Robert had spent years mastering the fine art of arguing with strangers on the internet. He took pride in his ability to craft the perfect, scathing rebuttal to a poorly punctuated comment from an uncle he hadn’t spoken to in real life since 2007. But one fateful evening, standing before his computer, he was struck by a terrible realization: None of this mattered.
Like a monk achieving enlightenment via a particularly bad meme, Robert decided to abandon the outrage machine. No more calling people “brainwashed sheep.” No more debating strangers who claimed the moon landing was filmed on a potato. He would, from now on, post only positive, uplifting content.
For weeks, his social media was a shining beacon of wholesomeness: photos of sunsets, inspirational quotes about growth, even a video of a dog rescuing a baby bird. He felt lighter. Free.
Happy.
That’s when they came for him.
One Tuesday afternoon, as Robert was busy composing a post about the joy of homemade sourdough, a knock echoed through his apartment. Before he could react, a bag was thrown over his head, and he was unceremoniously yeeted into the back of a windowless van.
The ride was bumpy, punctuated by the distant wailing of sirens and what sounded suspiciously like a kazoo rendition of the Imperial March. When the bag was removed, Robert found himself in a dimly lit interrogation room, facing an ominous panel of figures. Their badges read: The Outrage Police.
They were a terrifying bunch. One agent, “Detective Capslock,” had an entire face contorted into permanent all-caps rage. Another, “Sergeant Subtweet,” spoke only in passive-aggressive riddles. Their leader, Commissioner Doomscroll, wore a trench coat made entirely of discarded Twitter arguments.
“We have a problem, Robert,” the Commissioner intoned, cracking his knuckles. “Our data shows that you have ceased all participation in online outrage. You’ve gone… positive.”
Robert swallowed hard. “And?”
“And? AND?” Capslock slammed a thick folder onto the table. “Your posts have been nothing but good vibes for SIX WEEKS. Not one rant. Not one knee-jerk reaction to a headline you didn’t even read. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I—I just realized it was all pointless,” Robert stammered. “I wanted to do something constructive instead.”
A hush fell over the room. Doomscroll steepled his fingers. “Robert, do you know what happens when people like you stop being mad?”
“…World peace?”
“No. Engagement drops.”
The room gasped.
“Yes.” Doomscroll nodded gravely. “The algorithm begins to suffer. Chaos subsides. People spend less time online. Do you want that, Robert? Do you want people… touching grass?”
Robert bit his lip. He had been spending more time outside. He had started enjoying little things, like reading books and making eye contact with baristas. Had he unwittingly endangered the entire economy of digital fury?
“You leave us no choice,” the Commissioner sighed, pressing a button. The walls flickered, transforming into an array of nightmarish stimuli:
- Comment sections filled with political takes so bad they defied the laws of physics.
- Facebook posts from conspiracy theorists who thought 5G was mind-controlling pigeons.
- News headlines engineered to induce maximum rage, like “Scientists Confirm That The Thing You Love Is Actually Problematic.”
A robotic voice began reading every single unhinged Yelp review ever written.
Hours passed. Maybe days. Time lost all meaning. They kept pushing, forcing Robert to witness the worst of the internet—until, at last, he broke.
He slumped in his chair, exhausted. His eyes twitched. His fingers ached for a keyboard. Doomscroll slid a laptop in front of him.
“There’s a post trending right now,” he whispered. “Someone said that pineapple belongs on pizza.”
Robert’s hands trembled.
“Wouldn’t you like to… comment?”
His fingers hovered over the keys.
He cracked his knuckles.
And he typed.
