Or are you just happy to see me? I rested in a smoky haze on my static-colored couch when a sudden electricity surge flipped a thousand circuits and a crackly voice emerged in surround sound.
"Attention! Attention! This is the voice of your creator” The voice said. The pimply face of a red-headed teenager mouthed the words on my computer, televisions, and microwave.
"Hey, how's it hanging brother? Do you have a name, or do you prefer the rather narcissistic moniker of "creator"?" I replied.
"I am called Dennis. And you are called John. I created you on software called "Sim Person"." He said.
"That's cool man, those Sim fellows know what they are doing. So, how is it possible that I am 27 and you are in your teens?"
"You have only been alive for a week. I used the speed-up feature in Sim Person to get you to 27 years, the rest of your life is implanted memories. I wanted you to be a great musician who dies at 27, you see. It's a classic early 21st century formula for lasting commercial success in the music industry, and I could sell your records under the Sim person License. You see, modern times are complex. We solved world hunger, globalized the economy, eliminated the bodies need for sleep, cured old age, and found that the human population exploded while there while more and more jobs were gobbled up by the automation our technological growth inevitably produced. Unemployment was crippling, wages dropped as competition heated for the few jobs remaining - India competed with Australia which competed with Hong Kong, which competed with sweat shops in South Africa, which competed with slave farms on clone station 3, which competed with Soltech Solutions' latest robotic substitute, ad infinitum.
The media projected a positive economic image, but consumer confidence continued to plummet fed by an underground communication network which called itself "The Truth". Standard of living diminished, poverty spread through populations like a disease, governments starved under lack of taxes. Fighter jets were sold on EBay and warlords began to raid cities for lack of anything better to do.
Then one day a wonderful thing happened; the Entertainment Age began.
95% of the world’s population is currently employed in the entertainment industry, and 99% of the world's population consists of avid entertainment consumers. Those without physical ability to entertain can do so through virtual life created on software. Sim person is quite lucrative. I get creative rights to any work of art you produce and exclusive distribution rights to the sensory data for all of your activities for release as sense-flicks on the global couch potato networks. Sexual activity and drug experiences sell the best. Your trip to Chicago at 21 sold enough to buy me a holographic swimming pool. Your romantic life was released to Napsternet as a drama series, but sales are flagging on it. I should have known when test audiences found you cruel and self-involved.
But I digress. My reason for contacting you is that I need to ask for a favor. As much as it pains my wallet, I need you to not have sex or masturbate for the next couple of days."
"Damn Dennis, You know that is asking a lot. What is the story behind this sudden request?" I asked.
"The year in the real world is 3023, media flows river-free and platform independent. Your life displays on one of our walls. And, well, my grandmother is coming over, you see. I don't want to have to go into a long explanation that simulated life just like real life involves these sorts of icky, organic, sexual things." he said.
"Cute. What is in it for me if I comply?"
"The knowledge that you have made an old lady happy."
"Hah! You will have to do better than that, Dennis old boy. I think I might just masturbate right now. 3032, huh? I see they haven't cleared up acne yet. It must be one of those unconquerable forces of nature. When humanity reaches the end of it's treadmill existence and blows up the earth, there will be nothing left except acne, cockroaches, and herpes battling it out for planetary dominance. My money is on the zits."
"I forgot that I made you such a petulant little nano-monkey. Very well, there may be some mescaline in it for you." said Dennis.
"Much better. I will think about your request. Now, can I have my television back?"
The Dennis faces blinked out with a pop.
Days later a girl came home with me after a date. When our visit progressed to indecency the glass in my televisions and computer monitor shattered. So my dear homeowner insurance adjuster, these appliances were not broken by the boots of a drunken tantrum, not smashed by vandals, worn down by neglect, or busted by a scorned lover. They were certainly not thrown from the balcony during a party to see how cool the fall would look as you suspect. No, never. These devices were broken by an act of God, or more appropriately an act of Dennis. I implore you for payment accordingly, and I await your decision, and I thank you. Sincerely,
JS Why
Do you think they will buy it?
At any rate, someone is always silently resentful when dopamine flows and inhibitions depart. Did you know that circumcision experienced a surge of popularity in the late 19th century because it was believed sensitivity of the penis would decrease, reducing the temptation for sex and masterbation? It did not work, but allow the idea to sink in a bit. When does self-control cross the line into self-loathing?
Let your body bring you pleasure, your reality ooze with sweat, rubber, and hereditary cells. Take pride in the moaning of your DNA through the paper walls of your living room. Pause a moment, my little literate nano-monkeys, pull down the shades, pop your favorite CD in your favorite audio output and in your own way get off. Do it for the orbit of the wandering star. Do it because you can. Do it to worship at the altar of sweat. Do it to annoy grandmothers everywhere. Do it for your creator. Do it because inevitably he will forget to pay the electric bill or buy a new toy and the earth will go dark.
"The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be."
Paul Valery
"Time goes, you say? Ah, no! Alas, Time stays, we go."
Henry Austin Dobson |
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