Move along. There’s nothing to see here. Go about your business. The Internet is finished.
That was it. I just finished the Internet. I just finished the last block in the Intertunnel’s Sudoku. I’ve completed the HTML 5 equivalent of the London Sunday Times Crossword –in pen.
Post no bills. Keep your hands inside the basket, because if you don’t they’re going to get scorched where you’re going for laughing at that. I didn’t laugh. I wept. I gnashed my teeth, and I actually pronounced the G in gnash when I typed that. I type these aloud, you know. Of course you didn’t know that, but I wrote, “You know,” in that sentence anyway. I don’t know why I did that. It doesn’t matter. Will the last one out of the Intertunnel please get the lights?
You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. The end is nigh! Save yourselves, before it’s too late. Maybe we can all get a Pinterest page and try to atone for our sins by posting nothing but pictures of artisanal cupcakes and shoes for the rest of our godforsaken lives, but this one is going to leave a mark. This is wronger than a fan dancer with an Adam’s apple. It’s wronger than a trailer hitch on a Renault LeCar. It’s wronger than a Gilbert O’Sullivan tribute band.
It’s over. It’s not you, it’s me. On second thought, it’s you. It’s always been you.