Nobody liked the Department of Necessary Funerals.
It had started, like most bad ideas, with good intentions. The scientific community had grown tired of waiting for progress. Every time some bright-eyed researcher discovered a new truth—about climate change, nutrition, the origins of the universe, or why toddlers scream at floor tiles—there was always some old fossil in a tweed jacket declaring, “Now, now, the data doesn’t quite support this.”
And, as history had shown, these fossils refused to change their minds.
So, in the interest of efficiency, the world’s leading scientific institutions formed the Department of Necessary Funerals, a bureaucratic agency whose only job was to ensure that knowledge, like a well-tended garden, was regularly weeded of its most stubborn and outdated ideas.
And, of course, of the people who held them.
The Rules Were Simple
The Department did not murder anyone—that would have been unethical. Instead, it simply scheduled funerals in advance, based on a careful algorithm.
Any scientist, professor, or public intellectual who had blocked progress for more than three decades was placed on a list. The moment they passed—peacefully, naturally, and entirely of their own accord—their funeral was immediatelyfollowed by a conference where their obsolete ideas were officially declared dead as well.
At first, there was outrage. The elderly scholars protested. “This is an insult to the scientific method!” cried Dr. Alistair P. Woolsey, 93, famous for his 1954 theory that “women’s brains overheat during calculus” (which he insisted was still up for debate).
“Yes, yes, Alistair,” replied a junior physicist. “And in two weeks, we’ll discuss that at your funeral.”
This had a chilling effect on academic debates. The more entrenched an idea was, the more its supporters found themselves checking their mailboxes nervously.
Obituary Announcements & Scientific Progress
The system worked beautifully. As soon as Dr. Edwin Bracewell, who had spent his life arguing that electric cars could never work, passed peacefully at 104, the Department sent a memo to all automotive companies:
💀 OBITUARY NOTICE: Dr. Edwin Bracewell (1919–2024)
📝 STATUS: Deceased
🔬 IMPACT: Resistance to electric vehicles officially nullified. Subsidies approved.
Within a week, every car on the market was electric.
When Professor Judith Feldspar, the last surviving geologist who still believed in the “Flat Earth Hypothesis,” died at 112, the news was met with quiet relief. The Department scheduled a panel discussion for the following morning.
“I guess we can finally put this one to bed,” said a weary astrophysicist.
The room nodded in solemn agreement.
Unexpected Consequences
At first, the system seemed foolproof. But, as always, humanity found a way to game it.
Wealthy academics began funding longevity research at alarming rates. If you could live to 150, you could delay the acceptance of any new idea simply by refusing to die.
One scientist, Dr. Gerald Pickering, took this very seriously. As the last remaining opponent of AI-generated art, he invested millions into cryogenic freezing. “If I never die,” he reasoned, “then we never have to accept AI-generated creativity as ‘real’ art.”
The Department responded swiftly. New regulations placed “medically induced stasis” in the same category as death. Dr. Pickering’s cryo-pod was unplugged. His funeral was held on a Tuesday.
The next morning, every major museum unveiled its AI-curated exhibits.
The Final Resistance
Of course, not everyone was happy with this system. Some argued that science itself needed skepticism, that even wrong ideas could be useful as stepping stones.
One night, a rogue faction of elderly scientists broke into the Department of Necessary Funerals and stole the master list. Armed with it, they went into hiding, vowing to protect the last remaining bad ideas.
They built a bunker, deep underground, where they continued publishing academic papers on:
- Why germs don’t actually cause disease
- Why the moon landing was staged
- Why social media isn’t affecting attention spans
For decades, they remained hidden. But time, as always, was relentless.
One by one, they perished. Their last known message, scribbled on an old napkin, read:
“You’ll never replace us.”
The Department received it with polite indifference. The next morning, all of their theories were officially classified as nonsense, and the world moved on.
And So, Progress Continued…
Over the years, the funerals became a formality. New ideas blossomed overnight. Diseases were cured. Technology advanced without bureaucratic delays.
And yet, an uncomfortable thought lingered.
If every generation believed it had reached the pinnacle of knowledge, then at some point, the wrong people might end up on the list.
One day, a young scientist raised this question during a meeting.
“What if we’re wrong about something? What if we’re the ones holding back progress?”
There was a long silence.
Then someone in the back cleared their throat and said:
“Let’s discuss it… at your funeral.”
And the system continued.
Eulogy for a System That Works Until It Doesn’t
And so, dear reader, perhaps the Department of Necessary Funerals is closer than we think.
Not in the literal sense—at least, not yet—but in the way we abandon old ideas only when those who hold them are no longer around to defend them.
Maybe science does advance one funeral at a time. But if we ever automate that process, we might want to ask ourselves who is making the list…
…before we find our own names on it.
💀 The End.