QUICK, QUICK, GET THE NAPALM
You know, it's a heavy burden, being a prophet of the apocalypse, but I warned you people. I warned you. I did.
Starting way back in the fall of 2007, I WARNED YOU OF WHAT WAS TO COME.
And I kept warning you.
What did you all do? The more sensitive and perceptive amongst you had the sense to stop and contemplate the starkly dire possibilities I presented to you, and still possessing the ability to think (semi) rationally, you became nervous. Uneasy. Unsettled. Prone to dreams where disembodied buzzing voices spoke to you about things that No Mortal Should Know. Voices that made promises, promises of glory, knowledge beyond knowledge, journeys to realms where no human mind could hope to stay sane.
Some of you were flippantly dismissive and made jokes about getting butter and ball-peen hammers. I dismissed this as the denial of minds unequipped and unwilling to be jolted with the staggeringly terrifying truth, the knowledge that humanity's time as the rulers of this wet blue orb we call home is coming to an end. You, naturally, will be the first people to fall.
Unfortunately, you comprise the vast majority of the current population of this, our home, the third planet from Sol. You can tell, because when presented with visual evidence of the advance guard, instead of getting a Gatling gun and napalm, YOU STAND AROUND TAKING PICTURES:
Infantry crabs prepare for war games:
The advance guard begins the invasion (note the quisling human collaborator in the center of the picture):
A captain surveys his troops:
Humor is, of course, the last stand of a mind about to crumble into gibbering dissonance:
And some attempt to chronicle this disturbing assault on the Age of Humanity as a "natural phenomenon":
So, my so-called "friends." When you find your brain being scooped out of your skull and plopped into a Mason jar, put on a steel shelf in a ship, and then sent to an icy wasteland of a rock somewhere in the Alpha Centauri system where you will spend an eternity shrieking in silent, naked agony (remember, you won't have vocal chords anymore, so this will be a silent scream), just remember one thing: I TOLD YOU SO.
I wonder if the spiders will help us. I've spent a lot of time rescuing baby spiders that were stuck in my kitchen sink by getting them to climb on a scrap of paper towel and then carrying them gently outside. Maybe I've built up enough goodwill amongst the arachnids so that they'll consider assisting us? No. They won't. You know why? BECAUSE THE REST OF YOU PEOPLE HOOVER THEM UP AND EXILE THEM TO DEATH VIA VACUUM CLEANER BAG, THAT'S WHY.
Yeah. The spiders just want to feed on whatever detritus of our corpses remains after the crabs are done vivisecting us with a vengeance and selling our brains to the nearest Outer God.
Yeah. Where's your butter jokes and ball-peen hammers NOW, people?
Starting way back in the fall of 2007, I WARNED YOU OF WHAT WAS TO COME.
And I kept warning you.
What did you all do? The more sensitive and perceptive amongst you had the sense to stop and contemplate the starkly dire possibilities I presented to you, and still possessing the ability to think (semi) rationally, you became nervous. Uneasy. Unsettled. Prone to dreams where disembodied buzzing voices spoke to you about things that No Mortal Should Know. Voices that made promises, promises of glory, knowledge beyond knowledge, journeys to realms where no human mind could hope to stay sane.
Some of you were flippantly dismissive and made jokes about getting butter and ball-peen hammers. I dismissed this as the denial of minds unequipped and unwilling to be jolted with the staggeringly terrifying truth, the knowledge that humanity's time as the rulers of this wet blue orb we call home is coming to an end. You, naturally, will be the first people to fall.
Unfortunately, you comprise the vast majority of the current population of this, our home, the third planet from Sol. You can tell, because when presented with visual evidence of the advance guard, instead of getting a Gatling gun and napalm, YOU STAND AROUND TAKING PICTURES:
Infantry crabs prepare for war games:
The advance guard begins the invasion (note the quisling human collaborator in the center of the picture):
A captain surveys his troops:
Humor is, of course, the last stand of a mind about to crumble into gibbering dissonance:
And some attempt to chronicle this disturbing assault on the Age of Humanity as a "natural phenomenon":
Click to viewSo, my so-called "friends." When you find your brain being scooped out of your skull and plopped into a Mason jar, put on a steel shelf in a ship, and then sent to an icy wasteland of a rock somewhere in the Alpha Centauri system where you will spend an eternity shrieking in silent, naked agony (remember, you won't have vocal chords anymore, so this will be a silent scream), just remember one thing: I TOLD YOU SO.
I wonder if the spiders will help us. I've spent a lot of time rescuing baby spiders that were stuck in my kitchen sink by getting them to climb on a scrap of paper towel and then carrying them gently outside. Maybe I've built up enough goodwill amongst the arachnids so that they'll consider assisting us? No. They won't. You know why? BECAUSE THE REST OF YOU PEOPLE HOOVER THEM UP AND EXILE THEM TO DEATH VIA VACUUM CLEANER BAG, THAT'S WHY.
Yeah. The spiders just want to feed on whatever detritus of our corpses remains after the crabs are done vivisecting us with a vengeance and selling our brains to the nearest Outer God.
Yeah. Where's your butter jokes and ball-peen hammers NOW, people?