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You discover a thriving, carbon-neutral bio-colony.
>Make radio contact.
They pretend not to hear you.
>Shoot up a flare.
Your flare hits a bird flying overhead, setting it aflame.
>Hike down hill.
A flaming bird lands on you, setting you aflame.
It’s over, I’m afraid. I’ll be here if you need me.
Not that it matters, but Hate The Future began about four years ago, when I was fresh out of college, in a boring job, and having the generic existential crisis. Since then, I’ve gotten married, written for some magazines, made a few friends, survived a car accident, taken vacations, gone to concerts, seen doctors, voted, published a novel, sat through sibling graduations, thrown up, acquired a second dog, moved twice, fucked in the afternoon, watched movies, slept through alarms, kept secrets, celebrated birthdays, revised, regretted, relived, repeated myself.
I still have the boring job and existential crisis, but they seem no longer to call for work like this, if indeed it was work. It may simply have been the kind of procrastination that has the flavor of work. A stretching of neurons, that they might not atrophy under the feeble fluorescence of a boring job. I set limits just to disobey them. I told myself a thousand posts would be the endpoint and cruised right past that goalpost, too. Even now I can’t wrap things up. There should be no idiotic farewell, I’m sure of that, and here I’ll finish tapping it out.
Inspiration, as we know, doesn’t last. I might have quit two years ago if not for laziness, inertia, the comforts of routine and the very warm following that unexpectedly cropped up. You’ve been very kind, all of you, especially on the frequent occasions when I wasn’t funny at all. To the countless photographers and artists whose work I unapologetically stole, my thanks. I believe I’ve confused, misinformed and offended as many people as I’ve made laugh, and it’s on that balance alone I am willing to claim success. Not that provocation was the objective. But I’m no comedian, either. I don’t know, maybe you can tell me—why the hell were you reading this?
The illustration above comes from Bruce McCall’s Zany Afternoons, my favorite book as a kid. I grew to adore all the usual science fiction, but McCall has a singular vision that will always stick with me—a blending of the now and the soon and the recent past—a dreamy nostalgia for disasters that hadn’t happened yet, like time was a pure contradiction, expanding in every direction. Our moment is one human’s fantasy, another’s history. The present, they say, lasts about three seconds.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stand it.
Anonymous asked:
Dangerously cool.
Poll: Would You Swat A Surveillance Insect That Landed On You?
___ Never, that is expensive and important U.S. government property
___ I have nothing to hide, especially not in my shed out back
In Bold PR Move, ‘Climate Change’ Becomes 'Climate Change Classic’
—Hey, there’s Billy and Dad.
—Mhmm.
—Mom, you missed our landing pad.
—Did I? Oh dear.
—You’re not turning around!
—No, I suppose I’m not.
— …
— …
—Can we ever go back?
—Sit down, dear, you’re making the car wobble.
Mouth-Operated Drill To Make Dentistry 40% More Intimate
Were You Aware?
American plutocrats avoid taxes by sheltering assets in off-planet accounts.
sashayed
i had to blog one post on this Day Of No Tumbling or else delete my whole queue, so i’m putting this post in the queue: fuck your bad new policy, tumblr!!