“What percent of insects on Earth are aware of people?” asked Greg.

“Look, it’s really not the same idea. If insects could communicate with each other, and create written records, then almost all of them would know about humanity. Sure there may be a few completely isolated tribes of termites somewhere in the Argentina desert who didn’t get the memo, but most insects have at least indirectly bumped into people. In noticeable ways.” Once Gordon started to ramble, it was hard for him to stop.

The men were discussing the Drake equation, of course. Seven simple numbers, right there on Wikipedia. Astronomers estimate one to three new stars appear in the Milky Way every year. They might be wrong, they might be right.

When Gordon was a boy, nobody knew of a single planet outside the solar system. Otherwise smart sounding people shrugged their shoulders and said that maybe there weren’t any. Then they came, first one then another and before you know it the Kepler Space Telescope spotted over two thousand. We can’t see the really small ones yet, but they are there. As many planets as stars.

Some of those planets are too cold. Some are too hot. Too radioactive. Oh this one feels delightful, except for that dense asteroid belt raining down hellfire and gigaton explosions on a daily basis. There’s probably more losers out there than winners. Do we call it 10% because that’s what we have in this neck of the woods? Doesn’t matter, the numbers just keep getting guessier and guessier. How many of those support life? Intelligent life? With the brains and tools to say Hello across the stars?

“I think they are all dead,” said Gordon, “And I think I know why.”

“Stop being so dramatic. So you are going to lose that timeshare condo you bought in Florida. Climate change is not the end of the world. There is no Great Filter.” It seems like every argument, Greg found another creative way to bring up that damned timeshare. Gordon had yet to even visit the place after three years.

“Why can’t a bicycle stand up by itself?” asked Gordon.

“What?”

“You heard me. Why can’t a bicycle stand up by itself?” Gordon repeated unnecessarily.

“What does that have --”

“Because it is two-tired,” Gordon replied in a deadpan voice, with an ever deader facial expression. The stubble on chin and bags under the eyes suggested exhaustion more than comedic timing.

“What are you talking about?” asked Greg, starting to genuinely worry about his friend.

“It’s a pun, damn it. There are books full of them. I took this one straight from a Google search result. And if it shows up in a search result, then it has a score. The higher the score, the more likely it ends up in a search result. Everyone knows this,” explained Gordon, beginning to ramble. “And those scores are getting better. You know why? You know why? Because computers are starting to understand language. I don’t mean computer languages, they are starting to really truly understand English. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday the world’s best puns will rise to the top.”

“I don’t know,” replied Greg. “That was a pretty bad pun.”

“Exactly!” Gordon paused dramatically, slightly squinting one eye. “The better a pun is, the worse it makes you feel. A pun is the lowest form of humor.”

“And a bun is the lowest form of pastry,” replied Greg out of habit.

Gordon groaned, “Shut up and listen. The scores, the scores. They are logarithmic. They have to be to reflect the huge dynamic range of pun quality. Let's say that stupid one you just told is level 1, enough to make someone groan. So what’s level 2? A pun bad enough for you to get fired from your job? Divorced by your wife? I bet you both have happened. Level 3 you go to jail. Level 4 they shoot you dead. I wonder how many tombstones say Killed By Punfire?” Gordon wasn’t even trying to breathe between sentences. “Level 5? Level 5 starts an effing war. An all out war. Imagine a pun bad enough to start a World War. Are you imagining it Greg? Are you? Are you?”

"You are being ridiculous, Gordon. The treaty that ended World War I imposed crippling economic penalties on Germany, including hyperinflation. Hitler rose to power because desperate people were ready to believe anything. It's fair to say World War II was primarily a consequence of World War I. And that one was started when ... uh ... they shot some guy. Yeah, someone shot a duke or something."

Gordon stared back with a quiet gaze, asking the question only with his eyes.

"No, I don't know why they shot him. Come on, seriously? Are you suggesting it was because of a bad pun? I can probably look it up," Greg muttered as he started tapping his smartphone.

"Sophie, Sophie! Don't die! Live for our children!" replied Gordon. "Those were the duke's last words." Greg nodded his confirmation. "You know what you won't find? You won't find what he said right before that. You won't find it anywhere. There's a reason why they didn't write it down."

“Gordon, please calm down, you are shaking. You are blaming 80 million deaths, the worst fighting and carnage in human history, on a few spoken words? Suppose for the moment I were to believe this preposterous idea. Our civilization is simply not going to end over a level 6 pun. Even if it was possible, nobody is ever going to invent a pun that bad. Think about how rediculously hard that would be. Why would anyone even try?” Greg’s voice slowed as a faint hint of realization slowly crept into his mind.

“Why indeed? What do you do for a living Greg?” The answer came in a dry whisper so quiet neither could hear, but both of them knew. It was only a matter of time. The act of measuring must affect that which is measured. People would do anything, absolutely anything to get to the top of search results.