”Data? It's true, I am your father"

”Data? It's true, I am your father"

By Felonious Academic

Welcome to the golden age of observation, a time when civilization finally realized its true destiny, to be watched, cataloged, monetized, and gently mocked by the very gadgets we once trusted to play Candy Crush. Every movement, every sigh, every accidental curse in the shower is now immortalized in digital archives more secure than the crown jewels and more merciless than your high school guidance counselor. Privacy? That fragile concept has been euthanized with surgical precision, not by tyrants, but by the innocent appeal of “convenience.” The refrigerator reports your midnight ice cream binges. The smart speaker giggles at your jokes and quietly emails them to a server in Kansas. Your smart toilet yes, (that’s a thing now,) monitors your digestive metrics, just in case the government wants to know your fiber intake for national security. Officials, insist this is all for your protection. “Big Brother is watching, but only because he loves you,” says a smiling drone hovering outside your bedroom window catching you in midstroke while pleasuring the ol love muscle, recording your dreams for market research purposes. Every click, scroll, and sneeze is analyzed, tagged, and sold back to you in customized curated ads that know your soul better than your therapist ever did. a civilization that outsourced its secrets, signed away its autonomy in microscopic font on page 89 of a Terms of Service, and smiled through every last goddamn line of fine print. We clicked “agree” like it was an innocent nod at the bus stop, not the ceremonial handshake with the omniscient digital sandman now reading our dreams like an open diary. Drones hum lullabies outside our windows. AI customer service bots have achieved enlightenment and know your emotional vulnerabilities better than your parents ever did. Even your own thoughts are vulnerable, predictive algorithms are hard at work suggesting feelings you didn’t realize you had, all optimized for engagement, ad revenue, and the quiet satisfaction of your digital overlords. History will remember this era not for wars, famines, or plagues, but for the greatest confluence of irony ever, a species that worshiped its overlords, outsourced its secrets, and called it fuckin “progress.” Civilization’s crowning achievement, the fully consenting, voluntarily surveilled citizen, a creature whose soul is transparent, pixel-perfect, and forever smiling. By reading this article, you have just unknowingly consented to its archiving, analysis, and monetization. Smile. You’re fuckin famous.