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When the protoAvnari space-elves finally triangulate our radio broadcasts and find our smoking radioactive tomb of a planet, they'll take a moment to glory in their cultural superiority. They'll smugly lament how foolish our aperace was, how if only we'd had their benevolent wisdom to teach and guide us we'd still be alive today.
And then, slowly, a discarded, empty plastic tube will float in front of the viewscreen of their monolothic ambulant nation. They'll decipher the script-
"Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich-IN SQUEEZABLE FORM!"
A moment of silence, and then their hesitant, collective wail would pierce the howling silence of space and serve as our race's final eulogy. For, having seen that wrapper, they will KNOW.
We had been as gods.