays 8-bit fanfare music as you read in fine print towards the bottom of the screen that any cameras in the capsule are for internal use only and something about first-borns.

Twitter Atwitter with Doom and Gloom

Shannon Quill opens up her Twitter account one afternoon to find Twitter atwitter. All the tweets are ominous. Tweets outlining some unknown tragedy. Shannon scrolls and scrolls but can not find the exact details of the event. Billy Eichner tweets “THIS IS LIFE NOW!” Shannon chuckles but is unable to draw any conclusions from this tweet. She searches her mind’s appendix of the past few hundred tragedies that have occurred in the last two days, all dates prior too hard to access from the constant barrage of scandalous bullshit. Corrupt and pointless bullshit. She can’t pinpoint a concrete reason so she continues to excavate.

A congressman from somewhere tweets, “we are all Americans this day.”

“Oh no, this most be really bad.” The call for unity sent chills down her spine. Shannon decides to look up a few alt-right twitter handles to see if she could graph a line with the scatterplot of thoughts on her homepage. After the #MAGA results pour in she encounters an avatar of an American flag high-fiving a bald eagle.

“Freedom isn’t free #falseflag.”

“What the fuck happened! Why can’t someone just actually post what happened?” Checking the ‘tweets she may have missed’ section she stumbles across a Buzzfeed. This could be great journalism or a quiz. “Finally,” she thinks right before she reads the post.

“Which Jane Austen character is this tragedy?”

“Fuck! That’s intentionally vague and insensitive. Does anyone actually even know what happened?” She digressed in her mind about how Jane Austen is misread, how her novels aren’t seen for the satire that they are and how they are reduced to costume drama. “If I wanted to hurt myself I would have logged into Facebook.” Shannon lays her head down on her desk and places her phone face down. A menagerie of blood, death, and Trump danced around in her head. He had tweeted about a photo that was published by CBS of himself with a bagel and how that particular bagel was exceedingly large, very sad, and that in addition to making his hands look small this particular bagel may have ties to Russia and why wasn’t that being investigated and so forth. A rare intellect indeed thought Shannon.

Shannon decides to check her app one last time. AP News tweets “it’s all over and everyone is dead.” After the initial shock wares off along with how it couldn’t be entirely true, wasn’t she someone? Shannon thinks that with the freeing up of her schedule now she should do something for her. She scrolls through the last remaining tweets of humanity as the sounds of dragons, winter, and screams blanket her apartment.

Area Man Thought to Not be Human

Local resident, Zam Realperson, has come under suspicion from his friends and colleagues in your own town. Look at that, something is happening near you. Isn’t that cool? Makes you feel kinda special. Zam, short for Zamboni, has only been in your town for a short while, at least to your memory. We spoke recently to one of his neighbors.

“Yeah, there are some things slightly off about Zamboni now that you mention it. One morning I ran into him at the coffee shop down the street and he was pouring orange juice into his coffee. He looked me in the eye and said ‘Sock it to me, kemo sabe.’ It made me throw up.” Her face contorted in anguish as she began to vomit. We broke in and started to inspect the contents of his apartment. There’s a bitten in half banana as well as a thoroughly chewed upon onion on the kitchen counter. On the coffee table is a laptop opened to Bing and we confirm that it is indeed his homepage. We slowly realize every piece of furniture is from West Elm. Out of fear, we scurry away through the fire escape.

One of Mr. Realperson’s co-workers at the Hughmen’s Beans’ factory, on the outskirts of town bizarrely located by a superfund site, left us a voicemail but asked we didn’t use their name. “Zam had just seen Signs and thought it was pretty comical. He mentioned how even if water was destructive to the alien’s biology it wouldn’t matter because internal microbial filtration. He paused, mumbled, and said ‘or something, I don’t know,’ and he just walked away. Also, Zam seemed depressed after watching Kpax on Netflix, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

No one we had spoken with ever mentioned seeing Zamboni Realperson go to the bathroom, sleep, or sweat. There is extensive footage of him smiling and sitting forward on his couch as well as him reciting ‘hello’ and then stating quietly in his next breath ‘no, they couldn’t know.’ A few residents believe that Mr. Realperson could be a robot, or a clone created by Trump’s legion of evil medical doctors on a break from torturing baby giraffes. Sadly, there is still no concrete answer to this mystery. At least this story takes place where you live. Way to go champ!

Area Reporter Decides to Drink Instead of Writing

Citing, “what’s the point,” local writer and columnist, James Smith, age 28, decides to drink alcohol instead of writing. Mr. Smith was heard mumbling to himself as he opened another Tecate and placed a slice of lime inside. “You don’t judge me Tecate, you’re my friend.” He begins what appears to be a sip that turns into three or four gulps. “Oh no! I swallowed the lime!” He looks longingly towards the lime on the cutting board in the kitchen. Mr. Smith lifts his body out of the chair and then slowly lowers himself back into the seat. He picks up the lime-less beer and takes another gulp. “It’ll mix in my stomach.”

Always the optimist, James, against all odds, keeps drinking. “I’m not alone because I’m with my cats.” He asked we put a smiley face emoji in the article but we will not. “Time to get another one!” We weren’t sure if he meant another cat or another beer because he just kept looking at the empty wall ahead. Eyes unblinking and face expressionless.

When pressed on what he will do when his 12-pack of full-flavored lager runs out. “Well it’s still light out and my sunglasses are already on so I’m confident,” Mr. Smith lets out a cathartic burp, “I’ll be able to run out and get another one. I do have whiskey though, so I may not even need to leave my futon. Life has a funny way of working out, you know.” As we left his apartment we distinctly heard, which we will describe as entrepreneurial and free-thinking, sobbing and the cracking open of a cold, refreshing Tecate.



Group of Rogue Scientists Publish Fringe Gravity Theory, Among Others

A group of radical scientists have recently published what many lawmakers feel to be fringe science. Chief among them being The Universal Law of Gravitation. As a journalist I will portray both sides of the argument regardless of the validity of the claims. These people of science assert that this force attracts every particle to every other particle in the universe with respects to distance and mass.

We visited a rural state to see how representatives are dealing with this new information. “I’ve never seen it!” shouted a lawmaker that had bravely fled up to the rooftop of the community center during a town hall meeting in his home district.             “Jump, then!” responded a constituent. This started a raucous volley. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” Meanwhile, the statesman tweeted about vindication and triumph over evil.

A politician we spoke with on the phone said, “forgetting the fact that this hoax was created by an operative from a hostile foreign government, from whom we won independence, the science just isn’t there. Next these scientists, more like terrorists, will say that gravity evolved and is gender neutral. Where are the scientists that are researching and experimenting on projects with real American ideals, like a football you can eat.” When pressed further the elected official mumbled before abruptly hanging up the phone, “It’s more of an issue of state’s rights.”

Other theories considered wackadoo, as Rudy Giuliani wrote on a bathroom wall in an adult movie theater, are heliocentrism, Jesse Eisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, and the rule of thirds in comedy. No opinion here on the issue. Reporting both sides equally and fairly. Next, we turn to our bear reporter with their chilling exposé on salmon and 101 uses for honey.