Journalism in the 22nd century
I woke up this morning -- yes, I am 141, which apparently I accomplished through mosturizer and my new vegan lifestyle -- to find that my boyfriend (a spry 92) had broken his Kindlette.
For those of you still reading this in the 21st century, that's Kindle gone all Jetsons on ya, so small that I can only see it when my fake eyeballs are lasered up with biojuice. Sometimes it's hard to pick the right pair in the dark, but I do my best.
Anyway, the news story we read today is about Britney Spears III inheriting a fortune from her best friend, Lindsay Lohan XI, and then blowing it all on, well, blow. I wasn't too happy when coke made a comeback, but at least it woke up the 200-year-olds at my mom's convalescent home.
I seem to recall vaguely that the US, all but California that is (which seceded from the Union in 2071, and shame on you for forgetting that), was going to war with Canada. I know you 21st century readers won't believe that, but gosh darn it's true. Do you honestly think a century of fighting over the Keystone XL pipeline would come to anything useful? Screw fracking and risks to the water supply. All that drilling set off the kind of seismic activity we haven't seen since 1906 in San Francisco, though admittedly, the fifty mile fissure in the Sierras made Cali's secession a tad easier. Sometimes I miss flying into LA, but oh well. Who needs a tan with so much radioactivity?
Well, after Bart (my 17th husband) handed me the Kindlette and I rummaged for what felt like hours (audio commands stuck), I finally found what I was looking for: we bomb Toronto tomorrow at noon. No more element of surprise. After all, our president can't take the stress: he's now 141, too. And good on you, Barack Obama, who made it into your 21st term with nary a broken hip! Though it doesn't help having Michelle---Moms gone wild--Obama still doin' the Dougie in the East Room. Let's move indeed!
I'm of mixed feelings about the tensions with Canada. I was equally disturbed when we told France to stuff it (all that socializing with Hollande made Obama really look like a socialist, especially when he started handing out $500 bills to nursery schoolers just to boost self-esteem). I just wish it was easier to find out about these things before the bloggers put out a reality show.
Ah, whoa is me. Who needed the five Ws and one H anyway. We still have Twitter, even though it bought Facebook in 2017 and gobbled up Instagram once Oscar Pistorius started posting pictures from the 2016 Olympics. Still amazed that his sponsors forgave him even though he was seen cruising Malibu with OJ.
Of course, I have no way of verifying any of this. It's been at least 80 years since the Gray Lady's last run. I sometimes see Nicholas Kristof at Magnolia Bakery rocking his baby in his arms. I still appreciate that story he did on male fertility kickin' it into one's triple digits.
For those of you still reading this in the 21st century, that's Kindle gone all Jetsons on ya, so small that I can only see it when my fake eyeballs are lasered up with biojuice. Sometimes it's hard to pick the right pair in the dark, but I do my best.
Anyway, the news story we read today is about Britney Spears III inheriting a fortune from her best friend, Lindsay Lohan XI, and then blowing it all on, well, blow. I wasn't too happy when coke made a comeback, but at least it woke up the 200-year-olds at my mom's convalescent home.
I seem to recall vaguely that the US, all but California that is (which seceded from the Union in 2071, and shame on you for forgetting that), was going to war with Canada. I know you 21st century readers won't believe that, but gosh darn it's true. Do you honestly think a century of fighting over the Keystone XL pipeline would come to anything useful? Screw fracking and risks to the water supply. All that drilling set off the kind of seismic activity we haven't seen since 1906 in San Francisco, though admittedly, the fifty mile fissure in the Sierras made Cali's secession a tad easier. Sometimes I miss flying into LA, but oh well. Who needs a tan with so much radioactivity?
Well, after Bart (my 17th husband) handed me the Kindlette and I rummaged for what felt like hours (audio commands stuck), I finally found what I was looking for: we bomb Toronto tomorrow at noon. No more element of surprise. After all, our president can't take the stress: he's now 141, too. And good on you, Barack Obama, who made it into your 21st term with nary a broken hip! Though it doesn't help having Michelle---Moms gone wild--Obama still doin' the Dougie in the East Room. Let's move indeed!
I'm of mixed feelings about the tensions with Canada. I was equally disturbed when we told France to stuff it (all that socializing with Hollande made Obama really look like a socialist, especially when he started handing out $500 bills to nursery schoolers just to boost self-esteem). I just wish it was easier to find out about these things before the bloggers put out a reality show.
Ah, whoa is me. Who needed the five Ws and one H anyway. We still have Twitter, even though it bought Facebook in 2017 and gobbled up Instagram once Oscar Pistorius started posting pictures from the 2016 Olympics. Still amazed that his sponsors forgave him even though he was seen cruising Malibu with OJ.
Of course, I have no way of verifying any of this. It's been at least 80 years since the Gray Lady's last run. I sometimes see Nicholas Kristof at Magnolia Bakery rocking his baby in his arms. I still appreciate that story he did on male fertility kickin' it into one's triple digits.
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