Via U.S. Mail
Mr. Andy Rooney
60 Minutes
524 West 57th St.
New York, NY 10019
Dear Andy:
You can't stop me, so quit trying. In fact, I'm here. I'm coming. Coming faster every day. Every day slips a little more into me. I'm the future. So watch your back.
Watch your back, asshole.
You can complain about cell phones, cars, advertising, modern art, and fun. But guess what? It's futile. Useless. Sisyphean.
So just shut up. That's what the future is saying to you. Shut up. At least Paul Harvey tells stories. At least Harvey stands in awe, in wonder, of the world around him. "And that little boy who grew up in a mountain shack with thirty brothers and sisters went on to become...Andy Rooney!" You're never going to hear that. Why? Because you're a shit. You're just a shit.
You don't think I have the authority to say that? Well, I'm the future. I have perspective on my side. Time, too. Nobody likes a grouch. So just shut up. Stop talking about me. Stop making me out to be the bad guy. The world was never perfect, never will be. I'm doing the best I can. You think you're so perfect?
Trim your fucking eyebrows already.
Sincerely,
The Future
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
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4 comments:
Back in my day, the Future wasn't so danged mouthy.
OH SNAP! Damn Past, the Future just took you to school! Ouch. Past, are you gonna sit there and take that from a silver-jumpsuit-wearing, flying-car-piloting, robot-loving punk like the Future? Show him that you haven't been around for untold billions upon billions of years without learning a few things about beatin down punks who don't respect their elders. I've heard there's no war in the Future, so he is probably really skinny and doesn't know how to fight.
This chick told me she likes you.
Ok, I deleted my earlier comment. Because I got to thinking. And I don't really want to be a dick.
But anyway. That Italian chick is hot. I would gladly rub Dove cream all over her ample ass.
And so forth.
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