stinky feet and toast

Theres going to come a time when American society divides itself into doers and watchers. Doers will walk around in the world fully wired and transmitting constantly on a hundred different wavelenghts, each person like a radio station on 24 hour broadcast, and watchers will float in their nutrient baths like spice pilots, receiving that constant live feed in lieu of living.

Take a look around. The average surburban C student, backbone of the republic, isn't actually striving toward ownership of a flying car or the kitchen of the future or even a ray gun; they aren't actively striving toward anything. They sit. They're devolving into a foetal state. I am dead serious. 'Leisure class' is becoming a taxonomic descriptor.

Every family has at least one member now who has happily existed for a significant portion of their lives in a tiny triangle consisting of bathroom, kitchen and living room couch. Watch, eat, shit. This is not a human existence. This describes what a leech does before it drops off its host and bursts on the pavement.

Their compliment is the relentlessly, mindlessly cheerful worker ant that makes everyone grit their teeth and endure. The sort of person who always finds a reason to be seen wearing workout lycra, who feels a genuine obligation to purchase a new wardrobe at the turn of the season. Repeatedly leaping up against the walls of their glass aquarium, obsessively grooming, all constant motion and sound, producing nothing but a breeze as they go by, nothing to say, saying it animatedly and at length into their cellphones and the drive through speaker and the internet and the telephone.

I say: fuse their spinal cords together so that it completes a circuit. Use the resulting bioelectricity to power the incubators full of unwanted infants that they'll be raising on the World Christian Outreach transplant farm in Lynden. I will be outside in the garden. Give me a holler if anyone calls.