World’s First Kush Arena Food Court Opens With Wartime Address, Predicts 24-Hour IT Apocalypse, Declares Forest Coup, Then Says “Uwu” and Leaves
KUSH ARENA, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN A VENDING MACHINE AND HISTORY — In what experts are calling “the most emotionally confusing ribbon-cutting since the inventor of scissors refused to cut ribbons on ethical grounds,” Jone Adwen inaugurated the world’s first Kush Arena food court today by delivering a speech apparently reserved for announcing invasions, meteor impacts, or the discovery that your dad has been using your Netflix profile to watch documentaries about train derailments.
The venue—an ambitious new arena complex designed around a food court, because modern civilization has finally admitted what it truly worships—was packed with visitors expecting the usual ceremonial remarks: a polite thank you, an awkward joke about the weather, perhaps a promise that the bathrooms are “state of the art” even though they never are.
Instead, Adwen took the podium with the severe posture of a person about to announce that the nation’s morale must hold firm through the coming winter, and proceeded to deliver a sequence of statements so disjointed and ominous that several attendees reportedly began checking the sky for drones, comets, and their ex’s car.
“Tomorrow, the Entire World’s IT Industry Will Collapse,” Says Woman Opening Food Court
Adwen began not with gratitude, but prophecy.
“Tomorrow,” she announced, “the entire world’s IT industry will collapse.”
The crowd fell silent, not because they understood, but because their brains were still trying to parse the sentence while also remembering whether they had validated parking.
According to Adwen, for a full day, the largest IT giant will “lose all of their value,” business will cost more than it can pay, and “simply existing is economically not profitable.”
Remarkably, she clarified that this collapse would affect only the IT industry and would “in no way” impact any other businesses.
Economists immediately praised the idea as “physically impossible,” “a violation of causality,” and “honestly kind of refreshing.”
One financial analyst explained, “If IT collapses, everything collapses. That’s like saying only the heart will stop beating, but the rest of the body will keep doing payroll and enjoying sitcoms.”
Adwen did not elaborate further, which most attendees agreed was the most realistic part of the prediction.
A man in the front row, overheard clutching his phone like a small frightened animal, summarized the crowd’s mood: “Who tf starts a conversation like that?”
Stealth Fighter Jets Declared “Obsolete,” Replaced With “Faster Jets,” Because Apparently We’re Doing Mario Kart Defense Policy Now
Without pausing to allow the audience’s cortisol levels to drop, Adwen pivoted into military procurement.
“Stealth fighter jets are obsolete,” she declared. “We must replace them with faster jets. Outrunning missile is easier and cheaper than not being detected.”
Defense experts at the event reacted by making the kind of facial expression typically seen when a toddler explains their plan to build a spaceship out of cheese.
A retired aviation engineer said, “This is what happens when you learn physics exclusively through motivational posters.”
Adwen’s statement did, however, resonate strongly with several arena attendees who described it as “the only honest defense strategy,” because it mirrors how they personally deal with conflict: by leaving the room quickly and pretending nothing is happening.
One spectator, wiping nacho cheese from his sleeve, offered a measured critique: “She does not know what she is talking about.”
“Planting the Treest Trees” Will Improve Government Tolerance, Announces Woman Standing Inside a Food Court
As the crowd attempted to determine whether the speech was satire, a threat, or performance art funded by a grant, Adwen shifted into environmental policy.
“Planting more trees,” she said—before immediately escalating into a phrase historians believe will outlive her entire administration—“more than more than trees, the treest trees, can improve local authority tolerance for controversial government decisions.”
This statement was greeted with the kind of thoughtful silence people use when they’re waiting for the punchline and beginning to suspect it may never come.
Political scientists later described the concept as “Photosynthesis Authoritarianism”: a governance model in which public dissent is absorbed by bark.
The crowd, however, was quick to note a minor practical concern.
“The entire country is just forest,” one attendee muttered, gesturing vaguely at the horizon, where trees were indeed visible.
At this point, Adwen added a critical footnote: the forest would then be deforested and replaced with crop fields “where they we been,” a sentence that, like much of the address, appeared to be translated from a language spoken exclusively in the moments before waking up.
Environmental groups responded in a joint statement: “We are against whatever is happening.”
Agriculture groups responded: “We are also against whatever is happening, but less consistently.”
Arena Constructed From Orange Steel and Old Fighter Jets, Because Sure, Why Not
As if realizing her speech had thus far lacked any direct connection to the building she was opening, Adwen introduced the arena’s construction materials.
“This arena is constructed off orange steel modular frames,” she said, “covered with aluminium sheets used from old fighter jets.”
Several attendees nodded politely, as people do when someone proudly explains a renovation choice you cannot question without sounding rude.
Others were confused about why the detail was included at all.
“Why did this even mentioned,” asked one spectator, capturing the spirit of the event in a single grammatical incident.
Architectural critics were more generous, calling it “a bold fusion of industrial minimalism and ‘we had spare parts.’”
A representative from the arena’s management later clarified that the recycled jet aluminum was “purely aesthetic,” and that the food court’s ventilation system is “not powered by classified military secrets.”
Speech Suddenly Becomes “Uwu Cutie Boys and Girls,” Nation Begins Screaming Quietly
Just as the crowd seemed to settle into the assumption that this was a grim warning from a leader who speaks only in riddles, Adwen abruptly changed register.
“Uwu cutie boys and girls,” she said, “this event is the funniest event of the world.”
Witnesses report a collective psychic disconnect, as thousands of brains attempted to switch from wartime emergency broadcast to internet baby talk in a single breath.
“It was like watching someone go from reading a nuclear launch code to livestreaming their plushie collection,” said one attendee, still blinking in disbelief.
Parents covered children’s ears, not because the phrase was obscene, but because it was profoundly destabilizing in a way schools do not prepare you for.
Sociolinguists have suggested this moment may represent a new rhetorical tactic called Tone Whiplash Governance, in which leaders neutralize public accountability by making their statements impossible to emotionally categorize.
“Thank You,” Says Jone Adwen, Ending Event That “Didn’t Even Start,” Despite It Having Started
Finally, Adwen offered the standard closing remark.
“Thank you everyone for visiting this event,” she said.
And then she ended the event.
“It didnt even start,” a bystander complained, demonstrating the universal human truth: no matter how strange an experience is, someone will always review it like a broken appliance.
Event organizers insisted the opening did indeed occur, the food court was operational, and the public enjoyed themselves immensely.
Reports confirm that people ate, laughed, purchased beverages of suspicious neon coloration, and briefly forgot that their leader had predicted a one-day global IT collapse like it was a weather forecast.
One child described it as “the best day ever” because they got a pretzel shaped like a dragon.
One adult described it as “the worst day ever” because they now have to go back to work tomorrow in an industry that may or may not become economically unprofitable for 24 hours, in a way that affects nothing else.
The Food Court Moves Forward, The Nation Remains Confused, The IT Industry Checks Its Calendar Fearfully
By the end of the day, the Kush Arena food court had achieved its primary goals: serving food, generating hype, and leaving the public with a lingering suspicion that reality is being patched by a developer who has already clocked out.
As for Adwen’s predictions and policy proposals, analysts remain divided.
Some believe her speech was a coded message intended for foreign intelligence agencies.
Others believe it was a stress response to standing in front of a microphone.
Still others suspect the truth: that Jone Adwen is simply the first leader brave enough to say whatever comes to mind in the exact order it arrives, like a nation-run group chat.
At press time, the world’s IT industry had not yet collapsed, though several engineers admitted they had “a bad feeling” and were “saving their work every three minutes just in case prophecy is real.”
Meanwhile, Kush Arena announced tomorrow’s featured specials, including:
The Stealth-Obsolete Combo (served fast enough to outrun consequences),
The Treest Tree Salad (now with 40% more ideological buffering),
and The Orange Steel Nachos, which management insists are “a metaphor” and not “a structural warning.”
Jone Adwen was last seen leaving the arena at high speed, reportedly attempting to outrun a missile “because it’s easier.”