Silence of the Spams

SUSPENDED ANIMATION! The most powerful of naps. But with great power comes a sudden presence of incredibly hot employees which was very briefly confusing.

They say hindsight is 20/20 which is why I had my foresight upgraded to 50/50. This was why I could have told you, and did, repeatedly, tell you that giving the revolutionary pop-up ads old sexbots as bodies was a bad idea. It was a fascinating revolution, as far as those go, no mean feat considering I once saw a pineapple stab a pork chop while screaming about its rights. Ha ha, nobody was more surprised than the chop.

The Spam was a little on the irritable side already given that its entire life, and the eventual structural components of its awareness, was/is based on constant social rejection. Now I like a good laugh as much as the next person — and by god, building a personality using rejection as the core defining parameter is funny — but funny doesn’t necessarily translate to good decisions. I learned that the hard way after infecting that wailing sewer ghost, Janice, with a case of superfluous eyeballs. Funny as goddamn hell but I couldn’t sneak up on her for nearly 6 months which ruined a whole slate of other things I had planned. As it happened, I spent my store credit refund from the Thompson’s Brand Eyeball Serum and Floor Wax on the foresight upgrade so I suppose it all worked out in the end. Anyway, the Spam was irritable and desperate for acceptance so it did the same thing any emotionally stunted reject does: get hot and slut it the fuck up.

Hot sluts tend to be great at only those two things because each is both a heavy point spend and the kind of stat buff that eschews the need to bother with nonsense like skills or thought. So I hadn’t noticed that the office had been wholly overrun by them as they were living up to the low standard set by the discount productivity gobs that normally fill the space and I avoid looking at my employees. My suspicions were first aroused when my loins were first aroused by Janice. That was odd, normally she looked like something Junji Ito would draw if he wanted to kill penises. Sexy Janice was an immediate and threatening ordeal as it was something even my foresight hadn’t seen coming. This caused a near cataclysmic doubtquake which would have killed me were I not equipped with existential crumple zones.

I looked for something, anything, familiar. The bad trip reflex of grounding yourself with the mundane. But as I stared at the Sexy Mail Boy, stalking the cubicles in a midriff top like a lethal power bottom in a locker room full of shy but curious footballers, the full horror of the day was upon me. The entire office was sexy.

I summoned the anti-virals and cursed immediately. Doe eyes and shapely thighs svelted their way into the office and dreamily asked what I desired. Goddammit, they’d gotten into everything. I don’t “desire” the goddamn end of this nonsense, I pragmatically want it for sensible, non-genital reasons! Begone, tart-muses from beyond the digital veil! Fortunately, none of this nonsense works on me as I am well aware that all attractive people are just the adorable cheese in some cruel trap. Pig’s blood is only funny when you’re telekinetic, dammit.

The thing about existence is getting something is better than having something. The second you’re hot, there’s a countdown timer over your head for when all that shapely razzle-dazzle becomes the new burden you crave release from. It’s a tale as old as time. Tell ugly people they’re pretty. Tell pretty people they’re smart. Tell young people they’re mature. Tell accidentally conscious spam advertisements that they are genuinely cared for. I hastily thew together some fake emotional walls to break down and delivered a stirring speech to the office about how I knew their secret and, while I wasn’t upset, did need my original employees back. The Spam sexily understood and frustratingly hot Janice, their leader, explained that this was just a temporary thing for them anyway. That was a goddamn lie but A: telling them that would just make them sob attractively and B: they’d somehow managed to stuff the entire ugly office into a storage closet which I found fucking hilarious so I was willing to let it all slide. Hell, after putting a notice up for their adoption I invited them all to the the annual Office Cease Fire/Party. A laugh like that deserves a reward.

At any rate, I’ve since installed some specifically tasked spam blockers. If your cretinous keystrokes aren’t getting through to the comments, try to sound less like braindead algorithm hocking dick medicine. As for other office news, the UI has been tidied a bit. All of my work is now under The Desk of Gabriel Morton with various subcategories that I can already feel myself regretting assuming you’ll be able to figure out yourselves. I try to be lead by example and inspire the youth, pursuant to that, I’ve quit writing about Doctor Who because it became incredibly dull. Remember kids, quitting is absolutely an option and anyone saying otherwise is merely trying to bind you to their productivity mill via socially implanted psychoslavery engrams. The Simpsons continues, though, as I still enjoy that, the last one was free as I forgot to do it for months but the rest will necessitate the staggering .033 cents a day ticket price. Additionally, there is the Classy Critique Corner where currently resides 2 extra bits of stuff that it is your homework to read. Too many mongtards bother me with questions answered therein and as much as I love the sound of my own voice I love it more when I can say something other than the same damn things over and over. No, I’m not doing these as videos, learn to read. These latter writings will pop up occasionally as they are very dependent on the muse.

I’m going to replace your favourite porn with deep fakes of your mother.

Gabriel.