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 has 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.
Ladies and gentlemen, and those who can still hear me after spending all night in that club. That drug cocktail made the 80s look like the 50s didn't it? Good morning! We're all still pretty high.
Today marks a milestone in your journey to both adulthood and temporary sobriety. The times they are a-changing, in the immortal words of your grandparents, and boy do those words still ring true. But these times are not imbued with the hope that comes from righteous social change, inclusive goals and a global view of humanity. Oh no, flower child.
These times are considerably darker and stupid. You will be the first of your generation to graduate in the Trump years, which started, as these things do with a questionable election thanks to widespread interference by a foreign power. But the voters spoke, at least some of them. How many of you voted?
[sparse hands raise weakly]
Well there you go. At least 12 of your classmates decided to wade out of the haze of bong smoke and Adderol to stumble to the polling center on campus. The other 900 of you apparently didn't get that email. Probably for the best, it would've been the wrong polling place thanks to Russia.
Last night I was surfing around Twitter when I came across an article about sex robots. This isn’t something I see every day so I clicked.
It was an article from the U.K. about how sex robots will one day be “better in bed than any human being,” or so says the expert they found, a Joel Snell from Kirkwood College in Iowa. I guess Kirkwood College in Iowa is a hotspot in the bustling future sex robot hypothesizing industry and this is clearly something people in the U.K. are interested in.
As I scrolled down I saw an ad almost immediately for another article titled “Woman wants to be so fat she can’t move,” with an open invitation to click. At this point I paused.
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