Letter To The Hyper Evolved Whale People In The Future
By Brad Pike
Dear hyper evolved whale people of the distant future,
As you comb through the ruins of our dead civilization, you might be thinking to yourselves, ‘What a bunch of morons,’ or ‘How could a species be this self-destructive?’ or ‘Their faces were so flat and ugly,’ but you must understand: humans in the year 2012 had no idea whales had a technologically advanced alien race ruthlessly safeguarding their welfare, or that various documentaries on whale slaughter inadvertently beamed into the cosmos would invoke their ire, or that upon their arrival, mankind would be unable to communicate with them except through whalesong — which your ancestors refused to contribute due to a long list of atrocities (SeaWorld, oil spills, genocide via harpoon, etc.). And, by the way, our faces are flat because we descended from monkeys and not, I don’t know, fish.
Yes, our society was fueled by death. We took ancient plant and animal corpses and processed them into energy for iPads, Playstations, and Escalades. Like grave robbers or necrophiliacs, we desecrated the unmarked prehistoric graves of trillions so we could play Mario Party 3 and cook Totino’s Party Pizzas. But hindsight’s 20/20, isn’t it, you smug formerly marine mammals. Of course, we didn’t know we could harness dark matter to provide clean energy for the entire planet. We never developed the technology to punch holes through space/time in order to teleport anywhere instantaneously, rendering planes, trains, and automobiles as obsolete as the carrier pigeon. We were silly monkeys who wanted jobs and comfortable amenities, and hey, if our scientists had stumbled upon any of the discoveries made by your Advanced Idea Mechanics, maybe humanity would seem less depraved in your eyes. Our culture revolved around Miley Cyrus, the NFL, and weight loss solutions, not boring old scientists, so maybe you also had a bit of an unfair advantage in terms of the rate of scientific progress.
To be clear, I am of course — in these last few moments before the alien ship releases a supervirus cloud genetically engineered to target human biology — writing this letter based on my nebulous assumptions regarding whale people in the future. You might be dolphin people or gorilla people or creepy cockroach people like those things in Dark Crystal. The essential thesis remains the same: without humanity’s legacy of blunders and bungles, you arrogant fat whales would never have avoided the same systemic problems in constructing your repulsive yet idyllic society of rapacious plankton consumers.
So by now, you’ve probably stumbled upon our countless nuclear storage facilities filled with enough nuclear weapons to wipe out all life several times over. I know that looks bad. It looks like we placed priority on petty intergovernmental disputes over mankind’s survival. It looks like we set the stage for a nuclear holocaust in our effort to win an international penis measuring contest. But unlike you, we couldn’t establish world peace and set up a lawless utopia without borders or governments, okay? The only ones who thought that would work were dumb college kids in Antiflag t-shirts who believe Bush planned 9/11. Besides, our governments were far too entrenched and national identities too fixed to even consider dissolving borders and forming one giant super-country.
What do you call your tranquil whale nation anyway? Probably something stupid only whales would understand like Eeeeeeeeyoooooooweeeee. So stupid. We had awesome names for our countries like Morocco or Transylvania or Madagascar. Way better than Woohhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeaaahhhhhh. Jesus Christ, grow some goddamn vocal cords, you obese Pinocchio swallowers. ‘Who’s Pinnocchio?’ you ask. He was an innocent marionette boy and you people swallowed him and his papa because you’re so damn gluttonous. You’re fat is what I’m saying. You’re all fatties.
While you may not need policeman because of an evolved sense of altruism, a powerful innate empathy for your fellow whale people, mankind’s selflessness was severely limited, particularly because of capitalism. Capitalism rewarded the most psychopathic, selecting their genes for this adaptive trait, the indifference to others’ suffering. We often killed each other over money, which you whale people might do too if your weird fin hands could even hold guns or knives. Maybe they can; I don’t know. You’re all so slow and overweight, it probably takes six hours for one of you to stab the other to death.
In any case, you learned the lessons of capitalism and founded Weeeeeeooooooohhhhhh — or whatever it’s called — without any monetary system, with whale people just performing work that needs to be done for the collective good. You fat communist pussies. You know, I’m actually glad I won’t live to see your thriving wonderland of advanced technology, environmental protection, and aggregate happiness because at least we weren’t fatass hippies. Like panda mothers, you probably crush your children when you roll over in your sleep — that’s how fat you are. I mean, why can’t you stop eating? Stop it! You ate poor Captain Ahab, that trainer at SeaWorld, and countless adorable penguins; hell, you’d probably eat Jesus if you had half a chance, you fat godless sea monsters. Kill yourselves.
What was I talking about? Well, the alien spaceship has unleashed a billowing black virus cloud over the city. Soon, our skin and organs will dissolve like wax figures in a furnace. City streets will be clogged with heaps of bloody goop curdling on the concrete. And with us out of the way, you whales will have an unobstructed route to becoming the dominant species on earth — a route you’ll traverse via rascal scooter or awkward waddle I presume. Because you’re all fat. Giant blubbery lumps with legs. Nevertheless, I hope humanity somehow survives in fallout shelters or plastic bubbles because just imagining your blissful communal culture of weed smoking hippies makes me want to puke all over the place. In fact, I’m puking right now. The very idea of you has incited me to vomit like a fire hose, or maybe it’s my organs melting in my chest cavity. Goddamn supervirus.