Government Invests in Sentient Machines to Foster Corporate Accessibility, Among Other Things. What?
Wokeness and the rise of despair.
Ever wake up, grab your phone, and instantly question whether you accidentally stumbled into a portal to Bizarro World overnight? No? Just me? Because honestly, some mornings I'm pretty sure my flat is the only sane place left on this godforsaken planet. Step outside, though? Global lunatic asylum. That's the only way to describe it. And frankly, my rapidly deteriorating sense of humour is the only thing keeping me from joining the inmates. So, buckle up, buttercup. Let's take a darkly comedic stroll through the asylum, shall we?
Ontology and Ownership of Internet Dance: A Deep Dive into the Abyss of Bureaucracy.
While the nation grapples with crumbling infrastructure, whatever ‘ontology’ is and the existential dread of rising energy bills, our benevolent government has apparently decided the most pressing issue is… internet dance ownership? Yes, you read that right. A staggering £2.3 million (that’s roughly the annual salary of 46 nurses, but who’s counting?) has been allocated to a project titled “Ontology and Ownership of Internet Dance.” Experts (presumably clad in tinfoil hats and glowsticks) will explore such profound questions as: Who owns the Macarena in the metaverse? Can a digital jig be copyrighted? And, most importantly, will this research finally explain why your uncle busts a move at every family gathering?
A government spokesperson, speaking from an undisclosed location (rumored to be a jacuzzi filled with discarded grant applications), defended the expenditure. "This vital research," they mumbled, "will unlock the… the… potential of… dance… online… economy…" The spokesperson then trailed off, seemingly mesmerised by a screensaver of dancing hamsters. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left wondering if our tax pounds are doing the tango with absurdity.
Robot Love and Corporate Harmony: A Bold New Era of Inclusion (Sponsored by Your Already Overburdened Taxpayer).
In a move that can only be described as either visionary or utterly bonkers, the government has invested £1.7 million in a program to deploy AI robots designed to make businesses more accessible to LGBT+ A,B,C,Z,U,T,X,F, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all potential employees have been accounted for until the alphabet has been exhausted. What next: you walk into your local bank, and instead of a human teller, you’re greeted by a chrome-plated automaton that politely asks your preferred pronouns before processing your loan application. I mean, What could possibly go wrong?
“This is a giant leap forward for inclusivity,” declared a government minister (whose PR team is clearly working overtime). “These robots will create a safe and welcoming environment for everyone, regardless of their… orientation… or… rhythmic inclinations.” Critics, however, have raised concerns about the robots' potential for accidental bias, the sheer cost of the project, and the general creepiness of interacting with a robot that may or may not be judging your outfit. But hey, at least we'll have someone to blame when the robot uprising begins.
Star Wars and Climate Change: A Galaxy Far, Far Away From Sensible Spending.
Forget the boring old scientific reports. The government has decided the best way to tackle climate change is… through the lens of Star Wars? A cool £500,000 has been earmarked for a “Star Wars-themed climate change study.” Researchers will apparently be examining the environmental impact of the Death Star and analysing the socio-economic implications of a galaxy far, far away’s reliance on fossil fuels.
“This innovative approach,” a government official insisted, “will engage young people and inspire them to… to… recycle… or something…” Meanwhile, actual scientists, who have spent years researching climate change without the aid of lightsabers, are reportedly weeping into their beakers. One can only hope that this study doesn't conclude with the recommendation to build a real-life Death Star powered by unicorn farts. Because, at this point, nothing seems impossible.
Ever since I read the article in which some mindless moron—who was clearly making shit up as they went along in order to keep themselves in employment, and no doubt a cushy, overpaid salary—suggested that Lego parts were too heterosexual, I’ve seriously pondered life, the universe, and the US President forming a band called ‘Donald and The Strumpets’ (why not; this man seems capable of anything!).
Therapists are busier than ever these days, and it's not just because everyone's finally realising their inner child is a repressed disco-dancing queen. No, it's the daily dose of societal absurdity that pushes people over the edge. You see, when the government decides that studying the love life of "gender-fluid" newts is a better use of taxpayer money than, say, fixing potholes or funding actual healthcare, it sends a clear message: "We've officially entered the Upside Down."
And then there's the woke brigade, who've turned everyday conversations into minefields of microaggressions and pronoun policing. One wrong word and you're canceled faster than a Netflix show with low ratings. It's enough to make anyone question their sanity, let alone their identity. So, yeah, people are flocking to therapists, not just to unpack their childhood trauma, but to figure out if they're still living in a reality-based community.
The world has gone topsy-turvy, hasn't it? Apparently, the burning questions of our time are no longer about curing diseases or solving world hunger, but about the sexual preferences of newts and the correct pronoun to use when addressing a non-binary squirrel. It's enough to make anyone question their sanity, or at least reach for the nearest bottle of wine. After all, who needs logic and reason when you can have a government-funded study on the mating habits of hermaphroditic worms? It's the kind of intellectual stimulation that really makes you feel like your tax money is being put to good use while sitting in the pub getting rat-arsed because it’s all too much for your brain to handle, and your phone’s set to redial the Samaritans, again!
Imagine going for a job interview at a bank, and being asked if otters prefer the sixty-nine position over the missionary, and being told you should know this because you achieved a degree in business studies at university. What? Or. going to the pub and try starting a conversation about gender-queer otters, to the bewilderment of someone half-tanked on bitter who clearly assumes you’ve suddenly appeared from another universe?
Well, fear not. If the existential dread of it all becomes too much, there's always the comforting embrace of therapy, or perhaps a nice, relaxing evening with a bottle of vodka, Valium to hand, and a Netflix marathon. If that fails, there's always the option of rolling a dodgy cigarette filled with who-knows-what, just to numb the pain and make the world seem a little less absurd. After all, who needs a stable society with a clear sense of purpose when you can have the warm, fuzzy feeling of oblivion? It's the perfect antidote to a world gone mad, or at least a temporary escape from the sheer lunacy of it all.
