It’s Not a Pandemic, It’s a Standemic

Imagine a world gripped not by a deadly pathogen, but by something far more chaotic: an outbreak of full‑blown, moonwalking mania. Ordinary people—teachers, accountants, that bloke from number 42 who never returns your bins—have been transformed into glitter‑dusted, crotch‑grabbing, high‑pitched zombies. They don’t shuffle so much as shimmy, and their vacant stares are punctuated by the occasional “hee‑hee” echoing down the street like a warning siren no one asked for.

This bizarre affliction has spread faster than you can say “Shamone,” plunging civilisation into disarray. The infected roam the streets with stiff, robotic limbs, lecturing the uninfected about “respecting the legacy” while simultaneously attempting to reenact music videos from 1987 with all the grace of a malfunctioning Roomba. Scientists have officially named the crisis a Standemic—a global epidemic of unshakeable, uncritical Michael Jackson worship.

At first, it was just a few superfans posting suspiciously enthusiastic comments online. But soon the symptoms escalated: compulsive glove‑buying, spontaneous anti‑gravity leaning, and a complete inability to acknowledge that grown adults probably shouldn’t be fighting over who gets to sleep in which unclaimed bed. Before long, entire cities were overrun by self‑appointed “defenders of the crown,” armed with nothing but shaky YouTube edits and unwavering denial.

As the world teeters on the brink, humanity faces pressing questions. Can the infected ever return to normal conversation topics. Will a cure be found before every public park is taken over by synchronised dance mobs. Or must the remaining survivors learn to coexist with hordes of sequinned zealots who insist that every criticism is a personal attack on their spiritual leader.

Experts have suggested quarantining the afflicted in specialised facilities, though this plan hit a snag when it became clear that the number of stans far exceeds the number of available beds—and several patients have already claimed them for “tribute purposes.” Others propose counter‑programming therapy, though early trials failed when participants moonwalked out of the room.

In the midst of this glitter‑fuelled chaos, a small band of unaffected citizens rises to the challenge. Armed with common sense, sturdy earplugs, and an encyclopaedic knowledge of boundaries, they embark on a mission to restore balance before the world is lost to an eternity of sequins, denial, and unsolicited dance routines.

The Standemic has begun. And humanity is running out of time.