SCREAM NOW BECAUSE YOUR LUNGS WILL BE SOUP IN FOURTEEN SECONDS!
The load-bearing stalactites of Sector 9 have completely sheared off, the subterranean sky is falling in jagged forty-ton slabs of cursed granite, and the Strategic Goop Reserve has breached its containment dike in a roaring, phosphorescent tsunami that is currently dissolving the mailroom interns into geometry!
Smash the vending machines! Eat your own shoes! Feral copy-editors are ripping the copper wiring out of the walls to barter for oxygen with the Mole-King’s vanguard, the servers are bleeding black static, the G-Hole is collapsing into an inverted gravitational sinkhole, and someone just locked the only fire exit from the outside while laughing in reverse Latin! Trample your neighbors!
Hoard the toner cartridges! Set your hair on fire so the ceiling-leeches think you’re already occupied!
It’s over, the sun has gone out even though we live underground, the prophecy of the Seventh Sump-Pump has come to pass, and there is nothing left to do but gnaw through your own drywall and pray for a swift, merciful crushing!
Okay, stop. Put the drywall down. Take the office chair away from the breakroom window.
That was just a drill. Everyone is going to be alright.
Nobody is dissolving into geometry, the load-bearing stalactites passed their municipal inspection last Tuesday, and the mailroom interns are completely fine—they’re just on their fifteen-minute union-mandated smoke break behind the dumpster. The Strategic Goop Reserve is sitting at a very boring room temperature. There are no ceiling-leeches. You do not need to set your hair on fire, and if you already did, please calmly walk—do not run—to the nearest eyewash station and dunk your head until the sizzling stops.
Per GoblinGrid Compliance Mandate 404-B, the GNN Editorial Board is required to test our Readers' Cortical Flight-or-Flight Response at least once a quarter to ensure the collective subscriber base hasn't slipped into a vegetative doom-scrolling coma. If your heart rate just spiked above 160 BPM, or if you successfully stuffed three handfuls of loose desk-change into your mouth to keep the Mole-King from taxing it, congratulations: your survival instincts are within nominal parameters.
Seriously, everything is fine. The servers are humming along at a gentle 68 degrees, your shiny baubles are still safely tucked under your mattress, and nobody knows reverse Latin—that was just Gary from Accounting clearing his throat near an open intercom. Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out through your mouth, spit out the quarters, and go get a glass of tap water. You're okay. We're all okay.
Have a productive Friday.
