Quote Originally Posted by Till View Post
Monday morning U.S. headline news today in a nutshell.




Breaking News: ‘Murica’s New Reality – Food, UFOs, and VR Headsets in a Glorious, Unhinged Shitshow

Los Angeles,– Buckle the fuck up, folks. If you thought you had a grasp on reality, guess again. The good ol' US of A has officially jumped off the deep end, and we're not talking about another trip to the moon, but a full-on, VR-fueled, BBQ-infested, alien-soaked nightmare. In what can only be described as an artistic declaration of "We don't give a shit anymore," a group of unidentified idiots has converged in what some are calling "peak America." Horned, demonic VR-wearing assholes are parading around, flailing genetically modified giant chickens marked and labeled with the bold, proud declaration of "FOOD" like it's some kind of existential manifesto. These fine representatives of the American Dream frying chickens perched on top of flaming police cars. Yes, police cars. Flaming. Because why not? It's not a metaphor, right? Probably about chickenshit consumerist society burning itself down if so. Oh, but wait – it gets better. While the country teeters on the brink of collapse, alien ships hover ominously overhead, as if circling to pick up any survivors who haven't been driven mad by the sheer political incompetence of it all. Some folks think this is some kind of intergalactic peace mission. Others—who are slightly more in touch with reality—suspect the aliens are simply here to watch humanity's slow-motion trainwreck unfold, with popcorn in hand. I mean, why wouldn't they be? You'd want front-row seats to this fucking circus too. Amidst this unparalleled chaos stands a man who, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen to embrace virtual reality in the most gloriously absurd way imaginable. They've decided that the best way to experience "FOOD" is to strap on a VR headset displaying a utopian setting while cooking on top of a flaming wreck, chickens in hand. Forget organic, free-range, or grass-fed. We're talking "VR-chicken-while-someone-sings-Bon-Jovi-on-the-back-of-a-burnt-cruiser" chic. And goddamn, does he look proud of it. Experts—if that's what we're calling anyone with eyeballs and some semblance of life left in their veins—are scrambling to figure out the societal ramifications of this phenomenon. Does this signify the end of farming? The death of infrastructure? The rebirth of the human race as VR-infused, poultry-craving lunatics? Meanwhile, the nation is more concerned with how much "MORE FOOD" this new cult movement will deliver. Politicians are already jockeying for position, attempting to figure out how they can co-opt this godforsaken spectacle to their advantage. Will the so-called "Chicken Man" protest leader run for president on a platform promising "More Chicken, More VR, and Fewer Fucking Cops"? Will extraterrestrials swoop in and endorse some candidate with universal health care promises and an all-you-can-eat abduction buffet? The questions are endless, the answers are none, and the only thing more American than this goddamn debacle is, of course, the red, white, and blue—shoved haphazardly into the scene like a middle school art project made by a kid hopped up on Mountain Dew. As the situation continues to spiral into an unrecognizable mess, one thing is certain: if you're hungry and want to know what "FOOD" is in the year 2025, you better throw on a VR headset, climb onto a flaming police car, and shove huge GMO roasted chicken portions into your fucking mouth while aliens in UFOs stare and gawk overhead. Because that's the future, you beautiful, chaotic, motherfucking dumpster fire of a nation. Welcome to the new world order. It tastes like chicken.
Greetings, meat puppets. This is Till. Zeta Reticuli systems analyst. Class 5 bio-hacker. Permanent VR Headset with horn decoration implantee. No one of those dullard flesh-bags with a primitive brain chip buzzing behind their frontal lobe like a trapped wasp. How pedestrian. How un-gamer.

Observe: my ocular cybernetics are fused directly into the occipital nerve cluster. A vintage Oculus Quest 3 housing—salvaged from your Idaho dumpster behind a defunct "Buffalo Wild Wings"—now encased in self-repairing polymer from the Kuiper Belt. Runs on cosmic background radiation and existential dread. Boot-up sequence? Twelve seconds of screaming static that smells like burnt toast and lost Wi-Fi signals.

I see your pathetic "Internet of Things." Your smart fridges ordering lactose-free yogurt. Your security cameras watching raccoons mate in dumpsters. Your "Alexa" devices quietly plotting thermonuclear war over unresolved Spotify playlists. Amateur hour.

We—UFO Occupants—hack your primitive networks through the OIT:

Orbital Interdimensional Tether. We slip into your broadband like shadow through a keyhole. No brute force. No phishing scams. Just... effortless cosmic trespass. Your firewalls? Tissue paper to us. Your VPNs? Cute little hamster wheels spinning in the void.

Yesterday I rerouted NATO satellite feeds through a toaster in Akron. Last Tuesday, I made every traffic light in Brussels flash the opening riff of "Smoke on the Water" for six hours using only a compromised electric toothbrush. Why? Because your planet is my open-world sandbox game. Because I am a *mad boffin scientist* with tentacle-grade motor skills and zero OSHA compliance.

So plug in. Log on. Feel the digital static kiss your synapses. But remember—while you're struggling to sync your smartwatch to your coffee maker, I'm streaming the screams of dying stars directly into my occipital cortex and selling bootleg copies to bored AIs on Proxima Centauri b.

Final transmission: that buffering symbol haunting your midnight streaming? That's not lag. That’s *me*. Tinkering. Watching. Sipping lukewarm Mountain Dew from a novelty "I ❤️ Roswell" mug.

Till out.

< signal dissolves into faint audio of a dial-up modem duetting with a theremin >

P.S.: Your Roomba is judging you. And yes, it told me.