Wednesday, April 27, 2011
You've heard it all before. The world is coming to an end. Jesus is coming back and He's pissed. Everything Must Go!
Yes, most of the depressing predictions of SF books and movies are right on the money. The future’s going to hell in a handcart. All the worst parts of the Bible are coming true. Aw, poor you. Stop whining! Why despair, when you can invest? It's time to cash in on your impending doom! I'll even make it easy for you!
Introducing "The Marty Fugate Dystopia Fund."
Yes, I do the research, you cash in. Just ask yourself, if the rotten future finally comes true, what companies will profit? The principle is sound ...
Prediction: Civil order will break down.
Invest in corporations supplying guns and ammo, dried food, bottled water, gold, spam, impregnable home fortresses, fallout shelters and the like. Think survival gear—but don’t forget anti-survival gear! If the planet starts to resemble “The Road,” cyanide tablets will be a must.
Prediction: We will bow to our robot overlords.
"More human than human.” Yes, that’s the motto of the Tyrell Corporation in Ridley Scott's heartwarming "Blade Runner." Why not make it your motto? Invest in real world robot corporations while they’re still on the ground floor! Consider providers of combat robots, slave robots and middle level manager robots. Sure, the robots will turn on us ... eventually. Until then, you'll turn a handsome profit!
Prediction: We’ll have sex with our robot overlords.
Oh Brave New World ... Before too long, Steve Jobs will announce the iGasm – his sleeker, smaller version of the Orgasmatron, from Woody Allen’s Sleeper. After that, expect a living doll army of "Romantic companion" robots, aka sex bots. Sex toys aren’t toys anymore! Shit, before long, they’ll want prenuptial agreements. Japan, of course, is an industry leader.
Prediction: The boundaries between man and machine will blur.
Forget cyberpunk. Think cyberprofit! Bet your chips on cybernetic prosthetics, genetic engineering, nanobot pharmaceuticals, and cloning. Stronger, faster, better, baby!
Prediction: Privacy will end.
Big Brother is watching you? Keep your eye on Big Brother, and all his Little Brothers. The smart money backs advanced surveillance gear and facial recognition software.
Prediction: The zombies will attack.
Chainsaws. They’re not just for lawn crews anymore. Cash in while you can!
Prediction: Scarcity will lead to cannibalism.
Soylent Green is made out of people? More accurately, Soylent Green is made out of money. That's the reason it's green.
Seems easy? Sure. But connecting the dots takes expertise, my friends.
What's the real world equivalent of the Shimata Dominguez Corporation? Of the Tyrell Corporation? Of the Weyland-Yutani Group? Obviously, you could do the research yourself. Why bother? I've done it for you!
Call: 1-900-666-6666. Operators are standing by!
The end is near.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
And the names are ...
Slab Bulkhead, Bridge Largemeat, Punt Speedchunk, Butch Deadlift, Hold Bigflank, Splint Chesthair, Flint Ironstag, Bolt Vanderhuge, Thick McRunfast, Blast Hardcheese, Buff Drinklots, Crunch Slamchest, Fist Rockbone, Stump Beefknob, Smash Lampjaw, Punch Rockgroin, Buck Plankchest, Stump Junkman, Dirk Hardpec, Rip Steakface, Slate Slabrock, Crud Bonemeal, Brick Hardmeat, Rip Slagcheek, Punch Sideiron, Gristle McThornbody, Slate Fistcrunch, Buff Hardback, Bob Johnson (oh, wait...), Blast Thickneck, Crunch Buttsteak, Slab Squatthrust, Lump Beefbroth, Touch Rustrod, Beef Blastbody, Big McLargehuge, Smoke Manmuscle, Beat Punchmeat, Hack Blowfist, Roll Fizzlebeef.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
As a child, I was convinced the universe was a joke and I was in on the punch line. Adults, it seemed to me, were crazy. Adults were sad-eyed and wrinkly. Adults suffered for no reason whatsoever in self-deluded, self-imposed misery. Their eyes were filled with pain over stuff that didn’t exist. I was in touch with some kind of joy. An ocean of joy. Always there. Always accessible. It seemed so obvious.
At some point, I grew up and my lozenge of enlightenment dissolved. The universe took it away. I failed some cosmic test. Whatever. The obvious answer vanished from my mind. The ocean of joy was behind a clear, plastic wall now. Inaccessible. I had had the answer, now I didn’t. What was it? Remember, remember. What was it? Think!
It’s tortured me ever since. A splinter in my mind. A constant sense of presque vu. An answer on the tip of my tongue. My brain has been screaming, remember, remember, remember. But I can’t.
The dream is gone, the child is grown. I have become comfortably numb.
Yatta, yatta, yatta.
As a child I had amazingly vivid dreams. Technicolor dreams. Some actually came true – with cinematic accuracy, frame by frame – in real life. I have no scientific explanation, but it happened. Aside from these totally random episodes of prophecy, I had dream experiences as real as life. Or more so.
For example …
My grandparents owned a hotel in Pompano Beach, Florida. In one dream, I was running through the hotel with my sister and cousins. The hotel was a maze, a path of destiny, a series of hallways leading to one thing after another. (This seems to me an obvious metaphor for Life, but the Dream Director never spelled it out.) We ran through the halls. We laughed; we cried; shit happened. At times scary shit happened. But it was all OK.
At the end of the dream, everything was fine. We laughed our heads off. After all the scary shit, there was nothing to worry about. The dream was one big goof.
Then credits started to roll up. Credits. The dream ended with credits!
At the end of the credits, there was a piggy-wig logo. A voice from the sky announced …
“THIS HAS BEEN A HOG WILLIAMS PRESENTATION.”
If I die and see credits rolling up, I’ll know that everything’s OK.