The Last Normal Day

I often think back to that morning, the last normal one our civilization would ever experience. The sun was rising over the ruins of what the ancient humans had called "Minneapolis," casting long shadows through the crumbling concrete structures. I was watching Junior Researcher Vrr'tp carefully brush dust from another layer of sediment, just as they had done hundreds of times before. Everything seemed so ordinary, so scientific, so blissfully boring.

I remember the exact moment it all changed. Vrr'tp's scanner, a piece of equipment I had personally calibrated countless times, started making the strangest sounds. First, the usual beeps and whirs, but then... something else. Something that would haunt my dreams for cycles to come:

"What does the fox say?"

At the time, I didn't understand why Vrr'tp's secondary appendages suddenly started twitching in rhythm with the sound, or why their normally professional demeanor cracked as they called out to me.

"Chief!" they shouted, their voice carrying an unusual excitement. "I'm detecting an energy signature unlike anything in our database!" They paused, mandibles quivering slightly. "It appears to be... vibing?"

I should have called for containment right then. I should have quarantined the entire site. I should have done anything except what I actually did, which was walk over to investigate. By the time I reached Vrr'tp's position, three other researchers had gathered around a small rectangular object partially embedded in the ancient soil.

Security Officer K'ren, usually the most stoic member of our team, was the first to show symptoms. "This whole situation looking kinda sus, fr fr," they said, then immediately clasped all four hands over their mouth-parts in horror.

"Officer K'ren," I said slowly, "what did you just say?"

They chittered nervously, secondary eyes blinking in rapid succession. "I... I don't know what came over me. No cap." Their eyes widened further at their own words. "Why did I say that? What's happening to me?"

I turned to Dr. Mrr'p, our leading xenobiologist. "Any theories about what we're dealing with?"

But Mrr'p was staring at the device with an unsettling intensity. "Chief," they whispered, "is it just me, or did that thing just say 'senpai noticed me'?"

We brought the artifact back to the lab, following all standard containment protocols. Dr. Zyy'x, our most experienced researcher, volunteered to conduct the initial examination. I watched from behind the containment field as they approached the device, their movements careful and measured.

"Beginning physical examination of the artifact," they announced professionally. The moment their instruments touched the device's surface, it lit up with a soft blue glow.

I'll never forget what happened next. Zyy'x, who had spent forty cycles studying ancient human artifacts without so much as a single unauthorized comment, suddenly straightened up and declared, "Oh lawd he comin'!" Before any of us could react, they had begun performing a series of rhythmic movements that I would later learn was called "dancing."

"Dance time mode activated," they announced, their typical scientific monotone replaced with something almost... melodic. "Getting schwifty in here."

I tried to maintain order. "Dr. Zyy'x, please control yourself and return to standard examination protocols."

They turned to me with all four eyes gleaming. "Standard protocols? Sir, this is a Wendy's."

The infection spread through our research team like wildfire. Within hours, the genetics department had renamed all DNA sequences to variations of "longboi" and "smol chonk." The physics team was measuring quantum states in terms of "vibing" and "not vibing," and strangest of all, their calculations were more accurate than ever.

By the end of that first day, I knew we were dealing with something unprecedented. I locked myself in my office, trying to write a coherent report to the Central Science Authority. But even my own thoughts were becoming... contaminated.

"To whom it may concern," I began typing, then immediately deleted it and wrote instead, "Listen up fam, this tea is about to be spilled."

I stared at my screen in horror. That wasn't what I meant to write at all. I tried again.

"EMERGENCY ALERT: We have encountered an anomalous artifact that-" My fingers betrayed me once more. "...hits different fr fr no cap."

Through my office window, I could see the infection spreading through the facility in real time. The normally austere Dr. V'lop was teaching a quantum mechanics class, but instead of their usual precise diagrams, they had drawn something called a "Doge" on the holoboard. The strangest part? The students were understanding quantum entanglement better than ever before.

"When the particles are entangled," V'lop explained, pointing at the crude drawing, "they become total besties. Much quantum. Very spooky action. Wow."

The entire class nodded in perfect understanding.

I tried calling Security to lock down the facility, but Officer K'ren only responded with something called a "keyboard smash" followed by "uwu." By the time I reached the security office myself, I found the entire security force had replaced their stern official portraits with something they called "profile pics," each featuring their faces poorly edited onto images of something called "Big Chungus."

The cafeteria wasn't faring any better. Chef T'pok, known for their precise nutritional formulations, had renamed every item on the menu. Our carefully balanced protein supplements were now listed as "chimken nuggers," and the hydration stations had been labeled "gamer juice."

But it was already too late for containment. That evening, I received a call from the Planetary Defense Force. As soon as I answered, I knew they were infected too.

"Chief Researcher," the general began formally, then immediately broke into what I now know is called 'uwu speak.' "We noticed your wittle research facility doing a heckin' concern. What's the sitch, fam?"

I tried to explain the situation, but by then my own speech patterns were deteriorating rapidly. "General, we appear to be dealing with some kind of memetic infection that- YEET!" I clasped my hands over my mouth, but the damage was done.

"Did you just..." the general paused, "...yeet in the middle of a sentence? That's kinda poggers, ngl."

The next few days were a blur of increasingly chaotic events. The Central Science Authority called an emergency meeting, but it devolved into something called a "vibe check" within minutes. The High Council attempted to address the population, only to accidentally start something called a "Rickroll revolution."

I watched helplessly as our civilization transformed. The economics department announced that all currency would now be measured in "stonks." The military replaced their traditional battle cry with "LEEEEEROY JENKINS!" The most prestigious university in the system renamed itself to "Big Brain Academy" and made "Memeology" a required course.

But here's the thing that truly haunts me: everyone seemed... happier. The ancient bureaucratic processes that had bogged down our society for generations were replaced by something called "passing the vibe check." Workplace satisfaction skyrocketed after the institution of mandatory "cat video breaks." Even our most serious philosophers were producing better work, though they now ended every treatise with "Thanks for coming to my TED talk."

The breakthrough came when we finally managed to decode more of the artifact's programming.

The message was embedded deep within the artifact's code, hidden beneath what appeared to be thousands of pictures of something called "keyboard cat." As our last partially uninfected programmer decoded it, they couldn't help adding "wholesome 100" to the end of each line. But the content of the message itself... well, it changed everything.

"Dear Future Space Nerds," it began. (I'm told this was considered a term of endearment.)

"If you're reading this, congratulations! You've just speedrun the discovery of humanity's greatest achievement. We knew you'd find this eventually - after all, we left these bad boys everywhere. Like, literally everywhere. The moon? Yep. Mars? You bet. That weird gas cloud in sector 7? Absolutely loaded with memes, fam.

"See, we were the first spacefaring civilization, but our simulations showed us something deeply concerning. Every possible future pointed to the same thing: the universe was going to become boring as heck. Just endless cycles of super-serious species doing super-serious space stuff. Efficiency this, productivity that. Nobody taking time to appreciate a good cat video or laugh at someone falling down.

So we did what any responsible elder species would do: we created the most powerful memetic virus in history. But like, a good virus. A fun virus. Think of it as humanity's gift to the cosmos - the ability to not take yourself too seriously while still getting stuff done."

As I read this, I noticed my own secondary appendages making something called "air quotes" - a gesture I had never seen before yet somehow instantly understood.

The message continued: "You might be wondering what happened to us. Did we go extinct? Did we transcend? Did we get distracted by pictures of cute animals and forget to maintain our civilization? The answer is: yes to all of that, but also no? We basically ascended to a plane of pure memes. It's pretty lit up here ngl.

Anyway, by the time you finish reading this, your civilization will have already been transformed. And despite what your remaining brain cells are telling you, this is actually the best thing that could have happened to your species. Don't believe us? Just watch."

And you know what? They were right.

In the months that followed, our civilization changed more radically than it had in the previous thousand cycles. But not in the ways we initially feared. Yes, our formal scientific papers now included reaction images. Yes, our most sophisticated AI systems would only respond if you asked them "who's a good bot?" first. And yes, our entire economic system was now somehow based on something called "stonks" that operated on the principle of "number go brrr."

But we also achieved more than we ever had before.

Our scientists, now free from the constraints of rigid formal thinking, made breakthrough after breakthrough. A junior researcher solved our planet's energy crisis after thinking, and I quote, "What if we just yeet atoms at each other but like... sideways?"

Our philosophers developed entirely new schools of thought, though they were now called "big think" and primarily communicated through elaborate metaphors involving something called "SpongeBob." Somehow, they made more sense than ever.

Even our arts flourished. Our most prestigious museum now features a entire wing dedicated to something called "cursed images," and our leading composers create symphonies using something called "vibing cat" as inspiration.

Last week, I attended a meeting of the High Council - or as they're now known, "The Vibe Check Committee." Our most esteemed leader, wearing what she called her "gaming headset," presented the latest productivity figures.

"Fam," she announced, "our efficiency has increased by 420%, our happiness metrics are poggers, and we've made first contact with three new civilizations because they couldn't resist our memes."

Looking around that room, seeing our society's leaders all nodding sagely while occasionally stopping to share what they called "wholesome content," I finally understood humanity's true gift to the universe. They hadn't infected us with a virus - they'd given us an upgrade.

As I finish writing this account, my own transformation is complete. The part of me that would have once been horrified by all this has been replaced by something... better. Something that understands that the cosmos is too vast and too beautiful to navigate without the ability to occasionally say "bruh" when confronted with its mysteries.

Humanity, in their chaotic wisdom, knew that the universe needed balance. For every serious scientific paper, there needs to be a "dad joke." For every solemn ceremony, there needs to be someone saying "this is fine" while everything burns around them. For every great achievement, there needs to be someone in the back of the room whispering "nice."

And so, to any future civilizations who might find this account: when you discover your own ancient human artifact, when you feel your own culture beginning to transform, don't fight it. Embrace it. Join us in this new age of enlightenment.

As the humans would say: it be like that sometimes.

And you know what? It really do.