It is the year 2508. My name is Jeff Titor. And in another pointless exercise of justifying my meaningless existence I have just celebrated my birth with a few of my future friends, drinking cold beer (we drink it cold in future England) and splashing out for some pizza, that one-time peasant fare that your generation ironically adapted into party food. It’s cruel, in a way, but even my enlightened future self has to agree: it’s pretty damn tasty. By the way, I can tell you this about the future: your scaremongers are right. Up here we’re all Muslim, and everybody’s gay. And I can tell you that we pray each day for your souls, five times, right there with our O faces pushed flat onto our plush rugs.
Yes, I am addressing you, naïve savage of 2008, from my gentle dominion of the future because I have an urgent message to convey: amongst you walks a titan of sense and understanding, a man wasted in his current environs… you might say a sharper file clerk than your Albert Einstein. For this man, our gracious host, Snotford Richard McShot, in 2006, the Year of the Bore, ejaculated his rages into the ether, leaving for posterity not just insights into the flaccid thinking behind the actions and decision-making of your unruly age but, most importantly, this conduit for communication from my pedestal to your shit pile. Like your vast cemeteries of nuclear waste, Blogger’s login and password have stood the test of time, and with its ultra-cool Refresh button (you’ll need to wait about 400 years for it), my boyfriends and I can finally have this conversation with you. Now stop wallowing, piggy, and listen to me:
I’ve got a secret for you. You, you ghastly barbarian, are a cunt. You don’t think so, but you are. Even the best among you. Even your mom.
You see, at the end of any story or in any backward glance at history, there always seems to be one moment that sums up all the flaws of the characters involved, the error in their collective judgment, and this moment can be argued from the distance of 500 years to be the portent for how it all went so horribly, unbelievably, sadistically, cockstompingly wrong for you. I’m going to save the explanations and the long lectures and the moral poking and prodding and leave that to you – mostly because I want to go stuff my gender beam into some hot man butts while they’re still drunk in my living room. So, in short:
As you read this, dear pagan, chieftains of your tribe in Colorado have declared ownership over water that falls from the sky and into your living spaces. Think about this. Coloradoans, in your present time, may no longer collect rain in barrels and buckets as they have for hundreds of years because some company has claimed first dibs. Presumably this means you may not even collect the drips in saucepans that filter through the leaks in your roof because your ruined economy and current unemployment do not allow you the financial breathing space to have it repaired.
Why can you no longer collect rainwater? Because that water has been “allocated
” by your chieftains to the executives of water companies before it even leaves the clouds. To collect and store rainwater for future use eats into the future profits
of these water companies and the future bonuses of their executives. Everyone worries about the future, but in the future we just worry for your souls.
I don’t believe there’s a lot more that I have to point out here. The absurdity should be overwhelming, the response obvious.
The blinding success of this Colorado initiative has spread to other “States” and nations. Soon none of you will be able to collect rainwater because someone else owns it, and none of you will have noticed they had taken it away. It’s not even in your newspapers, that slowly dying animal on the roadside of the information superhighway. No one will notice, but in the future we see it clearly. We see an archduke doubled over and bleeding from his abdomen. We see Helen of Troy being sexed. We see the first large, primordial beasts that failed to run from primitive man. We see an advanced culture shrugging its collective shoulders and giving up on itself. We see it look at each other, from pig to man and back again, unable to recognise a face in the crowd, and choose a lifetime of private masturbation over the symbiosis of a loving, committed relationship with lots of hot fucking.
I will not engage here at this time in a protracted discussion about your ridiculous pagan belief that one man can own water or land. Maybe in another 200 years you will be ready to listen to that one. But for now, your now, as you collect your buckets and barrels and meekly store them back in your shed, just be aware that we here in the future, when we’re not pounding ass and praising Allah, we’re laughing at you.
But remember, please: in the future we don’t hate you. We just hate what you’ve become.