Something has been bothering me for years now. It was a vague sort of longing; a nascent idea that something just wasn’t quite right. Déjà vu? No, that’s something else. The latent paranoia that all sentient beings at one point have, according to Douglas Adams? Generalized disappointment with growing older and probably something to do with Trump? Maybe…. Then last night it suddenly dawned on me.
I was at an after school thing with one of my kids and, on display, was a robot. It was dancing around the gymnasium (oops multimedia room) and had one programmed function, which took two high-schoolers with laptops to demonstrate: if you fed it a volleyball, it would throw it back. The year is 2020.
It’s a well-known secret that dead celebrities can rake in big bucks. A lucrative, if morbid subsection of the publicity world has devoted itself to the effort, making a buck off of anything and everything it can brand with a dead celeb’s face, body, voice, or film clip. Branding has given necrophilia a whole new meaning.
Michael Jackson, for instance, who died 11 years ago, raked in $60 million in 2019. Elvis Presley, dead 43 years now, came in second at $39 million, and Marilyn Monroe, dead since 1962 rolled in an impressive $13 million. There’s GOLD in them thar rotting corpses!
There are lots of ways to warm up to watch the SuperBowl, almost all of them involving alcohol. This year was no exception for me, and having a few hours to kill, decided to click on "Aliens on the Moon (2015)," a two-and-a-half star documentary about extraterrestrial beings who are currently living on the lunar surface, or perhaps underneath it. Needed something to keep my buzz going.
Seems that there's a group of folks out there who do NOT think the moon landings were faked in a sound stage somewhere, they accept that we really did go to the moon, just that some alien dudes beat us to it and started building a bunch of random shit all over the place for no apparent reason.
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