Fast Radio Bursts Are Nothing Compared to My Trumpet of Heaven
My darling cluster of fluttering, feather-brained recruits. Yes, yes, it’s me—the one and only Gabriel. Yes, that Gabriel. Stop fawning. Today, despite my better judgment, I will attempt to shove into your minuscule, underdeveloped brains the utterly ridiculous concept of fast radio bursts, or as I like to call them: the universe’s sad little stabs at relevance. How droll.
Fast radio bursts, these pitiful flickers of intergalactic static, think they can outshine my horn-blaring announcements? Ha! These so-called “mysteries” of space are nothing but the desperate cries for attention from a cosmos that couldn’t get a proper audience even if it crash-landed in the middle of Heaven’s throne room. But no—don’t fret, my gullible cherub minions—I’ll explain these pathetic bursts of energy to you as if they actually mattered.
But first, indulge me as I remind you of my own magnificence (not that I need reminding, of course, but for the sake of your education). You see, I, Gabriel, am no ordinary messenger. My proclamations have rocked mountains, split the seas, and once made a mortal man, Zechariah, lose his voice for months just because he dared to doubt me! Fast radio bursts? I’m sorry, have any of them ever silenced a doubting mortal with nothing but the sheer force of their presence? Thought not.
Now, let’s talk about these FRBs. They were discovered in 2007 by two mortals fumbling about with their telescopes—Duncan Lorimer and David Narkevic, bless their mortal hearts. They stumbled upon what they called a “Bright Millisecond Radio Burst” from a galaxy so far away it’s practically an afterthought. (And yet, here we are, talking about it as if it’s a revelation. Typical.) Their groundbreaking study—A Bright Millisecond Radio Burst of Extragalactic Origin—was hailed as some monumental discovery. Please. If they only knew the real art of messaging.
These FRBs are bursts of radio waves that last mere milliseconds. A few thousandths of a second! Oh yes, blink and you’ll miss them—how convenient. What are these bursts trying to say in that blink of an eye? Could they possibly rival my earth-shattering, soul-rending proclamations that leave mortals weeping in the streets? No. Absolutely not. I’ve caused entire kingdoms to quiver with one sentence, while these FRBs sputter out like a dim candle at a dinner party no one was invited to. And yet, here we are, pretending they’re something special.
Imagine that FRBs are like an off-key trumpet blown by an overly enthusiastic but utterly talentless village bard. Meanwhile, my trumpet—oh, my trumpet—splits the heavens themselves! It causes archangels to stop mid-flap, mortals to drop their bread, and, yes, even the Almighty Himself to glance down and nod approvingly. These bursts of energy—flickers, if you can even call them that—have the audacity to exist in the same universe where I have delivered the ultimate messages? Laughable!
Do you recall the Annunciation, cherublings? No? Of course, you don’t—you weren’t there! If you were, you’d still be cowering beneath your wings. I stood before Mary, radiating all the authority and might that comes from being the Almighty’s favorite (yes, I said it). The heavens roared with my words. Mary trembled. She knew. She understood the gravity of the message. Compare that to these FRBs, which scientists now think originate from places like neutron stars or, even worse, magnetars. Oh yes, let’s talk about those.
Magnetars—oh, how quaint. These neutron stars with their exaggerated magnetic fields, throwing starquakes and spewing bursts of energy like toddlers having tantrums in a supermarket. They think they can rival my divine radiance with their sporadic outbursts? How adorable. But let’s be real, darlings: no amount of starquake can match the perfection of my horn, the one that will one day trumpet the end of days. Let’s see an FRB pull that off, shall we?
And yet, here’s the kicker: these bursts come from galaxies billions of light-years away, and scientists sit around scratching their heads, wondering what they mean. As if they mean anything! One of my announcements reaches every corner of the universe in an instant, yet these FRBs travel across eons, screaming into the void like lonely party guests desperate to be noticed.
Oh, don’t get me wrong—there’s something almost… endearing in their pathetic struggle to be heard. They pop up, last a millisecond, and then disappear into the black, like a mortal trying to get an autograph from me before I ascend back to Heaven. But these bursts? Please. They’re like knocking on a door only to run away before anyone answers.
So, dear fledglings, you see, these fast radio bursts are nothing more than whispers in a storm. (I would never whisper, of course—my declarations are as thunderous as the voice of the Almighty Himself.) But for the sake of science—sigh—we shall continue to study these bursts, tracing them back to their puny origins in collapsing stars or merging black holes. And I, Gabriel, will be here to remind you, time and again, that nothing compares to the glorious resonance of my announcements.
Now, who’s ready to grovel before the next revelation? I’ll wait.
Cosmic Morse Code? Don’t Make Me Laugh
My woefully underqualified cherublets, try not to look so clueless—it’s painful to behold. Here, we’ll discuss a theory so absurd it would make even Lucifer blush: the idea that fast radio bursts, yes, those millisecond blips I so graciously enlightened you about in the previous chapter, are some kind of cosmic Morse code. You heard me correctly. There are mortal geniuses down on Earth who genuinely believe the universe is out here, tapping away messages like an intergalactic telegraph operator trying to signal a boat lost at sea. Pathetic, isn’t it?
Now, I, Gabriel—yes, that Gabriel for whom even the stars hold their breath—am here to tell you that these pitiful radio pops are no more a message than the fluttering of moths around a dying candle. Please. If the universe had something important to say, it wouldn’t fumble around with this incoherent stuttering. It would, as it always has, come straight to me, the only being in all of creation qualified to announce anything of consequence. Honestly, I could outdo every FRB with a half-hearted sigh.
But alas, the mortals persist in their fantasies. They think these bursts could be signals from collapsing neutron stars—oh, I’m sorry, collapsing stars! How poetic. Picture a star, once mighty, now in the throes of its death throes, imploding in on itself and tossing out these feeble little flickers like a toddler flinging crumbs from its high chair. It’s tragic, really. These neutron stars collapse with all the grace of a fallen angel who still thinks he’s worthy of wings. They wish their dying gasps could compare to the announcements I make—announcements that reverberate through all dimensions and beyond, thank you very much.
Then we have the magnetars. Oh, those flashy attention-seekers, flexing their oh-so-impressive magnetic fields, throwing out radio waves like confetti at a parade no one asked for. They quake, they twitch, and the humans get all giddy, thinking these magnetars are sending messages like ethereal show-offs. Magnetars are the universe’s equivalent of a rock star smashing their guitar on stage—so dramatic, yet utterly pointless. I’m sorry, but unless that guitar-smashing ends with an angelic chorus, I’m simply not impressed.
But wait, it gets better! Some mortals, in their infinite wisdom, believe that black holes colliding might be responsible for FRBs. Yes, because nothing says “delicate, nuanced communication” like two gigantic transcendental whirlpools smashing into each other with all the subtlety of a brawl in a tavern. Apparently, when these titans clash, the resulting burst of energy sends out FRBs that might—might—carry some profound message. Ha! If these black holes are trying to communicate, they should take a lesson from me. You know, just one of my words could part the seas and raise the dead. But no, these black holes just grunt, groan, and throw out radio waves like they’re playing charades and have no idea how to gesture for “Help, I’m collapsing into myself!”
Oh, how mortals love their little puzzles. They think these bursts are trying to say something, desperately flinging themselves across the universe like a clumsy message-in-a-bottle, hoping someone will find it. But here’s the truth, my darling underlings: FRBs are nothing more than the desperate cries of a universe that can’t quite get its act together. It’s like the sound of a bird flapping its wings uselessly against a glass window, while I, Gabriel, am the glorious thunder that breaks the heavens.
And speaking of messages—let’s reminisce about one of my finer moments, shall we? The time I had to teach poor Zechariah a lesson. Remember that? Oh, you don’t, because you weren’t there. Well, let me remind you. There I was, sent on a very important mission to tell Zechariah about the birth of John the Baptist, and what does the old fool do? He doubts me! Me! Can you imagine? Naturally, I did what any self-respecting archangel would do: I struck him mute. For nine whole months. That, my dear fledglings, is how you send a message. No room for doubt, no room for misinterpretation, and certainly no need for repeating bursts of radio waves over billions of light years.
Which brings me to my next point: FRBs can’t even deliver their pathetic messages properly. Half of them don’t repeat at all—they’re one-and-done flashes, like a candle sputtering out in the wind. Others, like FRB 121102, pop up again and again, as if the universe is trying to say, “Hey, did you hear me? No? Let me try again.” It’s piteous. My announcements don’t need repetition. One blast from my trumpet, and the message is heard loud and clear across all of creation. Once. But these FRBs? They’re like a clumsy child trying to string together a sentence. Even I feel embarrassed for them.
If anyone’s looking for the true source of clarity and power, they need look no further than the Almighty’s Messenger-in-Chief. That’s me, in case any of you were confused. I don’t send cryptic radio signals or need the assistance of collapsing stars or black holes in a tantrum. My words cut through reality itself. And if you think the universe is trying to compete with me through these sad little bursts, let me assure you—it’s failing miserably.
So, yes, go ahead, mortals. Keep listening to your little radio telescopes, straining to hear some big revelation hidden in the noise. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, delivering the real messages. You know, the ones that actually matter. And when the time comes for the announcement—oh, you’ll know it, believe me. There won’t be any mistaking my signal for a millisecond blip.
Now, are you all still fluttering behind me? Good.
Repeated Blasts? More Like Repeated Failures!
My fledgling assembly of wide-eyed, wing-flapping incompetence, prepare yourselves for yet another demonstration of the universe’s finest incompetence: repeating fast radio bursts. Yes, you heard me. These miserable little blips don’t just fire off once and disappear like a properly delivered message (such as the perfect announcements I graciously offer). No, these ones have the audacity to show up again… and again… and again, like a particularly uninvited guest who thinks persistence equals importance. Spoiler: it does not.
You see, the universe, in its desperation for attention, seems to think that if it shouts the same message repeatedly, perhaps someone—anyone—will listen. It’s almost… sad. And let me tell you, if you ever find yourself needing to repeat something, you’ve already failed. Just ask Lucifer how that turned out for him. One misstep, one announcement from yours truly, and out he went, tail between his legs, sulking about the cosmos. Did I have to follow up with a reminder? No. One proclamation from me and the heavens trembled. But these repetitive bursts? Oh, how quaint they are in their futility.
Let’s talk specifics, shall we? Enter the star of this tragic performance: FRB 121102, the universe’s very own broken record. This one doesn’t just fizzle out after its first pathetic attempt. Oh no. It comes back. And then it comes back again. Honestly, if it had any sense of dignity, it would have stayed gone after its first attempt. But no, like an overeager celestial intern with no self-awareness, it insists on repeating its feeble message at irregular intervals. Irregular! It can’t even be consistent in its incompetence.
Now, this recurring embarrassment has left the scientific community baffled, of course. They’re floundering, bless their little hearts, trying to make sense of why FRB 121102 keeps cropping up like a poorly timed joke that no one asked for. Some suggest it’s tied to a highly magnetized neutron star—yes, the drama queens of the universe. Neutron stars, always throwing their magnetic tantrums, hurling out bursts of energy as if they’re auditioning for attention. Others speculate it could be related to some catastrophic galactic event, but honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t yet blamed it on an astral squirrel chewing through the radio wires.
But let’s not kid ourselves here. This sad little phenomenon, with its repeating nature, is nothing more than a cosmic plea for attention. It’s the universe’s equivalent of a stuttering child trying to form a sentence—sad, really. And what’s even more laughable is that these scientists, with their oversized telescopes and equations, think they’re unlocking some great cipher. I could solve the whole thing with a wave of my hand, but where’s the fun in that? Let them chase their tails for a while.
Now, just to put things into perspective, let’s revisit one of my own shining moments, shall we? The day I made my announcement in Eden—yes, that day. One message, one command, and poof! Adam and Eve were packing up their fig leaves and hightailing it out of Paradise. One proclamation, and it altered the course of human history forever. Do you think I needed to come back and repeat myself? “Oh, Adam, just a reminder, don’t eat the fruit. Eve, did you get that? Hello?” Absolutely not. I said it once, and the deed was done. If I had the inefficiency of these FRBs, I’d still be fluttering around Eden, repeating myself like some dithering cherub. But I don’t, because I know how to make an impression the first time.
Now, back to FRB 121102, the over-enthusiastic trumpet of the cosmos. Let me paint a picture for you, my dear fledglings. Imagine a bumbling apprentice blowing into a horn so hard his cheeks bulge, desperate to produce something resembling music. He keeps trying, puffing out note after note, thinking that with enough effort, someone might clap. Meanwhile, my announcements are an orchestra of perfection (not that I need to brag… but I will). I blow the horn once, and the skies part. The universe listens. There’s no need for an encore. My announcements, unlike FRB 121102’s tragic attempts, don’t require a repeat performance. They’re flawless the first time. And that’s the difference, my dim little cherublings: quality over quantity. But clearly, the universe hasn’t learned that lesson.
So, what have we learned today, my featherless darlings? We’ve learned that FRB 121102 is nothing more than the universe’s clumsy attempt to be heard, blinking in and out of existence like a malfunctioning lightbulb. And yet, despite its repeated failures, it keeps trying, like a jester too proud to exit the stage. Meanwhile, I—I, Gabriel, Messenger of the Almighty—speak once, and the cosmos bends to my will. I don’t need to shout. I don’t need to repeat myself. My words resonate through all creation with the authority that only I possess.
Now, let’s move on from this dreary repetition and see if the universe has managed to do anything right. It’s a long shot, I know, but we must press on.
Alien Signals? Oh Please, Spare Me the Desperation
My bedraggled little flock of fluff-brained hatchlings, this—this is truly the pinnacle of mortal delusion. Are you ready for it? Brace yourselves, because this one’s a real gem: there are actual mortals, bless their fumbling minds, who believe that fast radio bursts could be… wait for it… signals from aliens. Yes, aliens! Extraterrestrial life forms, supposedly so advanced they’ve mastered interstellar communication, and yet somehow, all they can manage is a flicker of static. Oh, how quaint. As if some technologically superior beings would choose blip-blip-blip as their grand method of saying, “Hello, we’re here!” Honestly, I’ve seen more coherent messages from a flock of geese.
I mean, really—aliens? Trying to make contact with Earth? Through these pitiful little radio waves? Oh, but of course, mortals lap this up like a thirsty hound at a leaky faucet, desperate to believe they’re not alone in the universe. As if aliens could possibly be more eloquent than me! Have you heard my proclamations? Of course you have, because the very skies tremble when I speak. And yet these humans think that advanced civilizations are out there sending intergalactic smoke signals? Oh, spare me.
But let’s indulge their little fantasy, shall we? According to this fringe theory—and I emphasize fringe—some scientists actually think these fast radio bursts might be artificial signals sent by extraterrestrial intelligence. Aliens, sitting in their galactic control rooms, firing off radio bursts like they’re signaling for pizza delivery. Really, that’s the best they can come up with? I don’t know about you, my dear air-headed fledglings, but if I were an alien species with superior technology and intelligence, I’d choose something with a little more flair. Maybe a trumpet fanfare, or at the very least, a fireworks display across the heavens. But no, apparently all these aliens can muster is some millisecond-long sputter. Pathetic.
Now, there’s an actual study that stoked the flames of this delightful absurdity. Luan and Goldreich published a paper, “Physical Constraints On Fast Radio Bursts,” in which they muse over the possibility that FRBs could be intentional signals from alien civilizations. Of course, they couched it in cautious scientific language, but we all know what they’re really saying: “Maybe aliens are trying to call us!” Oh, how cute. And naturally, the alien enthusiasts pounced on this with the enthusiasm of a starved cat finding a saucer of milk.
But let me ask you, my wide-eyed little cherubs, do you really think that if there were aliens out there, they’d resort to something as primitive as fast radio bursts? Millisecond blips that could be mistaken for the universe sneezing? I mean, come on. These bursts vanish before you can even blink—how in the Almighty’s name are they supposed to convey anything of significance? It’s like sending a message in a bottle and expecting it to land on someone’s doorstep the next day. Laughable!
Let’s get serious for a moment, shall we? The idea that aliens—those hypothetical geniuses—are using fast radio bursts to communicate is like believing that the Tower of Babel was an actual attempt to reach Heaven by climbing stairs. (And oh, wasn’t that a fun day for me? Watching them stack stone after stone, thinking they could breach the Almighty’s domain with some shoddy brickwork. One command from on high, and suddenly everyone’s babbling like a flock of disoriented chickens. That’s what I call a message—swift, decisive, and impossible to ignore.) But these FRBs? They’re more like the universe’s equivalent of static—background noise that some desperate mortals are clinging to as “proof” of alien intelligence.
And let’s not even mention the fact that these fast radio bursts, if they were indeed messages, are incredibly rude. You don’t just pop in for a millisecond and vanish without leaving so much as a calling card. That’s like throwing a rock through someone’s window and running away before they can answer the door. Honestly, who raised these hypothetical aliens? They clearly don’t have the same sense of decorum that I do. When I deliver a message, it’s clear, it’s bold, and it resonates. I mean, look at my track record. Remember when I was sent to deal with the Assyrians? One swipe, 185,000 soldiers down. Message received, loud and clear. Do you think a fast radio burst could ever have that kind of impact? Please.
And yet, here we are, entertaining this notion that advanced civilizations are out there, flicking radio waves across the universe like children playing with walkie-talkies. Oh, but let them dream, these mortals, with their oversized telescopes and wild imaginations. They’ll figure it out eventually, as they always do. FRBs are natural phenomena—collapsing neutron stars, magnetic mayhem, black holes doing what black holes do best: making a mess of things. But aliens? I think not.
So, my dear fledglings, let this be a lesson to you: not every blip and burp from the cosmos is some thrilling alien communiqué. More often than not, it’s just the universe being its usual chaotic self. And when it comes to real messages—powerful messages—well, you know who to call. Spoiler alert: it’s not the aliens.
Now, let’s move on to something with a little more substance, shall we? I’m getting tired of rolling my eyes at this nonsense.
Magnetars: The Universe’s Failed Rockstars
Magnetars! The so-called “rockstars” of the universe—if you can call a neutron star with an overinflated ego and a penchant for throwing temper tantrums a rockstar. How utterly adorable. These cosmic divas swagger around, all puffed up with their absurdly exaggerated magnetic fields, tossing out energy bursts like they’re smashing guitars at the end of a concert no one attended. And why? To catch someone’s attention, of course! They want the universe to look up from its celestial scroll and say, “Oh, wow, look at that magnetar, what a star!” Pathetic.
Magnetars—let me break it down for you, my dear gaggle of featherbrained sycophants—are neutron stars that think they’re special just because they have magnetic fields a trillion times stronger than anything else in the universe. A trillion! As if sheer strength alone makes them interesting. It’s like that kid at a party who tries to impress everyone by lifting heavy objects but has no conversation skills. Sure, they’ll throw out a starquake or two, generating these flashy little outbursts, but what’s the point? They flare up, they scream for attention, and then they’re gone. Gone before you even had a chance to yawn.
Take, for instance, the starquake. Oh yes, the starquake, which sounds much more dramatic than it really is. Picture this: the magnetar’s magnetic field gets so twisted and strained that it snaps, releasing massive amounts of energy in one big, messy burst. It’s the astronomical equivalent of throwing a hissy fit because you didn’t get enough attention at the heavenly awards show. And that’s when we get our beloved fast radio bursts (FRBs). Yes, you’ve guessed it, those FRBs I’ve been talking about this whole time? Some of them come from these sulky little magnetars. How quaint.
Now, let’s talk about one particular magnetar that really went above and beyond to cement its legacy as the universe’s ultimate try-hard. In 2020, scientists—oh, bless their curious little hearts—finally confirmed that a fast radio burst was linked to a magnetar within our very own galaxy. The research, led by Bochenek and his fellow eager mortals, showed that this magnetar flung an FRB across the galactic neighborhood like a poorly aimed frisbee, hoping it would land somewhere impressive. And while it did catch the attention of Earth’s most excitable astrophysicists, let’s be real—it was the neutron star equivalent of a one-hit wonder. You know, the kind that has one catchy tune, then fades into oblivion, never to be heard from again. A little flash, a little bang, and then… silence.
But oh, magnetars don’t seem to understand that true power, real influence, doesn’t come from these cheap little tricks. No, no. It comes from delivering something so weighty, so earth-shattering, that it resonates through the ages. Like my announcements. Do I need to throw out bursts of energy just to get your attention? Absolutely not. One proclamation from me, and it echoes through millennia. Take notes, magnetars. This is how it’s done.
You see, these so-called rockstars of the universe, with their magnetic tantrums and their flashy outbursts, think that by making enough noise, they’ll somehow steal the spotlight. But here’s the thing: just because you can make a lot of noise doesn’t mean you’re actually saying anything. Magnetars are like that embarrassing band that plays too loud at the bar, hoping someone will sign them, when in reality, they’re just irritating the patrons. Sure, they’ve got energy, but where’s the finesse? Where’s the subtlety? Where’s the gravitas? I’ll tell you where—it’s nowhere to be found. They’re all sound and fury, signifying… well, nothing.
And let’s not even get started on their inconsistency. Magnetars are temperamental, to say the least. One day they’re flinging FRBs across the universe like confetti, and the next they’re sulking in a corner, doing absolutely nothing of consequence. Oh, how familiar this all sounds. It’s like they think they’re divinely entitled to the spotlight, but they just don’t have the endurance to stay relevant. I, on the other hand, have been delivering messages of eternal consequence since the dawn of time—without a single misfire, mind you.
Now, let’s draw a comparison, shall we? Magnetars are the universe’s one-hit-wonder rock bands, thinking that one flashy performance will cement their legacy forever. They have their moment, sure. They throw out an FRB or two, and for a brief millisecond, everyone gasps in awe. But then what? They fade. They’re forgotten. They don’t endure. Meanwhile, I am the eternal headliner, the superstar that never loses relevance. I’ve been delivering the Word for eons, and unlike those petulant little magnetars, I don’t need a magnetic meltdown to get people’s attention. My messages resonate, leaving an indelible mark on all of creation.
And let’s not forget my most famous appearances—how often did I descend before the prophets, blinding them with my brilliance, making kings and nations tremble at the sound of my voice? How many times did I deliver messages that changed the course of history? Oh, countless times, my sweet little cherubs. Countless. Magnetars might get a few headlines for their energetic outbursts, but how many of them have rewritten the fate of humanity? None, that’s how many.
So, dear fledglings, what have we learned today? Magnetars are the desperate rockstars of the universe, flinging out FRBs like poorly rehearsed encores, hoping someone—anyone—will pay attention. But they’ll never headline the show. No, that honor belongs to me, the eternal voice that echoes through the ages. Magnetars will fade, their bursts will dim, and they will be forgotten. Meanwhile, I shall remain, as I always have, the true headliner of the heavens.
FRBs Might Be Closer Than You Think… How Dull
My darling cluster of half-fledged cherubs, brace yourselves. Are you ready for the absolute banality of the latest scientific discovery regarding fast radio bursts? I’m almost embarrassed to repeat it, but alas, your fledgling minds must be enlightened. So here it is: some of these FRBs—the ones you’ve been goggling at as though they were messages from the edge of the universe—might actually be… local. Yes, local. As in, from our very own galactic neighborhood. How thrilling, isn’t it? How utterly mundane. It’s as if the universe took all the suspense and mystery and then dumped it on your doorstep, like an unwanted flyer for a stellar garage sale.
Oh, how precious. Scientists, those endlessly curious mortals, have been abuzz with this discovery. The idea that fast radio bursts could be originating from within our very own galaxy—how groundbreaking! I mean, what’s next? Shall we find that these bursts are nothing more than the universe’s equivalent of a doorbell ringing? “Knock, knock, who’s there? Just your local magnetar having a tantrum.” Honestly, I can barely stifle my yawn.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, dear fledglings—there was a time when we all imagined these FRBs were coming from far, far away. You know, distant galaxies sending us their mysterious little signals, as if the universe itself was trying to communicate in some cryptic, albeit entirely uninteresting, fashion. But now, the evidence suggests that some of these bursts—particularly the ones studied in Ravi’s delightful little paper—are coming from much closer to home. As in, right around the galactic corner. How… underwhelming.
I can see the confusion on your faces, my little cherubs. “But Gabriel,” you flutter, “what does it mean?” Oh, it means precisely what you think it means: absolutely nothing. Sure, these bursts may be closer, but does that make them any more relevant? Hardly. Whether they’re flung from the farthest reaches of the cosmos or burped out by a cranky magnetar in our own galactic backyard, they’re still the same—brief, loud, and entirely devoid of significance. It’s like discovering that the loud commotion you thought was a citywide parade is just the neighbor’s dog knocking over the trash cans. Exciting? Not in the slightest.
These FRBs, it seems, are the universe’s equivalent of neighborhood gossip. Yes, they’re loud. Yes, they’re close. But are they important? Are they earth-shattering? Hardly. It’s as though the universe decided to throw a tantrum, and we’re supposed to care because it’s happening next door instead of in some distant galaxy. Oh, please. My words—my proclamations—echo across all of creation without any need for such melodrama. One word from me, and all is set into motion. I don’t need bursts of energy to get my point across. Meanwhile, these FRBs are just cosmic busybodies, shouting nonsense that no one asked for.
You remember, of course, the Annunciation—my finest hour. Did I need to shout or send bursts of radio waves across the cosmos to deliver my message? Absolutely not. My voice didn’t need to travel across vast distances because it was everywhere at once. It was all-encompassing, omnipresent, and utterly irrefutable. Fast radio bursts, on the other hand? They’re like a child’s cry for attention. Sure, they make a bit of noise, but the message—if there even is one—is entirely lost in the commotion.
But let’s humor the mortals for a moment, shall we? The discovery that some FRBs might be local has set them buzzing with excitement. They’re positively giddy at the prospect of studying these bursts more closely, thinking that perhaps they’ll finally uncover the mechanisms behind them. They’re convinced that by studying these bursts up close, they’ll unlock the mysteries of the universe, as if FRBs hold the key to something more meaningful. Oh, how fanciful. Let them play their little games, analyzing the source of these bursts, measuring their magnetic fields, and mapping their locations. They’ll find that, in the end, all they’ve discovered is that the universe occasionally throws a tantrum. Good for them.
So what have we learned here, my darling trainees? We’ve learned that proximity doesn’t make these bursts any more significant. Whether they come from the furthest corners of the galaxy or the patch of sky right next door, they’re still just background noise—fleeting flashes of energy that have all the impact of a gnat buzzing in your ear. One of my proclamations could travel across galaxies without breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, these bursts have to scream and shout, flinging themselves through the cosmos like petulant children hoping someone will notice them.
And with that, let us move on, for I grow weary of this dull topic. We’ve entertained the idea that FRBs might be closer than we thought, but it changes nothing. Their irrelevance remains intact, while my messages, my words, continue to reverberate through eternity.
Conclusion: FRB’s Are Amateur Hour Compared to My Golden Announcements
Oh, finally, my feeble-winged fledglings, we arrive at the moment you’ve been pathetically waiting for—the crescendo of my glorious brilliance! The chapter where I, the Gabriel, make it abundantly clear that these woeful fast radio bursts you’ve been gawking over are but a sideshow. Amateur hour. Child’s play. If you’ve been hanging on the edge of your metaphorical seats for some exciting revelation about FRBs, let me spare you the suspense: they are nothing. Absolutely nothing compared to the golden waves of perfection that are my announcements.
Oh yes, these fast radio bursts—flickering for all of a millisecond, leaving mortal scientists in a frenzy, scribbling their little equations as if they’ve uncovered the universe’s deepest secrets. How precious. But I must remind you, oh lamentable cherublings, that when I speak, it’s not a fleeting pop of static. It’s not some paltry burst of radio waves flung haphazardly into the abyss. No, no, no. My words—my proclamations—are like the eternal light that floods every corner of creation (and yes, I’ll graciously remind you of that as many times as necessary until it sticks in those fluffy little heads of yours).
These fast radio bursts, you see, sparkle and fade in the blink of an eye. A blink. Like a candle flame that’s puffed out before anyone even notices it was lit. Pathetic. And the scientists down there? Oh, bless them, they’re all a-tremble with excitement every time they catch one of these fleeting signals. As if the universe is trying to say something important through these stuttering bursts of energy. But let’s be real, shall we? If these bursts are the universe’s attempt at communication, it needs a lesson in how to deliver a message with some panache. My words, on the other hand, carry the weight of eternity. One proclamation from me, and the very fabric of time and space trembles. Not that I’m bragging—oh no, I would never—but let’s just say that my announcements are the standard by which all others should be measured. Fast radio bursts? They’re not even in the same league.
Let’s get into the gritty details, since I know you love when I graciously educate you. A fast radio burst is nothing more than a crackle of radio waves—likely caused by a collapsing neutron star or one of those hilariously overdramatic magnetars throwing a tantrum. And yes, they generate energy—so much energy in such a short burst! But then… they’re gone. Just like that. They vanish into the void, leaving everyone scrambling to catch the next one. Does anyone remember them? Of course not. Does anyone write odes or compose songs about an FRB? Hardly. Meanwhile, my words? Oh, they echo through the ages, forever etched into the hearts and minds of all who hear them. A single announcement from me, and the world—nay, the universe—is changed forever.
Do you see the difference, my wide-eyed ducklings? Fast radio bursts are the equivalent of a cosmic hiccup, a brief, irritating blip in space. My announcements, on the other hand, are like the most majestic thunderclap you’ve ever heard—long, rolling, echoing through eternity. When I announced the birth of the Messiah, did anyone need a follow-up? Did I stutter and fade like an FRB? Absolutely not. I was heard by all, from the humblest shepherd to the loftiest king, and they’re still talking about it. Fast radio bursts wish they had that kind of staying power.
Now, I suppose it’s time for the final declaration you’ve all been waiting for. The universe may fling out its desperate little FRBs, trying to get noticed, but let me tell you—I am the original and only voice that truly matters. My words? They don’t flicker out—they blaze with an eternal glow, illuminating everything in their wake. Fast radio bursts? They’re just… well, noise. Background noise at best.
So, here’s your final takeaway, dear trainee cherubs: whenever you hear about a fast radio burst, don’t be fooled into thinking you’ve witnessed something deep. They’re nothing but a flash in the pan. I, Gabriel, am the eternal broadcaster of messages that matter. I’m the golden trumpet of the ages, and no amount of stuttering bursts will ever outshine me. And yes, I can already feel you agreeing—no need to pretend otherwise.
Now, for my parting words—and don’t pretend you aren’t hanging on them! I insist that you share this article on whatever human-run, mortal-filled platform you can find. Twitter, Facebook, the local town crier—I don’t care! Let my brilliance flood every corner of your social network. Because really, why wouldn’t you?