That's Not a Bug...!
In which enshittification reaches its logical conclusion
Meet Gerald Chen, forensic accountant. Meet Patricia Okonkwo, corporate attorney. Meet Agent David Martinez, FBI. Three professionals about to discover that the enshittification of digital life has reached its logical conclusion: The collapse of function and the primacy of mindless advertainment. Welcome... to The Boundary.
(Atlantic Ambience/Pexels)
Gerald Chen squinted at his monitor, convinced he’d made an error in the spreadsheet.
The Yamamoto Industries quarterly report showed a profit of $47.3 million in Q3, which seemed right. There was a devil in the details, though: The cell where that number should have appear instead displayed a rotating 3D image of a taco shell filled with what appeared to be prehistoric shellfish.
TACO TRILOBITE! the text below declared. THE SNACK THAT’S 500 MILLION YEARS IN THE MAKING!
Gerald blinked, then refreshed the page. The taco remained. He tried clicking on adjacent cells. Each click triggered a new ad:
Feeling stressed? Try MindMeld meditation apps! Now with AI-generated mantras!
Hot singles in your area want to discuss cryptocurrency!
BladderMax™ - Because you’ve got better things to do than pee!
“What the hell?” Gerald muttered. He closed the accounting software completely. Reopened it. Entered his credentials. Waited for the familiar interface to load.
Instead, a video auto-played at maximum volume:
“ARE YOU TIRED OF REGULAR TACOS? WELL, PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR MIND BLOWN BY TACO TRILOBITE!”
Gerald gaped at the video in utter confusion. A man in a lab coat gestured enthusiastically at a taco shell. “We’ve taken the nutritional profile of extinct arthropods and combined it with modern Tex-Mex flavor science to create — “
Gerald muted his computer. He tried to close the video, but the X button was grayed out. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered angrily. He called IT.
“Yeah, we’ve been getting reports,” the technician said, sounding harried. “The accounting suite pushed an update last night. Apparently, they’ve partnered with seventeen different advertisers to ‘enhance user engagement.’”
“I can’t see my spreadsheets,” Gerald said forcefully in an attempt to return the conversation to his concerns.
“Right,” the technician said. “That’s... yeah. That’s a known issue. The ad integration is, uh, a bit aggressive.”
“Can you roll it back?” Gerald asked.
“To the previous version?” the tech asked. “That one had ads, too. Just fewer. And they were static.”
“Can I use a different program?”
“All the major accounting software has ad integration now,” the tech explained. “It’s in the terms of service. Section 47, subsection Q. You agreed to it when you clicked ‘Accept.’”
Gerald stared at the Taco Trilobite ad, which had now been joined by a banner for SweatDuds athletic wear. “So what am I supposed to do?” he asked, his voice thick with resentful sarcasm.
“You could try working around the ads,” the tech said. “Like, mentally filter them out?”
“I’m an accountant. I need to see numbers.”
“Yeah.” The technician sighed. “Welcome to 2027, buddy.”
Patricia Okonkwo stood at the printer, watching page after page emerge with growing horror.
The Henderson v. Consolidated Industries brief was 47 pages. She needed it printed, bound, and delivered to the courthouse in thirty minutes.
Page 1 printed normally.
Page 2 had the SweatDuds logo watermarked in the background.
Page 3 was entirely SweatDuds ads — a sporty couple jogging through a park, both wearing moisture-wicking tank tops, both grinning like they’d just discovered enlightenment.
Page 4: More SweatDuds. A family doing yoga. Everyone in SweatDuds.
Page 5: Back to the brief, but with SweatDuds logos in every margin.
“No.” Patricia grabbed the pages from the tray and shuffled through them disbelievingly. “No, no no!”
Her paralegal, Marcus, appeared at her shoulder. “Is that — “
“SweatDuds,” Patricia all but screamed. “Yes.”
“On a court filing?”
“Apparently.” Patricia stalked toward her office, Marcus trailing behind.
“Can you reprint it?” he asked.
“I’m about to,” Patricia snapped. “It had better damn well come out right this time.”
It didn’t. She got the same result: Sporty couples. Yoga families. The SweatDuds logo emblazoned everywhere.
She called the printer manufacturer’s support line and got a chatbot.
“Hi! I’m here to help!” the cheerful synthetic voice rang in her ear. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Your printer is inserting advertisements into my legal documents.”
“That’s not a bug, that’s a feature!” the chatbot declared as if announcing Patricia had just won the lottery. “Our partnership with SweatDuds allows us to offer you premium printing services at a reduced cost!”
“I don’t want ads in my court filings,” Patricia said.
“You can upgrade to AdFree Premium for only $299/month!” the chatbot told her, its chipper voice brighter than before.
“I paid $4,000 for this printer!” This time Patrica’s almost-scream was a full-throated cry worthy of a bann sidhe.
“That was for the hardware!” the chatbot said, a chuckle in its electronic voice. “Ad-free printing is a separate service tier!”
Patricia slammed the receiver down and looked at Marcus. “Do we have a typewriter?”
“A what?” His look of bewilderment reminded Patricia of the years between them. He was too young to remember anything that antiquated.
“Never mind.” Patricia grabbed the ad-laden brief, shoved it in a folder, and ran for the courthouse.
When she handed it to the clerk, he gave it a skeptical glance at it. “SweatDuds?” he asked, his expression caught between an amused grin and puzzled frown.
“Yeah.”
“Everyone’s getting those.” The clerk shook his head. “Judge Harper’s chambers printed out an entire motion covered in VanillaGorilla biscuit ads last week. She was not pleased.”
“What did she do?”
The clerk shrugged. “Accepted the filing anyway. What else can you do?”
Special Agent David Martinez stood in the FBI field office in Baltimore, staring at the fingerprint analysis screen with mounting disbelief.
They’d arrested a suspect in a string of armed robberies and subjected him to a routine fingerprint check. The process should have taken thirty seconds. Instead, the screen displayed a cartoon gorilla wearing sunglasses, holding a biscuit, winking at the camera.
VANILLAGORILLA BISCUITS! the text declared. GO APE FOR VANILLA!
Below the gorilla: A six-panel comic strip.
Panel 1: Gorilla looks sad.
Panel 2: Gorilla receives VanillaGorilla biscuit from friendly zookeeper.
Panel 3: Gorilla takes bite, eyes go wide.
Panel 4: Gorilla does backflip.
Panel 5: Gorilla high-fives zookeeper.
Panel 6: Gorilla and zookeeper share biscuits, both grinning.
“What the hell is this?” Martinez demanded.
His colleague, Agent Sarah Chen, looked over his shoulder. “Oh. You got VanillaGorilla.”
“Why am I getting VanillaGorilla? I need a fingerprint match.”
“Yeah, the database got updated. Ad integration. It’s — “
“ — a feature, not a bug,” Martinez finished bitterly. “I’ve heard.”
“You can usually get past it if you click through. Like, watch the whole ad sequence, and then it’ll show you the results.”
Martinez clicked. A new panel appeared:
Panel 7: Gorilla invites friends to try VanillaGorilla.
Panel 8: All the gorillas are eating biscuits.
Panel 9: Zoo becomes a VanillaGorilla party.
“How many panels are there?” Martinez sighed, leaning his forehead into his hand.
“Depends,” Chen told him. “Sometimes twelve. Sometimes twenty.”
“We have a suspect in custody,” Martinz said though gritted teeth. “I need this match now.”
Chen shrugged. “You could try calling IT.”
Martinez gave it a try and got a recorded message: “Due to high call volume related to ad integration issues, your wait time is approximately four hours.”
He looked at Chen, a shock and rage flickering across his features. The message continued: “For immediate assistance, please consider upgrading to FBI Premium Support Services for only — “
Martinez hung up, gave in, and watched the gorilla cartoon.
Panel 10: Gorilla becomes mayor of zoo.
Panel 11: Gorilla implements VanillaGorilla biscuit program for all animals.
Panel 12: Universal happiness achieved through biscuits.
“How the hell much longer can this idiocy go one?” he rasped.
Chen, busy with something on her phone, looked toward him for an instant. “I’ve been asking that since 2025,” she muttered.
Finally, after eighteen panels, the fingerprint results appeared.
MATCH FOUND: Criminal record, three priors, warrant active.
“Got it,” Martinez said. “Only took five minutes.”
“Could be worse,” Chen said. “Yesterday I tried to run a background check and got a twenty-minute infomercial for BladderMax.”
Three months later, Gerald, Patricia, and Agent Martinez all found themselves at the same Congressional hearing on digital service degradation.
Gerald testified about being unable to complete financial audits because his accounting software was 60% advertisements by volume.
Patricia described submitting court filings that were more SweatDuds than legal argument.
Agent Martinez explained that the FBI’s criminal database now required agents to watch an average of 47 advertisements per day just to access basic information.
The chair of the hearing, Congresswoman Tabitha Preston, nodded sympathetically. “And have you contacted the service providers about these issues?”
“Yes,” all three said in unison.
“And what was their response?”
Gerald pulled out his phone, read from his notes. “Quote: ‘Ad integration allows us to offer premium services at accessible price points. This is not a bug, it’s a feature.’”
Patricia nodded. “Same. Verbatim.”
Martinez raised his hand. “Mine said that and then tried to sell me VanillaGorilla biscuits at a bulk discount.”
Congresswoman Preston sighed. “Well. I appreciate you coming forward with these concerns. We’ll certainly take them under advisement as we consider future regulations on — “
Her laptop screen suddenly went dark. Then it lit up again.
TACO TRILOBITE! the screen declared. THE SNACK THAT’S 500 MILLION YEARS IN THE MAKING!
Congresswoman Preston stared at her laptop. She tried to close the page, but the X button was grayed out. “Well,” she said after a long pause. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Welcome to 2027,” Gerald said.
Congresswoman Preston watched the Taco Trilobite ad play through. Then the SweatDuds ad. Then VanillaGorilla. Gerald, Patricia, and Agent Martinez watched her watching her laptop screen.
“You know,” Congresswoman Preston said finally, “I was going to propose legislation about this sort of thing. But honestly? I’m not sure it would matter. The companies would just update their terms of service. And we’d all click ‘Accept,’ because what choice do we have?”
Patricia nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
“So we just... live with it?” Gerald looked from Patricia to Congresswoman Preston and back again.
“Seems like it,” Agent Martinez put in.
The VanillaGorilla ad finished. The Congresswoman’s laptop returned to normal.
She looked at the three witnesses. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?” They all shook their heads. “Then I think we’re done here. Thank you for your time.”
As they filed out of the hearing room, Gerald’s phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen, expecting a message from the office. Instead, he was greeted by a notification from his accounting software:
NEW FEATURE! Now with immersive 3D ad experiences! Try our TacoTrilobite AR filter!
Gerald showed his phone to Patricia and David.
Patricia laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. “At least it’s not a bug,” she said.
Welcome to the year 2027, where Gerald Chen, Patricia Okonkwo, and David Martinez have learned a hard lesson about the modern world: Every system, no matter how critical, will eventually be sacrificed on the altar of profit. Welcome to a world where everything is for sale, including basic functionality. It’s a world that’s coming fast— and it’s already on the near side… of The Boundary.”
Written by Kalem. Story by Kilian Melloy