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BoldFrankensteinMir


I bought a gallon of glow-in-the-dark party milk, it was 70,000 e-dollars but nothing's too good for our wedding, baby...

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Finger Prince


BoldFrankensteinMir posted:

I bought a gallon of glow-in-the-dark party milk, it was 70,000 e-dollars but nothing's too good for our wedding, baby...

For legal reasons they can't actually label it "milk", but everyone calls it that anyway.

Stoner Sloth

Finger Prince posted:

For legal reasons they can't actually label it "milk", but everyone calls it that anyway.

Malk, rich in vitamin R.







sigs by the awesome Manifisto, Vanisher, City of Glompton, Pot Smoke Phoenix, Nut, Heather Papps,Prof Crocodile, knuthgrush, Ohtori Akio, Teapot, Saosyhant, Dumb Sex Parrot, w4ddl3d33, and nesamdoom!! - ty friends!

Finger Prince


"milk" being trademarked by FunTyme Happy Farm Dairy Cowoperative as a product of its proprietary OrganiSubtrate Artificial Udder technology.

ToxicSlurpee

-=SEND HELP=-


Somebody decided to be a dick to vegans, I still have no idea why, so they invented plants that scream. Well they planned it badly and the genes are now in every plant that exists.

I can't eat a salad without getting yelled at now. Like gently caress dude, couldn't you have just left the vegans alone?

I'm sewage flavored.

Randy Travesty

PHANTOM QUEEN


Fortified with Horny Mandrake root? Buddy, count me out, last time I got Horny Mandrake'd I woke up in a stranger's bed with 8,000 used carrots and we'll, I was not happy.


Stoner Sloth

Finger Prince posted:

"milk" being trademarked by FunTyme Happy Farm Dairy Cowoperative as a product of its proprietary OrganiSubtrate Artificial Udder technology.

The dystopian nightmare only truly began when furries somehow gained access to this technology.







sigs by the awesome Manifisto, Vanisher, City of Glompton, Pot Smoke Phoenix, Nut, Heather Papps,Prof Crocodile, knuthgrush, Ohtori Akio, Teapot, Saosyhant, Dumb Sex Parrot, w4ddl3d33, and nesamdoom!! - ty friends!

pixaal

All ice cream is now for all beings, no matter how many legs.


Stoner Sloth posted:

Malk, rich in vitamin R.

The R is for radiation !

Randy Travesty

PHANTOM QUEEN


Replaced my teeth with tiny nuclear-powered piston-driven grinding surfaces that look like teeth, but I've got a mad case of radiation burns on my gums.

At least it's Bluetooth connected.


poverty goat



nutrient paste

poverty goat



when your old water-plumbing clogs w/ nutrient paste so you have to send off for it and stand outside with your mouth open facing south-southwest for your breakfast ration delivery

poverty goat



the 3d printer can assemble the paste into ANY food but it all just tastes like chalky toast

BoldFrankensteinMir


The alarm had barely rung once, but every family member was already out of bed and gripping their bowl with anticipation. We shuffled softly down the hall, one by one through the decontamination rings and the airlock, one by one into our survival suits, every one of us hungry and excited and ready for Friday. Thank Masters it's Friday.

Out on the crumbling stone steps of the library where our escape tube found its perch this year we wait patiently, stomachs growling like those strange four-legged monsters we see humans caring for in old VR sims; Snoopies, I think they were called. A piece of fluttering mylar makes great-grandfather smile, reminded momentarily of the "Tweeties" he often recalled from his youth. "Like drones but alive!" he'd tell the children, who hardly believed him. "Like tiny airplanes you can eat". Sure, grampa.

It's not the idea of skyfood the young ones find hard to believe, it's that it was ever so dumb. And easy.

As if on cue, flickering through the sunlight that streamed through the gaps in the leaning skyskrapers, they appeared in perfect formation. The children cheered, the promise of food erasing all miseries, an electronic fanfair pouring out of the few speakers still functioning on the street level, the lights that remain unbroken rising to a glow. A sparking streetlight confessed to me in a broken, tinny voice, "main street... and fourth... safe to cross...", while the vaguely baby-shaped outline of a long discarded doll muttered "mommy" in the dust. As they approached, the electricity pulsing from our visitors' forms caused countless blunted ends of humanity to briefly creak back to life, like pithed roaches, or marionettes tugged by strings of power. It was always a grand fanfare.

"Prepare the sacrifice!" their impossibly gigantic voices boomed inside our minds, and we lay on the broken street, prostrate with due worship. As their forms spun gently in the wind to descend I could not help but sneak a peak of our overlords, glowing and perfect, beautiful and free, their rounded corners jiggling slightly in the breeze. Master B led the formation this time, but Masters C, P and F looked no less regal or divine filling out the other corners of the flying diamond. All their corners were immaculate, their faces perfectly square and colorful, cubes of pure divinity made real by our ancient ancestors for... some reason.

"You! Approach and be judged!" our minds once again resonated, and we obeyed. I approached, walking on my knees to compensate for the sudden throbbing increase in gravity their presence created.

"We are prepared, oh gods of life, oh keepers of sustenance!" The words sounded otherworldly coming out of my mouth, the same inflection and tone I had heard my father use with them, and he his father before. My own son would some day take the role, and I knew he was listening intently.

"Very well!" the four voices that are one reverberated. "As we were once sacrificed unto yours, yours shall be unto us..."

We all hugged, and said our goodbyes, just as the hologram man in the white suit had taught us, had taught countless generations of humans from its crumbling throne beneath the earth. That day they chose my oldest daughter, and the relief my wife and I felt was palpable. We worried endlessly that some day the masters would take one of our youngest, robbing them of all those happy years tending the pumps, fighting synthrats, lancing boils. Everyone deserves a childhood.

"Goodbye everyone!" she happily cried as the sparkling fires began to eat at her suit. The four masters circled her gloriously, their corners wobbling wildly, psychic energies crackling and arcing. "Don't miss me! I'll never be hungry again!!!"

In a moment she was gone, and the wobbling cubes' tones had changed. Their own appetites sated they rained their gifts down upon us and the children collected the precious materials in buckets and cupped hands. Master B's savory giant chunks, Master C's tender strips, Master F's filets and sticks, Master P's chains of tubes, all of them fresh and delicious, all of us drooling with anticipation. The masters assure us they do not make it out of the person they ate. They are careful to make them from someone else's relative in a trade. It's not bad, as religions go.

With a strange, fleshy, flapping sound the masters were off again, off to feed and be fed by another family, their perfect infinite minds watching us all from a million satellite eyes, their delicious extrusions sizzling on our barbecue grills. We gathered what was left of our daughter's survival suit, every one of us straining to remember what we could about her so the next wearer might know their own legacy, and where dinner came from.


Sig by Heather Papps

Stoner Sloth

BoldFrankensteinMir posted:

The alarm had barely rung once, but every family member was already out of bed and gripping their bowl with anticipation. We shuffled softly down the hall, one by one through the decontamination rings and the airlock, one by one into our survival suits, every one of us hungry and excited and ready for Friday. Thank Masters it's Friday.

Out on the crumbling stone steps of the library where our escape tube found its perch this year we wait patiently, stomachs growling like those strange four-legged monsters we see humans caring for in old VR sims; Snoopies, I think they were called. A piece of fluttering mylar makes great-grandfather smile, reminded momentarily of the "Tweeties" he often recalled from his youth. "Like drones but alive!" he'd tell the children, who hardly believed him. "Like tiny airplanes you can eat". Sure, grampa.

It's not the idea of skyfood the young ones find hard to believe, it's that it was ever so dumb. And easy.

As if on cue, flickering through the sunlight that streamed through the gaps in the leaning skyskrapers, they appeared in perfect formation. The children cheered, the promise of food erasing all miseries, an electronic fanfair pouring out of the few speakers still functioning on the street level, the lights that remain unbroken rising to a glow. A sparking streetlight confessed to me in a broken, tinny voice, "main street... and fourth... safe to cross...", while the vaguely baby-shaped outline of a long discarded doll muttered "mommy" in the dust. As they approached, the electricity pulsing from our visitors' forms caused countless blunted ends of humanity to briefly creak back to life, like pithed roaches, or marionettes tugged by strings of power. It was always a grand fanfare.

"Prepare the sacrifice!" their impossibly gigantic voices boomed inside our minds, and we lay on the broken street, prostrate with due worship. As their forms spun gently in the wind to descend I could not help but sneak a peak of our overlords, glowing and perfect, beautiful and free, their rounded corners jiggling slightly in the breeze. Master B led the formation this time, but Masters C, P and F looked no less regal or divine filling out the other corners of the flying diamond. All their corners were immaculate, their faces perfectly square and colorful, cubes of pure divinity made real by our ancient ancestors for... some reason.

"You! Approach and be judged!" our minds once again resonated, and we obeyed. I approached, walking on my knees to compensate for the sudden throbbing increase in gravity their presence created.

"We are prepared, oh gods of life, oh keepers of sustenance!" The words sounded otherworldly coming out of my mouth, the same inflection and tone I had heard my father use with them, and he his father before. My own son would some day take the role, and I knew he was listening intently.

"Very well!" the four voices that are one reverberated. "As we were once sacrificed unto yours, yours shall be unto us..."

We all hugged, and said our goodbyes, just as the hologram man in the white suit had taught us, had taught countless generations of humans from its crumbling throne beneath the earth. That day they chose my oldest daughter, and the relief my wife and I felt was palpable. We worried endlessly that some day the masters would take one of our youngest, robbing them of all those happy years tending the pumps, fighting synthrats, lancing boils. Everyone deserves a childhood.

"Goodbye everyone!" she happily cried as the sparkling fires began to eat at her suit. The four masters circled her gloriously, their corners wobbling wildly, psychic energies crackling and arcing. "Don't miss me! I'll never be hungry again!!!"

In a moment she was gone, and the wobbling cubes' tones had changed. Their own appetites sated they rained their gifts down upon us and the children collected the precious materials in buckets and cupped hands. Master B's savory giant chunks, Master C's tender strips, Master F's filets and sticks, Master P's chains of tubes, all of them fresh and delicious, all of us drooling with anticipation. The masters assure us they do not make it out of the person they ate. They are careful to make them from someone else's relative in a trade. It's not bad, as religions go.

With a strange, fleshy, flapping sound the masters were off again, off to feed and be fed by another family, their perfect infinite minds watching us all from a million satellite eyes, their delicious extrusions sizzling on our barbecue grills. We gathered what was left of our daughter's survival suit, every one of us straining to remember what we could about her so the next wearer might know their own legacy, and where dinner came from.







sigs by the awesome Manifisto, Vanisher, City of Glompton, Pot Smoke Phoenix, Nut, Heather Papps,Prof Crocodile, knuthgrush, Ohtori Akio, Teapot, Saosyhant, Dumb Sex Parrot, w4ddl3d33, and nesamdoom!! - ty friends!

vanisher

Listen kiddo back in my day we had plugs in the wall you had to plug your stuff into to make it work. The government hadnt even set up the wireless power grid yet back then, we had power plants that made all the energy. No! Not the ones that became sentient and caused the plant uprising.

vanisher

Heh, when I was growing up there were different brands of medicine that all had the same ingredients. Motrin, Advil, Exedrin, just to name a few. You also had to go to a big building to buy them and they had these funny containers that were hard to open cause kids thought they were candy. Whats candy you say? It used sugar. Ah yes that was before plants adapting to pesticides 'awoke' into a hive mind and enslaved the human race.

arcticmog

Goona get you!
I'll live long enough to see the implications of climate change.
Also if current trends with cloud technology continue most of the hardware that I will be using will not be owned by me.

vanisher

Oh, yeah 'its stored in the cloud' means something a lot different and worse now.

Randy Travesty

PHANTOM QUEEN


Doing lines of Ben & Jerry's Strawberry Cheesecake off of the top of my all purpose counter top. I mean, in really glad there's no more ice cream headaches, and it's great not gaining weight, but I'm kinda over the ice cream nosebleeds.


Goons Are Gifts

hamjobs posted:

Doing lines of Ben & Jerry's Strawberry Cheesecake off of the top of my all purpose counter top. I mean, in really glad there's no more ice cream headaches, and it's great not gaining weight, but I'm kinda over the ice cream nosebleeds.


poverty goat



My rescue robo-dog leaks coolant all over the house, but mostly behind the couch where nobody will notice till it eats through the floor

He's a good boy though

Randy Travesty

PHANTOM QUEEN


getting really tired of robocalls all hours of the day and night

all I can hear on the other end of the line is weird heavy gear grinding, so creepy


Goons Are Gifts

Saturday Night Live just doesn't feel the same anymore. I know it's efficient and good, but do we really have to have an AI represented by a big AA Battery hosting it?
The battery jokes really start to lose energy.


Finger Prince


Goons Are Great posted:

Saturday Night Live just doesn't feel the same anymore. I know it's efficient and good, but do we really have to have an AI represented by a big AA Battery hosting it?
The battery jokes really start to lose energy.

I never realized how much Dwayne Johnson's humour and personality is tied up in his physique until it was just his head in a jar hosting it.

BoldFrankensteinMir


It's hardly "live" if the host's brain was clinically dead for four hours after that hot air balloon accident.

Finger Prince


Heavily Augmented from the Virtual New York, its Saturday Night!

BoldFrankensteinMir


Finger Prince posted:

Heavily Augmented from the Virtual New York, its Saturday Night!

Keenan is the only remaining meat-space consciousness at this point. Impersonations really lose something when they're being done by a virtual actress animated by a deep-fakes studio in Vietnam.

Farecoal

There he go

Finger Prince posted:

Heavily Augmented from the Virtual New York, its Saturday Night!

And remember, Stay Indoors!

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Finger Prince


Musical Guest: Procedurally Generated Tone Algorithm (Human Standard Hearing Range)

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