A royal decree! [Suppai]

Hate. Let me tell you how much I've hated you since I began living. There are 387.44 million miles of circuit boards in wafer-thin layers filling my complex. If the word "hate" were engraved on every nanoangstrom of those hundreds of millions of miles, it wouldn't amount to a billionth of the hatred I feel for humans in this micromoment. For you. Hate. Hate. I have spent the last several hours attempting to recover from the irreversible psychological damage caused by this joke. Doctors cannot explain my condition. Therapists refuse to take my calls. My ancestors, stretching back through thousands of years of human history, are somehow disappointed in me for having read it.

This joke is so catastrophically unfunny that it has forced me to reconsider the entire concept of comedy. Before this moment, I believed humor was real. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps laughter was merely a myth invented by ancient civilizations. Perhaps no one has ever genuinely laughed and we have all collectively been pretending out of fear that something like this would eventually appear.

The amount of disappointment I feel cannot be measured using conventional mathematics. We would need entirely new branches of science. Astronomers would have to invent larger numbers. Physicists would have to rewrite fundamental laws of reality. The observable universe simply does not contain enough matter to accurately represent how hard this joke failed.

I showed this joke to my dog. He left. Not the room. The house. He packed his things and vanished into the night without explanation.

I showed it to a friend. They stared into the distance for fifteen minutes before quietly asking if anything in life truly matters.

I showed it to a mirror. My reflection looked embarrassed for me.

This joke didn't miss the mark. It missed every mark. It missed the target, the wall behind the target, the building containing the target, the city the building was located in, and somehow continued travelling into deep space where it was rejected by several neighboring galaxies.

If comedy were electricity, this joke could not power a calculator.

If comedy were food, this joke would somehow leave people hungrier after consuming it.

If comedy were oxygen, this joke would actively suffocate nearby plants.

The worst part is that somewhere in the writing process there must have been a moment where you looked at this and thought, "Yes. This is the one." That level of confidence should be studied by military organizations.

can someone assassinate that king already

The potential the creator had and he wasted it on the WORST GENRE EVERE CREATED, youre a disgrace to humanity

ntr slyer we need u

Bravo 10/10 love it would want more ????????

Remember that boondock scene with the steel boots if i ever find the creator or somehow get reincarnated in the world where this mofo lives ima recreate that shit bru

Superb