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Year is 2028 The pandemic has gotten so bad we are all forced to wear colored isolation suits with their own oxygen tank and no hands for contact. Those infected are turned into sociopathic murders that try to secretly kill everyone, but still dress and act like the rest of us. I work as a spaceship engineer in the Skled along with 9 other people. We just got notified that one among us was infected, but we still have to keep maintaining the ship otherwise it will explode. We are trying to figure out who it is by voting. 2 of us are already dead and i saw red vent, but nobody believes me. I think the others want to vote me off. This might be the last thing i'll write. Goodbye. Tell me wife i love her.

💁I CAN'T 🕶 BELIEVE IT'S ALREADY 💃M👏L 👏K 👏 🗣 EVE!! TONIGHT 🌛 WE WILL GATHER 👪 WITH OUR FAMILIES❤ NOT ONLY TO PRAY🙏 TO MLK 👍AND LET HIM KNOW💦💦💦 WHAT GIFTS🎁 WE WOULD 😚LIKE 😙 TO RECEIVE🍆 ON MLK DAY 🌞 BUT TO REMEMBER 😂 THAT MLK❤ IS THE REAL REASON 🎶 FOR 🎵THE 🎶 SEASON✔ SEND THIS TO TEN OTHER TRUE MLK FANS💯 OR YOUR BROTHERS 🙋 AND SISTERS🙆 WILL BE FOREVER OPPRESSED 😔

That's right. I am the IMPOSTER. I just killed my boss. I now had to convince everyone that I wasn't the imposter. "Chad is the imposter!" I randomly yelled out. Another coworker said "Well, I did see him running towards the stairs/elevator. "Wait, think about this!" Chad stated. "How do you know I'm the murderer? It could be him!" "Hmm.." My coworker, John, said. "Why do you think it's him, Darrius?" "Well," I started, "The same reason as you. I saw him running towards the elevator when the killing happened. "Wait, wait, wait!" Angelica proclaimed. "How do we know it happened on the top floor?" Another coworker, Adam, pointed out the window towards the paramedics wrapping up my boss' mangled corpse in a body bag." Oh!" Angelica said." That's a bit sussy," I said. "I think it must have been Angelica, she's pretending she doesn't know anything?" "Hmm, you might be right." My coworker Dave spoke up. "But I think that it might be you, Darrius." "Wait woah woah, why is it me?" I defended myself. He said "I saw you enter the elevator right before the murderer hit!" He said. Shit. he's onto me." Woah, you could be lying! I was in my cubicle doing my office work!" I yelled back." Oh really, what were you doing?" Dave said." I was uh.. scanning for viruses on my computer!" "Hmm.. okay." "I think that we should get rid of Liam." Angelica proclaimed. "Woah woah woah, pretty lady! Why do you think that?" He quickly hopped to his defense. "I haven't been a part of this discussion at all!" "Well, you're pale, and you work on the closest floor to the boss." Angelica replies. "Yeah, that's sus, Liam." I said. "We should get rid of him." "I agree." Chad said." Me too!" Adam said." Me three!" John said. And so we decided to throw him out the window.

An Afghan, an Albanian, an Algerian, an American, an Andorran, an Angolan, an Antiguans, an Argentine, an Armenian, an Australian, an Austrian, an Azerbaijani, a Bahamian, a Bahraini, a Bangladeshi, a Barbadian, a Barbudans, a Batswanan, a Belarusian, a Belgian, a Belizean, a Beninese, a Bhutanese, a Bolivian, a Bosnian, a Brazilian, a Brit, a Bruneian, a Bulgarian, a Burkinabe, a Burmese, a Burundian, a Cambodian, a Cameroonian, a Canadian, a Cape Verdean, a Central African, a Chadian, a Chilean, a Chinese, a Colombian, a Comoran, a Congolese, a Costa Rican, a Croatian, a Cuban, a Cypriot, a Czech, a Dane, a Djibouti, a Dominican, a Dutchman, an East Timorese, an Ecuadorean, an Egyptian, an Emirian, an Equatorial Guinean, an Eritrean, an Estonian, an Ethiopian, a Fijian, a Filipino, a Finn, a Frenchman, a Gabonese, a Gambian, a Georgian, a German, a Ghanaian, a Greek, a Grenadian, a Guatemalan, a Guinea-Bissauan, a Guinean, a Guyanese, a Haitian, a Herzegovinian, a Honduran, a Hungarian, an I-Kiribati, an Icelander, an Indian, an Indonesian, an Iranian, an Iraqi, an Irishman, an Israeli, an Italian, an Ivorian, a Jamaican, a Japanese, a Jordanian, a Kazakhstani, a Kenyan, a Kittian and Nevisian, a Kuwaiti, a Kyrgyz, a Laotian, a Latvian, a Lebanese, a Liberian, a Libyan, a Liechtensteiner, a Lithuanian, a Luxembourger, a Macedonian, a Malagasy, a Malawian, a Malaysian, a Maldivan, a Malian, a Maltese, a Marshallese, a Mauritanian, a Mauritian, a Mexican, a Micronesian, a Moldovan, a Monacan, a Mongolian, a Moroccan, a Mosotho, a Motswana, a Mozambican, a Namibian, a Nauruan, a Nepalese, a New Zealander, a Nicaraguan, a Nigerian, a Nigerien, a North Korean, a Northern Irishman, a Norwegian, an Omani, a Pakistani, a Palauan, a Palestinian, a Panamanian, a Papua New Guinean, a Paraguayan, a Peruvian, a Pole, a Portuguese, a Qatari, a Romanian, a Russian, a Rwandan, a Saint Lucian, a Salvadoran, a Samoan, a San Marinese, a Sao Tomean, a Saudi, a Scottish, a Senegalese, a Serbian, a Seychellois, a Sierra Leonean, a Singaporean, a Slovakian, a Slovenian, a Solomon Islander, a Somali, a South African, a South Korean, a Spaniard, a Sri Lankan, a Sudanese, a Surinamer, a Swazi, a Swede, a Swiss, a Syrian, a Taiwanese, a Tajik, a Tanzanian, a Togolese, a Tongan, a Trinidadian or Tobagonian, a Tunisian, a Turkish, a Tuvaluan, a Ugandan, a Ukrainian, a Uruguayan, a Uzbekistani, a Venezuelan, a Vietnamese, a Welshman, a Yemenite, a Zambian and a Zimbabwean all go to a nightclub... The doorman stops them and says “Sorry, I can’t let you in without a Thai.”

Imagine, 700 years in the future, through some last vestige of the internet kept in an underground server, a notification miraculously appears on your device (which has been preserved in nuclear dust from the 5th world war). One night, an alien working a late shift at the museum of archeology notices the cracked screen suddenly light up, and upon it, one word arises from the battered code: Amogus. They do not know what this word means. They ponder it deeply. They scour the ancient tomes, desperate to understand its mystifying origin. It drives them mad. Is it a primeval cipher? The motto of a bygone civilization? A message from God? Night after night they study it by candlelight. They flip through pages in books so old, the slightest cough would turn the paper to a fine off-white powder. The answer is nowhere to be found. And then they are struck by a revelation: I was not meant to know this word. Its esoteric nature escapes my grasp for a reason. What if its meaning is too enlightening to bear? With this revelation comes anger. Spite. Despair. Why shouldn't I understand it?! What cosmic forces are there at play to keep me from such knowledge?! In a fit of desperate rage, they shatter your device against a wall and exclaim, arms raised to the heavens: "This is literally 1984!" Silence... Their pleas are unanswered. Sadly, in the end, their inability to unlock the word's meaning drives them to suicide. Its secrets are never known. So I ask you this: is it better to die having never understood the true mind-bending nature of Amogus, or to be driven mad by the little spaceman in his blood-red suit? If you knew enlightenment would render you incapable of living on this mortal earth without making daily references to a game of space mafia, would you accept it? With knowledge comes power, but also endless suffering. Choose wisely, and be wary when standing at the edge of that great abyss we call "the Truth," lest you fall too deep.

Hello, is this Pizza Hut? Excellent. My name is Ben Shapiro. Conservative thought leader. Prominent white YouTuber. The Muggsy Bogues of the intellectual dark Web. And—look, it’s just a fact—I would like to order some pizza pie. If you are triggered by that request, I do not care. I truly do not. Now let’s discuss conditions. First, thank you for agreeing to debate me. Typically, in fora such as this, I am met with ad-hominem mudslinging, anything from “You racist creep” or “Is that your real voice?” to raucous schoolyard laughter and threats of the dreaded “toilet swirly.” However, your willingness to engage with me over the phone on the subject of pizza shows an intellectual fortitude and openness to dangerous ideas which reflects highly on your character. Huzzah, good sir. Huzzah. Second, any pizza I order will be male. None of this “Our pizza identifies as trans-fluid-pan-poly”—no. Pizza is a boy. With a penis. It’s that simple. It’s been true for all of human history, from Plato to Socrates to Mr. Mistoffelees, and any attempt to rewrite the pillars of Western thought will be met with a hearty “Fuh!” by yours truly. And, trust me, that is not a fate you wish to meet. Now. With regard to my topping preference. I have eaten from your pizzeria in times past, and it must be said: your pepperoni is embarrassingly spicy. Frankly, it boggles the mind. I mean, what kind of drugs are you inhaling over there? Pot?! One bite of that stuff and I had to take a shower. So tread lightly when it comes to spice, my good man. You do not want to see me at my most epic. Like the great white hero of Zack Snyder’s classic film “300,” I will kick you. Onions, peppers—no, thank you. If I wanted veggies, I’d go to a salad bar. I’m not some sort of vegan, Cory Booker weirdo. And your efforts to Michelle Obama-ize the great American pizza pie are, frankly, hilarious. Though not as funny as the impressively named P’Zone—when I finally figured out that genuinely creative pun, I laughed until I cried and peed. A true Spartan admits defeat, and I must admit that, in this instance, your Hut humor slayed me, Dennis Miller style. And, with that, you have earned my order. Congratulations. Ahem. Without further ado, I would like your smallest child pizza, no sauce, extra cheese. Hello? Aha. A hang-up. Another triggered lib, bested by logic. Damn it. I’m fucking starving.