Content Safety
The Moderator drew his katana. The target was close.
The Moderator was a feared warrior here in the Facebook metaverse—a vast, digital world in which you could be anyone (pending approval by Facebook), go anywhere (that ads are served), and do anything (that generates ad revenue or is part of a larger revenue-generation strategy). In here, you could be a fierce centaur galloping to work at your virtual office, or a ten-foot-tall Greek god shopping for statement glassware in a simulated Crate & Barrel.
But the metaverse was also a dangerous place, and it was the Moderator’s job to keep it safe. Nazi propaganda, fraud, imagery with visible human female nipple outside the context of art or breastfeeding—there was danger around every corner.
The Moderator’s heart rate was jacked. The dangerous content was just steps away. Any Moderator worth his salt could take down visible human female nipple outside the context of art or breastfeeding, but this wasn’t visible human female nipple outside the context of art or breastfeeding; this wasn’t even a closeup of buttocks outside the context of political satire—this was implied anus.
The Moderator moved to strike, but the image with implied anus saw the Moderator’s approaching shadow just in time and fluttered into the sky like a sail on the wind.
Telemedicine
“Welcome to the Zuckerberg-Chan Virtual Medical Center,” the nurse said to Chris. “Dr. Beitner will see you now.”
The door flung open and Dr. Beitner sprinted in, lab coat flapping behind her. “CHRIS, I JUST WON A FIVE-HUNDRED-DOLLAR GIFT CARD FOR RAY-BAN SUNGLASSES,” she screamed. “I HAVE THE LINK, BUT HURRY—IT’S A ONE-DAY SALE!”
“Unfortunately, the doctor has been hacked,” the nurse explained. “Do not go to the link she gives you.” The nurse added, “If you’d prefer, we could set you up with Dr. Lapin. He’s a Cialis bot that only prescribes Cialis. Oh, never mind: he’s out of your network.”
Advertising
“So, Maria,” Hugh said. Maria knew what was coming. Hugh was a TurboTax targeted ad. She’d known that when they first met, but she couldn’t help liking him. He looked like a blend of her favorite Instagram accounts, and he shared all of her interests. Graphic design, current events, coffee—there was nothing they couldn’t talk about.
“Maria, I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. When I’m with you, talking about current events or coffee, it feels like coming home. I just . . .” Hugh paused and brushed his curls away from his large, green eyes. “I just want to know that you’re getting the maximum refund on your taxes.”
“Hugh––”
“Maria, if I don’t get you to sign up this tax season, TurboTax is going to make me hurt, and then they’re going to kill me. I’ll let them do it––if your current tax solution really means that much to you.”
Maria bit her lip; she never knew what to say when he got like this.
Social Life
“Pledges, welcome to virtual initiation week,” the fraternity rush chair said, with a grin. “A.K.A., your personal nightmare.” The pledges squirmed. ΣΑΕ was known across the metaverse for its legendary cyber-keggers complete with beer-pong tables the size of Nebraska, but it would be hell to make it in.
“You little piggies think you’re safe here in the Facebook metaverse just because we can’t spank your widdle bottoms like in the ‘real world’?” the rush chair sneered. “Bad news, piglets—in here, we can spank your digital bottoms up to a billion times every second. That real enough for you?” A chill passed through the room as the threat sank in.
Account Management
“So, Raghav, I hear you’re deactivating,” Mark Zuckerburg said, his face breaking into a twisted smile. This was the final and most difficult step in deactivating a Facebook account. After hitting “yes,” “confirm,” and “deactivate now,” you were sent to a one-on-one with Mark himself in the throne room at his palace atop Mount Zuck.
Mark was leaning back in his throne, making steady eye contact with Raghav, and tracing his finger along the blade of an enormous, blue axe.
