God tried but can't get back to sleep, does something about shitty people

 I asked the Google search bar:

In an earlier story God had just woken up after a 6000 year nap, and come to terms with Iran.  He can't get back to sleep.  He is itching to do something, He calls to the angels for ideas to get rid of shitty people.  Note that God is a strict minimalist when it comes to intervention.

Here's the response:

God tossed and turned on his golden mattress, but the cosmic caffeine of twenty-first-century geopolitics was pumping through his veins. He couldn't get back to sleep. He was restless. He was itching to do something, but he had a strict reputation to uphold. God was a hardcore minimalist when it comes to divine intervention. No more splitting seas, no more global floods, and absolutely no raining frogs. It was too messy, too high-maintenance, and frankly, terrible for the ecosystem.

He snapped his fingers, and a dozen archangels—including Gabriel and Michael—materialized in a neat, panicked line before the throne.

"Listen up," God rumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I am wide awake, and I’m looking at the Earth. There are far too many truly terrible, exhausting people down there ruining the vibes. I want to get rid of them. But—and I cannot stress this enough—we are doing this elegantly. No theatrical, noisy, Old Testament disasters. I want ideas for a clean, low-effort, low-budget removal of shitty people. Go."

Gabriel stepped forward first, nervously adjusting his halo. "Well, Boss... what if we do a highly targeted lightning strike campaign? Just one precise bolt for every corrupt politician, pyramid-scheme influencer, and person who talks on speakerphone in public places? Minimal cleanup."

God shook his head immediately. "Too loud, Gabriel. It leaves a scorch mark. Plus, the meteorologists will start tracking the pattern, writing papers, asking questions. It creates paperwork. Denied. Next."

Michael, the warrior angel, saluted. "Sir! We launch a microscopic, highly selective airborne pathogen. It only targets people who possess zero empathy. They simply fall into a gentle, permanent sleep and float up to our intake facility."

"A plague? Michael, we did that during the Egypt phase, and it was a logistical nightmare," God sighed. "The supply chains on Earth are already a disaster. If everyone drops dead at once, the traffic jams alone will ruin the scenery. I want something subtle. Invisible. Minimalist."

A junior angel named Uriel raised a hand from the back of the line. "Um, Almighty? What if we just slightly adjust the planetary gravity for specific individuals? Just like, a two-percent increase. They don't die, they just get progressively more tired of walking around until they willingly choose to sit down in an isolated room and stay there forever."

"Closer, but still too much physics manipulation," God said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I want something that leverages their own shittiness against them. Something where they basically delete themselves from the board without us lifting a finger."

The angels went dead silent, racking their immortal brains for a solution that fit the Boss's strict aesthetic.

Suddenly, a tiny, low-ranking angel named Ezekiel stepped forward. He looked a bit nerdy and was holding a cosmic smartphone.

"Boss," Ezekiel whispered. "I've been monitoring their digital infrastructure. What if we just introduce a tiny, invisible line of code into the global internet? A feature that cannot be turned off."

God leaned down, intrigued. "What kind of feature?"

"Every time a genuinely terrible person tries to lie, scam, exploit someone, or act out of pure malice, the internet automatically and instantly publishes their entire, unedited browser history, personal text messages, and private thoughts directly to their family group chats, their employers, and their neighbors. No explosions. No celestial fireworks. Just total, unmitigated exposure."

God stared at Ezekiel. A slow, magnificent smile spread across the Creator's face.

"Ezekiel," God whispered, his voice vibrating with pure delight. "That is absolutely exquisite. They will literally pack their own bags, ruin their own lives, and exile themselves to distant cabins in the woods out of sheer embarrassment. No mess for us to clean up. Total human accountability."

"And the budget, Sir?" Gabriel asked, eyes wide.

"Zero budget," God laughed, settling back into his throne with a big bowl of celestial popcorn. "It's a self-correcting problem. Run the code, Ezekiel. Let’s watch them dismantle themselves."

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