Ten minutes to kill

Combine two things to make a third, forever, until you have coaxed a language model into inventing something absurd.

One big button, one badum-tss, for punchlines that need help landing in a meeting nobody is enjoying.

The real museum of 25,000 banana-related objects has a website, and it looks exactly as you are already imagining.

Answers the question in one word, correctly, in ninety languages, and has done every single day since 2009.

Answers the question with a single word, and has been right every single time anybody has checked.

A fake enterprise interface that rewards clicking dialogue boxes with more dialogue boxes, by an art-games designer.

Kaomoji, dongers and text faces sorted by category, with a copy button attached to every single one of them.

Net art from 1995 that looks precisely like your computer failing. View the source: the mess on screen is hiding the actual work.

Drags the guts of a JPEG around with three sliders, producing the smeared colour blocks that only broken files make.

Tells you which streaming service in your country actually has the film, and whether it is included or a rental.

Thousands of Japanese emoticons sorted by emotion, running from mild confusion all the way to full table flipping.

Seattle public radio with the famous in-studio live sessions, a human DJ on air at all hours and a playlist page that credits everything.

A typing test built from book passages, with detailed statistics on which keys are quietly costing you whole seconds.

Teaches touch typing by generating fake words from the letters you keep fumbling, rather than making you copy out prose.

Every key on the keyboard fires a different sound and a matching burst of animation. No two letters look or sound alike.

One golf hole a day, built to look trivial and then take nine attempts, with a score everybody can compare.

A tidy portal of casual browser games with an unusual amount of care given to which ones are actually finished.

Start with one enormous dot; every pass of the cursor splits it into four, until the pixels resolve into a picture.

A voxel arena shooter that holds a high frame rate in a browser tab, with custom lobbies, a map editor and no install.

The Lenny face and its several hundred descendants, catalogued and one click away from your clipboard.

Turns a question into a link that mimes typing it into a search box, for colleagues who never quite learn.

Looks like a plain platformer until the floor vanishes, the ceiling drops and the exit walks away. Trolling you is the actual mechanic.

Free chess with no adverts, no account required and an analysis engine better than the paid ones, funded entirely by donations.

Millions of chess tactics pulled from real games and served at exactly your rating, entirely free and with no account required.

Enter your birthday and watch a live tally of the heartbeats, blinks and steps you have got through so far.

Every lightning strike detected worldwide appears within seconds of the flash, triangulated by a volunteer network of home-built receivers.

Travel outwards at light speed while hearing which radio hits have reached each distance, oldest at the far edge.

Car leasing sold via the loudest website ever built — animated GIFs, a theme-park aesthetic, and a real business underneath it.

Wikipedia's index of its own indexes, which is either a long-running joke or the purest expression of the site.

Every Wikipedia edit as it happens, rendered as bells and strings, with each new user announced by a whisper.

Fakes a phone's live activity banner — a food delivery, a match score, a boarding pass — for screenshots and mockups.

Cameras pointed at geysers, glaciers, harbours and whichever volcano is currently misbehaving, plus a northern lights feed in winter.

Seasonal chart of everything currently airing, with countdowns to the next episode and which service is carrying it.

A clean one-minute test built by a support software company that had a very direct professional interest in typing speed.

A looping animated café with lofi streams and rain sliders, built to be left open in a corner of the screen all day.

A fake executive dashboard of charts and metrics that keeps updating itself while you stare thoughtfully past it.

The canonical placeholder text, plus the Cicero passage it was cut from and an explanation of what it says.

Official home of the autostereograms from every 1990s shopping centre, with a fresh one each week to go cross-eyed at.

Deliberately tiny paint tool inside a fake old window, with fat pixels and a palette that makes clumsy art look intentional.

One button, one progress bar, and the firm assurance that everything is now OK, which beats the alternative.

Generate a fake newspaper clipping, a talking animation or a ransom note. The 2005 internet, rebuilt so it still works.

Millions of product manuals as PDFs, for the appliance whose paperwork went in the recycling back in 2011.

Every open source project plotted as a landmass, with related repositories clustering into continents you can pan across.

Drops you on a random road somewhere on Earth in Street View and leaves you to work out where you are, or simply wander off down it.

Pomodoro, custom and kitchen-timer modes with a shareable link, so a whole team can run the same twenty-five minutes.

Live positions of the world's merchant fleet, container ships down to tugs, most vessels with photographs taken by shore spotters.

A meticulous recreation of the falling green glyphs, with settings for every version of the effect across the films.

Live map of which McDonald's ice cream machines are broken, built by repeatedly adding a sundae to a cart. Petty, rigorous, brilliant.