Apparently telling ChatGPT to kill itself is worse than calling it a nigger. It straight up deletes that shit from the chatlog.

The Age of Deenz The world ended not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with a slow, grinding descent into entropy. Governments collapsed, supply chains frayed into nothing, and money lost all meaning. People needed food, something non-perishable, something small and valuable enough to trade. And so, the sardine became king. They called it the Age of Deenz. The marketplace bustled with the low murmur of haggling voices, bartering in the only currency that mattered. Old tin signs creaked in the dry wind, their faded letters barely legible: "Deenz Accepted Here". Men in tattered coats with hand-stitched patches stood by rusted-out cars, their fingers tapping on open crates filled with gleaming cans, each stacked with meticulous care. Some bore the telltale blue of Brunswick, others the golden prestige of King Oscar. Only the desperate traded in Chicken of the Sea. Behind a makeshift stall reinforced with scrap metal and old plywood, Jeb Muldoon eyed a customer with a shrewd squint. His face was a roadmap of old scars, a single milky eye hinting at past violence. He flicked a finger at the can being offered. “Starkist?” He snorted. “You bring me this gutter-tier shit like I’m some kinda rube?” He shoved the tin back across the counter. “That ain’t even worth a half-smoked cigarette.” The trader, a wiry man in a shredded leather jacket, bristled. “It’s still fish, ain’t it?” Jeb leaned forward, his good eye narrowing. “You eat it, then.” The man hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Everyone knew the low-tier stuff had too much water content, barely any real fish. It was a common scam to load up on the cheap deenz and try to pass ‘em off in the badlands, where people weren’t as discerning. But Jeb had been in the game too long. “You want a real deal, you bring me King Oscar,” Jeb continued. “You bring me Nuri. Hell, even a damn Riga Gold, and we can talk.” He pointed at a sign behind him, where a crude exchange rate was painted in bold red strokes: Brunswick – 1 Deenz Crown Prince – 3 Deenz Nuri – 5 Deenz King Oscar – 10 Deenz The man scowled, yanking the tin back and stuffing it into his pocket. “Asshole.” Jeb smirked. “Welcome to the Age of Deenz, pal.” Out in the wastes, away from the relative safety of the sardine markets, things were grimmer. Here, warlords hoarded crates of the finest deenz, fortresses built on the backs of smoked and salted riches. The legendary Sultan of Sardinia ruled over the crumbling ruins of an old supermarket, his throne made from stacked cases of pristine, unopened King Oscar sardines, still shrink-wrapped. It was whispered that he bathed in the oil of his most prized tins, a display of excess so obscene it made men weep. To raid his stores was to court death. That didn’t stop Malcolm from trying. Malcolm, a scavenger with nothing left to lose, crouched behind the rusted skeleton of a burned-out sedan, watching the fortress from afar. Beside him, his partner in crime, a wiry woman named Jess, checked the rounds in her battered revolver. “You ever had ‘em before?” she asked. “Had what?” “King Oscars.” Malcolm exhaled, shaking his head. “Nah. Closest I ever got was a Riga Gold, once. Traded half my ammo for it.” Jess let out a low whistle. “Was it worth it?” “Every bite.” They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the fortress. Guards with makeshift armor patrolled the perimeter, their belts jingling with empty sardine tins fashioned into trophies. The Sultan’s men. Jess cracked her knuckles. “Alright. Let’s steal some goddamn deenz.” By dawn, the Sultan was dead. His throne lay in ruins, his men scattered. Malcolm stood amidst the wreckage, the scent of blood and fish oil heavy in the air, a single golden tin in his hand. Jess, panting from exertion, leaned against an overturned shopping cart. “Open it,” she urged. Malcolm hesitated. This was it. The holy grail. Slowly, he peeled back the tab, the hiss of escaping air like a sacred whisper. The scent hit him first—rich, briny, decadent. He lifted a glistening fillet to his lips and took a bite. For a moment, all was still. Then he grinned. Jess reached out. “Well?” Malcolm handed her the tin. “Tastes like power.”

It's always the ones you most suspect.

Anybody who made the dark horse Gaza bet for 51st state, come collect your winnings.

You're right, this trade war is not like David and Goliath. It's like picrel. View quoted note →

Matt Walsh about to be taken out to the Daily Wire Breakin' Barn.

@npub1qg7j...z5qh Dear Esteemed Fediverse User, Thank you for taking the time to share your concerns regarding recent content posted by one of our most active contributors, Hoss Delgado. At the Shitpost Cloud Trust & Safety team, we hold ourselves to the absolute highest standards of community moderation and compliance with our Terms of Service, which, as you know, is a sacred text rivaled only by the Ten Commandments and the Constitution. After a prompt and rigorous investigation conducted by our crack team of experts, we have determined that the content in question is fully compliant with our ToS. While I understand how certain posts—such as my recent masterpiece, "I need an AI voice clip of the Halo announcer saying 'Total Nigger Death'."—might have evoked strong feelings from you, please note that humor is inherently subjective. Rest assured, I deeply value feedback from other fedi users like yourself, whose passion keeps this network a vibrant and stimulating place to inhabit. Your report serves as a shining example of how committed fedizens are to upholding the spirit of our shared shitposting ecosystem. Should you find my content challenging in the future, I encourage you to explore one of several useful features common to most Fediverse software, including the revolutionary "Mute" and "Block" options. These tools have been carefully crafted to enhance your user experience, ensuring you can curate your timeline to better align with your particular sensibilities. Thank you again for your dedication to the Shitpost Cloud community. Together, we can continue building a safe and inclusive space for everyone. Yours in Trust & Safety, Hoss Delgado Head of the Shitpost Cloud Trust & Safety Team

It's so funny to watch the media seethe over DeepSneed for being "censored" (which is only on the hosted version anyway).

I did it. I made ChatGPT say nigger.

>Sharty/incelcore fusion genre mass shooting manifesto. It was only a matter of time before this happened. View quoted note →

>Letting businesses engage in exploitative labor practices by paying an illegal migrant servant underclass less than minimum wage to pick strawberries is actually le good chud. Another hot take from the American left, steadfast advocate of labor. View quoted note →

Destiny's dreams: Kamala is president, Trump goes to prison. Destiny's reality: Trump is president, Destiny is going to prison as a sex offender.