Power Dotage

The little I consume of political news, the more and more I read regarding the age and acuity of our governmental overseers. Many have expressed serious concern about certain members of congress and elsewhere lacking even a loose grip on reality.

I’m not too concerned. 

Here’s the thing. Name a single politician who, on their best day, can muster up anything remotely approaching a coherent thought. Gone are the days of the Churchillian orators, the Lincolnian speechwriters, and those with Rooseveltian flare. I would trust a demented senator over someone in office with a clean bill of mental health. While many in congress discuss policy like someone experiencing head trauma, many of them are young and apparently vibrant. That’s what I’m worried about. 

I subscribe to the horseshoe theory of stupidity. When in proximity to being a complete imbecile, the platonic idiot as it were, the closer you actually are to genius. 

One last thing. Politicians don’t do anything. They don’t make pass laws. They call press conferences. I believe the rampant senility within the government says more about the robustness of our democracy than a class of wide-eyed twentysomethings ever could. Dodder away, I say. 

Get Your Philharmonic

 

Not too long ago, a reputed music lover at the LA philharmonic just couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. She believed, quite dramatically, that music is a full-body, sensory-laden experience. Performative? Perhaps. But who can blame her? Because you can’t spell vibrator without vibrato. Tchaikovsky must be rubbing in his grave. Because clapping is no longer the only thing an audience member can do to show their appreciation. And why not? Museums shouldn’t be bastions of pretension. The word “brushstrokes” has been staring us in the face, and elsewhere, all these years. Why give two thumbs up when you can give your whole hand?  She wailed, so we could run.

Stop, Migrate and Listen

 

My family has been wintering in Florida since the days of Ponce de Leon, when the fountain of youth meant more than getting cosmetic surgery in downtown Miami. We’d do all the normal things. Hit the beach, hit the clubs, enjoy overpriced food with a view of the ocean. You have no idea what worms cost down there. But it was worth it – then. 

It’s not that geese are inherently political. Most of us live in the northeast but keep a residence in Florida for tax purposes. We can’t vote, but you’d be surprised at how much the government demands of us. Dealing with the FAA is enough to make the sanest bird go penguin. 

Now, Florida is caught up in a culture war that none of us want any part in. We just want free rein to defecate over what’s often dubbed flyover country. We don’t want any problems from rogue pilots. We’re not here to get in battles with overgrown cartoon rodents. When a friend heard about the censorship issues in the sunshine state, most of us assumed it was a new type of cruise ship. It still could be, ya know? 

Given what’s happening to the climate, I might stay in New York all year round. You’d be surprised at how accommodating a street rat can be. I know what you’re thinking, what does he know, he’s Canadian. 

You may have a point. I just hope you don’t have a rifle.  

Headphoning it In

 

It can be difficult to get the attention of someone wearing headphones. Which, on my daily commute, comprises of approximately 97.8% of people. The others, “ear nude,” probably just forgot theirs at home, and are kicking themselves for a painfully podcast-free ride. But if you are among the coterie of readers or starers, saying “excuse me, pardon me,” no longer does the trick. Successfully navigating through this sea of stupefied straphangers requires something a tad more dramatic. 

 

Mime Time

When face-to-face with a headphone zombie, there’s always the opportunity to connect with them on a personal level. I do my best Marcel Marceau impression. Some quibble that my French isn’t up to par, but as I like to say, what’s the point of achieving fluency when you’re a mime? I cup my ear like I’m digging for quarters and pull out an imaginary earbud. This usually gives them pause. They stop and immediately identify me as a member of the headphone tribe. I laugh and walk past them as they are left to pick up the pieces, after I make a littering motion, leaving my invisible accessory on the floor. 

 

Fresh Air

Clapping has two functions. It startles the target into submission, and it also creates a mini-wind vortex. I sometimes fan my arms, flapping them like so many young geese back from a southern swing.  

 

Making faces

Sticking your tongue out at anyone, especially a stranger blocking the exit is a surefire way of making an impression. Good? Not the point. 

 

Old Yeller

It’s not violent if you don’t touch them. These are words, many a parolee lives by as they make their way through a complex transit system, full of garbage and lunacy. Yelling in the face of someone, while joyous, doesn’t always work. Remember, long before people were getting cancelled left and right, headphones were unapologetically cancelling noise. 

 

If that doesn’t work, let Moe Howard be your guide. Under advisement from my lawyers, I won’t say how, but just know that anything within the Stooges’ vast oeuvre can help you get the attention of someone tuning out the world. 

Can You Write in Discursive?

The (this is the wrong article, not an article rooted in an outrageous headline leaping off your screen, begging for a mindless click, but “a” is “the” more appropriate article because the latter adds a level of undeserved magnitude to the sentence’s famed protagonist) quick (allegedly quick I should add, since I never saw him outrun a typical ground squirrel during an impromptu park side sprint, those races between two imbeciles looking for something to hang their hats on amid a life in total disarray, because athletic competitions between strangers sometimes dulls the pain of abject failure permeating every decision, so it’s a way of sleeping while still awake) brown (not a chestnut hued, bark tinted, mud colored, dirt covered, copper tanned, beige tainted, amber dyed, sienna burned, but just regular ol’ brown with possibly a hint of red) fox not a person who’s famous for their erotic allure) jumps (though lame, in both senses, leaping was a preferred mode of movement, even if lunging was more fitting their overall disposition) would be leaping) over (careful to not say, above, since that would be as elitist as under would be patronizing) the (here we go again) lazy (it’s a crude stereotype to imply lethargy of any kind, though lack of education is quite common in the canine contingent) dog (best friend, good friend, not really a friend, but more of an acquaintance, either way someone who you’d clink glasses against in an awkward moment at a cocktail party despite the openness they licked themselves). 

The Immaterial World

 

Some people think that donating things, trashing borderline garbage, and living in a mostly empty apartment is all one needs to unequivocally abandon materialism. But you aren’t an immaterialist simply by staring at blank white walls and a single swinging light bulb swaying overhead. The allure of materialism is stronger than an expensive antique. 

To fully embrace immaterialism, you need to accept the irrelevant. This isn’t about things or stuff, but discourse. Conversations should be derailed by raising the immaterial. 

When two people are discussing the war in Ukraine, interrupt them and ask what the V. in Vladimir V. Putin stand for? The New York Times insists on including it in every article, and while it has little to no relevance on the outcome of the conflict, you need to care about it.

The other day I overhead someone tell the story of a fatal electrocution. A man, an open immaterialist, asked whether it was AC or DC. The dumbfounded storyteller answered the idiotic question and moved on with the tragic tale. 

But that’s how you have to get at these people. Chip away at their preconceived, post-conceived and should-have-never-been-conceived notions.

Hate materialism? Don’t put your furniture on the curb with the rest of your trash. Change the subject, interrupt friends, and never, ever make a good point. 

The Truth about this Blog

 

You may notice at the beginning of this sentence that the quality of this blog is in decline. The reason, you may have guessed, is that my team of writers is striking. Are striking? This is what I mean. Ordinarily, I put my name on the masthead here and let this group take control. They are diverse in every way imaginable, except intelligence, for they are true geniuses who come up with things that no man or bot could. 

 

The accusation that I don’t pay them a living wage is partially true. I give them what I call a “death wage.” That moniker was of course not written by me, but one of them during their bi-monthly salary day diatribe. 

 

I need writers to keep this blog up and running. They provide me with experiences, stories, typos, and jokes. Like most people who claim to write, I hate writing and would prefer to pay others to do it. No lesser individual than John F. Kennedy engaged in this practice. What I like to call a profile in convenience. Who am I without a team of underpaid Ted Sorensens?

 

You might not have realized that it takes twelve to fifteen people to write a daily blog. But it does. Together, they make a fine living. I’ve encouraged them to live in the same house and pitch their daily goings-on to networks as a quasi-reality program. With me naturally serving as the executive producer.

I can't do this blog alone, which is why I don't. I am not striking because I'm not technically a writer, more of a storyteller-content curator. You can't get more of the same without doing more of the same. 

Grocery Liszt

 

Ruffles (classical not baked)

 

Gourd with best acoustics. Don’t buy without squeezing and/or tapping

 

Adagio cheese

 

Intermezzo salad

 

Lento soup

 

Veal pizzicato

 

Egg polka

 

Presto pasta

 

Rondo alla turkey

Double espressivo

 

Striped Double Bass

 

Nocturnips

Some free adVICE

 

When Abe Vigoda finally met his maker some years ago, it was a cruel end to a life that many people had written off years before. People assumed the actor was long gone, dead and buried, simply because he wasn’t a constant, annoying presence showing up on their screens at every turn. This is the main reason fading, sometimes fallen stars, continue to frequent the late-night talk show circuit, longer after their bulbs have dimmed. Ol’ Abe was able to see the humor in it all, by living a long, productive life. 

 

The same can’t be said for the magazine which shared the first two letters of “Vigoda.” When I learned of their demise, I found myself quoting Robert Haansen, the greatest traitor in American history, “what took you so long?” 

 

The truth is I hadn’t heard much from the lords of edge of years. They never quite figured out that in order to be edgy, you have to possess a foundation as well. You need some grounding. All edge is something an architect would get laughed out of the drafting room. It’s the fastest way to blow prints. Plus, the difference between being edgy and ledgy is usually found in bookkeeping ledgers. Edgy happens when you’re in the black. Ledgy is when you’re well into the red. 

 

Watch the pavement. 

The Real Way to Go Green

 

 

There are lots of ways to go green. You could start by sailing to work, installing solar panels on your roof, and donating to a wide selection of environmental causes.

 

Or you could buy a case of Chartreuse and call it a day. Made by monks, drunk by skunks, this is one of the world’s first naturally green beverages. There aren’t any protests involved in consumption. You are only expected to have a short tumbler of the stuff whenever a social gathering hits a predictable standstill. 

 

With so much air wasted on climate change discussions, there’s an alarmingly lackeur of liqueur conversation. 

 

Carthusian monks, the keeps of the bottles, are not known for flying private or obsessing over polluting gadgetry. They keep quiet and focus on the distillation process when know poring over scripture. The average Greenpeace activist expends more energy in an hour than a monk in a lifetime. And they have little to show for it besides a clipboard of fake signatures scribbled by desperate-to-get-away pedestrians. Monasteries are more sustainable than your average hipster coffee shop, subsisting on sizable tips and trust funds. 

 

Many claim the monks are limiting production and reaffirming their devotion to faith. What such commentaries miss is the toll going green takes on people. Probably why they make Yellow bottles as well. 

Banana from Heaven

 

“Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to settle for a mediocre fruit?”

 

This is the question too few banana enthusiasts ask themselves as they sift through a pile of the yellow monstrosities. 

 

I know what you’re going to say: Bananas are good for you. That may be true. But are they great for you? Have you ever heard of someone barging into a room yelling about the pure ecstasy from their peeled yellow member? I haven’t. It’s because it’s never happened. No one has ever stopped traffic with a message from God that bananas are divine nutrition. 

 

There are good bananas. Lots of them. There are bad bananas. Many of them. But there are no great bananas. It’s a fruit with limited possibilities. It lacks the hope and dreams of a peach. Many peaches taste like rotting trash, but some will change your life like gazing up at the aurora borealis. Plums strive for perfection, as do guavas and nearly every type of berry. Bananas depend on our collective lack of imagination. They require the laziness of human beings to accept defeat.  

 

Don’t give me arguments about bread, cake, and cookies. If you must bake something to make it delicious by dumping sugar, butter, or into the mix, that’s clear circumvention of the rules. Raspberries stand alone, judged as the lord made them B.C. (before crème). A banana split is nice, but any other fruit that holds its own would be better. 

 

It’s why the greatest contribution of the banana is to hardwood floors in the service of physical comedy. The peel is what mankind needs. With so many comedians working on crafting better jokes, they should be working on crafting better injuries. What people want to see is not a punchline but a punch line. A row of subpar acts getting hit in the face by a wide assortment of fresh produce. Because even mediocre talent deserve projectiles that are anything but. 

Signs of the Times

 

I’m seeing a lot of signs held by striking writers. You might call them placards held by out-of-work storytellers. Regardless, what I’ve noticed isn’t a good sign. If this is supposed to help them get a better contract, perhaps it’s time to do a little editing. 

 

Please, no more chat GPT jokes. The ironic thing is that a sign written by A.I. would probably be funnier than a sign that merely states it was not written that way. 

 

Stop rhyming. Hey, ho, terrible rhymes have got to go. It’s not helping the situation.

 

Avoid “spoiler alert” as a punchline. This is what happens when the writer’s room is reduced. The only exception is if a souped-up Mazda is barreling its way towards the crowd. That’s a spoiler to avoid at all costs.

 

Frankly, my dear, you didn’t write that. Quoting famous lines from the past you definitely didn’t write is a bizarre tactic. If anything, it puts your work in a bad light. Not sure what the goal of this is other than for a producer to say, “well, it sure ain’t Shakespeare.” 

 

Stating the obvious. A writer wrote this line. Got any other gems? 

 

Using a thin pen. Sharpies, people, sharpies. Thick, dark and clearly visible from a distance. I know you’re not designers or art directors, but this needs to be read. I shouldn’t be seeing the white of the sign through the bubble letters. s

 

No Cross Outs. If you make a mistake, get a new sign.

 

Big time. No paragraphs and write large. This isn’t Occupy Wall Street. Not the forum for manifestos. 

 

Assuming people watch your show. Yes, they know Succession, The Wire, The Sopranos. But anything else is considered obscure. Sorry, those are just the facts. 

I would issue this to the execs on the other side of the picket line. Be careful. Most writers are much better procrastinators, so not writing is something most can do in their sleep. 

Is it okay to hate bad art made by good people?

This is a question many have struggled with over the years. So you hate their art, can you also hate them? This list is a test of that principle. 

Dave, 46, is an amateur sculptor living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Good guy, great father, wonderful husband, terrible artist. One dear friend remarked upon seeing Dave’s take on a modern birdbath that he felt bad for the birds.

Rachel, 28, gives to charity, donates her free time to a nearby soup kitchen, but can’t draw faces. 

Marjorie, 72, tends to a community garden, loves singing, but can’t carry a tune. 

Jake, 14, is a neighborhood dog walker and yet, among the world’s worst dancers.

Barry, 55, adopts every animal and shouldn’t be within one hundred yards of a kiln. 

 

But can you hate these people despite their good works for their artistic atrocities? I say yes. You can and should. 

Jerry Springer Spaniel

 

[indiscriminate barking]

 

Jerry Springer Spaniel, a medium size springer spaniel, sits in the audience holding a microphone. He’s toying with the crowd quite literally, pawing out chew toys to anxious members of the ticketed crowd. Bart, a golden retriever and Missy, another golden retriever, sit next to each other on stage. They live on the same farm in rural Pennsylvania.

Jerry:   Missy, how many puppies do you and Bart have?

Missy:  I lost count a while ago, but it was at least a dozen last time I checked. 

[clapping from the crowd]

Jerry:   Is that all? 

Missy: I hope so. Bart got fixed last fall.

 

Jerry:   Are you sure about that? 

 

Bart shakes his head and Missy looks confused.

 

Jerry:   Josefina, why don’t come on down? And bring your little one, Antonio. 

 

One tiny chihuahua and a chihuahua spaniel mix amble up to the stage. Missy gets up and goes wild, lunging at the chihuahua. Security has to separate them using biscuits and treats. 

 

Jerry:   Dogs, dogs. Let’s act like civilized animals. So, Josefina, when did you meet Bart?

 

Josefina: Last winter.

 

Jerry: [to the crowd] Some resemblance, huh?

 

Bart: Jerry, if I may. I’ve never seen this bitch in my life. 

 

Jerry: To any human beings in the audience, that’s a technical term.

 

Missy: We’re going straight to the vet before going home, mister. 

 

Josefina: How can you say that, papi?

 

Antonio: Da da. Dada. 

 

Antonio begins to howl as pandemonium ensues. Missy bites one of the security guards. Bart urinates on the carpet. Josephina yips at Jerry and the crowd barks. 

 

Jerry: Tomorrow we have a poodle who can’t stop licking himself, a German Shepherd coming to terms with his war crimes, and a greyhound whose best friend is a flea. Take care of yourself and each other. Till next time, woof woof. 

Touch Glass

 

Nowadays, when burnt out people are looking for an offline reprieve, they stick their toes between blades of uncut grass in parks, lawns, and tufts. I’m here to tell you that does next to nothing for the active mind and less for the active body. 

Want to come back down to earth and reduce your screentime? Then you should really consider touching glass instead. 

In my patch of urban paradise, each day I awake to the glistening sparkle of shattered chards running the length of the block, as well as the length of my foot. For some in rural America, the sound of a rooster crowing or the sight of dew dripping down a leaf marks the morning. Not here. 

Here, a new day commences only when a driver’s side window is pulverized into a million tiny pieces. If you're lucky, you'll be dodging bits of car stereo as well. 

After a long day of clicking, baiting, and scrolling, I desperately need to feel the raw power of a broken Heineken bottle deep in my sole. I pace the sidewalk, taking it all in, sometimes to the point of walking into the ER. Okay, so maybe not quite walking in, but more hobbling in. Either way, you get the jagged point.

Overwhelmed by the news? That's nothing a quarter inch of glass penetrating your heel can't fix.  

What people have come to accept about the restorative qualities of grass is wrong. Grass is full of bugs and dirt. It stains denim unlike much else. Glass on the other hand, allows you to literally reflect on your life as you go over your foot with a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass (preferably one that’s still intact). You can see yourself in each shard. This is a meditative state that also gives you the chance to check on the gauze in your medicine cabinet. Something that’s probably gone untouched for years. So now’s your chance to touch it. 

Go forth, touch glass, and keep hydrogen peroxide close by. 

How To Be an Anti-Intellectual by Inane X. Trendi

 

When I started writing this essay a few minutes ago, I realized that the words were coming slower than a leaky faucet dripping slower than one in a housing unit where the plumbing has gone from bad to worst. Some moments, like right now, I have something to say, if only to say what I just said. But I knew this was going to be a problem. I have to get to certain position of substance, albeit drips and drabs. If my essay doesn’t sound like one, at least it has to look like one. My method of writing comes from a tried-and-true technique that I like to call the “street method.” What it means simply is that if you hold up the article to someone walking across the street, they should be able to tell it’s an article simply by looking at it. As long as there are few thick paragraphs, I’m good. And so is my audience.

Not to mention a couple one liners to stop the reader or in this case, pedestrian, in their tracks. 

I realized pretty quickly that I am not an intellectual, having never been an intellectual, and mostly considered by most critics that I am, most of all, a revolutionary figure, brought about to disrupt their cozy status as keepers of the gate. 

What am I then, if not an intellectual? 

Then I got it after leafing through my dictionary. I had a bet with a friend that “aunt” was spelled like the insect. My shame turned to pride when I saw a list of prefixes littering the page like the department of sanitation on a raw sewage power play. 

I am an anti-intellectual. How did I not realize this before? It was right there, staring right in front of me, like a person right in front of me staring at me. I am not like anyone else or everyone else or no one else. 

 

I started to research the history of famous people and what did I find, you ask? I didn’t find me. First, I looked at the list of Nobel Laureates. I wasn’t there. Then U.S. Presidents. I wasn’t anywhere to be found. I started to dig deeper. Lists of Oscar winners as well as champion fishermen. I kept not seeing my name, image, or likeness anywhere. Where was I? I pinched my arm to make sure I was still there, right here, sitting at my desk writing. I was, breathing a heavy sigh of relief knowing I was not a figment of my own runway imagination.

 

I am real. I am here. I am me. 

They would say I'm dumb as a brick. I take that insult as a compliment. I like bricks and I talk to walls. And I appreciate straw and the men inside them. 

 

Book after book. List after list. I didn’t see my name. For a second, I thought, maybe it’s because I changed my name. But that doesn’t make any sense. Mark Twain changed his name and he’s everywhere. Same with Michael Keaton. So that can’t be right. 

 

No one ever wanted me at this or that table. Or the chair. Or in the den rearranging the furniture. They treated me like furniture. What they didn’t understand, what they mostly couldn’t possibly realize, was that like most anti-intellectuals I had never read from their “rule book.” I did my own thing and that’s that. 

The thing, that is.

The Contrarian Candidate

I have some bad news. I’m running for president. Why? Simple. I am a revolutionary agent of change. Yes, it’s true that I grew up with a silver spoon, a golden fork, and a diamond tea kettle. But in my youth, I often found time to relate to ordinary people when I wasn’t tossing around the football in Hyannisport with one of my seven thousand cousins.

Despite what you may have heard, I’m not a conspiracy theorist, I’m a conspiracy practitioner. Big difference. This isn't college, this is the real world. 

 

Lots of politicians talk about criminal justice reform, but I do more than that. A lot more. Consider this: I defended my murderer of a cousin and then, despite other members of my own family, I came defended the man who killed my father. I had to cut him off a few times when he tried to profess his guilt. Look, sir, you’re innocent. I know a thing or two about being wrongfully accused. 

 

I don’t love the planet, I hate people. That’s the main big difference between me and other environmentalists. 

 

They say the apple doesn’t fall from the tree. In my case, it’s right there, worm-ridden and rotten, but it’s an apple nonetheless. 

And while I find the notion of social distancing morally repugnant, I have been comfortably out of touch for decades. 

I’m the Cockroach from the Met Gala

Now that the dust has settled and I’ve returned to my quarter-size hole in the American Wing, I should reveal the point of my party crashing protest.

It was not, as some believe, a commentary on the escalating War in Ukraine. And why would it be? My kind has never been too concerned about nuclear annihilation, given our physical and mental makeup. There’s an old joke in the cockroach community that we were long pulling for mutually assured destruction between the USA and USSR amid the wild, heady days of the Cold War. In fact, an uncle of a dear friend, spent much of his middle age in the comfortable surroundings of the nuclear football. He liked the light and his proximity to the apocalypse. It was somewhat calmer there. For cockroaches, the Cuban Missile Crisis was a great “what if?” Imagine if we had inherited the earth. Think of all the garbage to eat. The whole world a giant crumb. The notion makes me blush. 

Initially, I wasn’t going to attend the gala. I usually avoid the museum on busy days – holidays and such. Too many feet to dodge, not enough food to make it worthwhile. But there was something about a single celebrity posing on steps that gave me pause. 

I want to be a star. I thought maybe, just maybe, these celebrities would recognize our obvious common ground. We’re not so different, them and me. I scrounge around galleries after hours looking for anything I can shove in my face. Most of them would sell their soul for a Royal Qatari production of Godspell. They look everywhere for roles. I look everywhere for rolls. Usually buttered, sometimes oiled, often stale, and occasionally with a subtle hint of mold. And yeah, I've been on the casting couch, too, a time or two. Tattered ones with foam that's a cruel memory.  

I feel fortunate to have been reared among rare antiquities and accessible bathrooms. So I don’t receive the press like more glamorous New Yorkers; namely, the pizza rats and the bagel pigeons. But I’m here, doing my thing, appreciating art in my own special way.  

I have more class in my little antennae than most celebs have in their entire surgically-enhanced bodies. Perspective changes how you see the world. Most people don’t give the treads of their shoes much thought. I do. Or I did. When I’m spotted, people asked, “what is that?” instead of “who is that?” 

That hurts. 

Naturally, I’m a Buddhist. I was like these people once. Clamoring for a sitcom or my name on the marquee. Now I appreciate the little things. Like day old coffee cake and spoiled milk. Here’s hoping the Met does a food exhibit one of these days. You’d think with all those Cezannes in the museum a roach could find a decent stone fruit.

Alas, it's not meant to be. Just organic smoothies and a case of White Claw. Till next year. 

Something You Can Bank On

I have a bank. But I don't have a vault. 

I have capital, but no principles. 

I have an honorary chair but no actual desk

I have terrible ideas and worse aspirations. 

I have dishonest friends.

 

I have unscrupulous employees.

 

I have lots of your money and none of mine.

 

I have an ill-fitting suit and unkempt hair.

 

I have ambition and no intellect.

 

I have receipts that absolve me of any wrongdoing. 

 

I like to make bold statements, preferably with more of your money. 

 

I don’t make mistakes that can’t be papered over with a few billion. 

 

I have no shame. 

Monday Morning Meditations

 

 When installing cable for a certain provider, is it okay to say, “I’m on the Spectrum?” 

 

How many times a day are we allowed to say “climate change, huh” when discussing the weather? 

 

How many people who “just read a book” actually consumed the audio book over the course of a long commute?

 

What’s more annoying: someone talking on speakerphone in public or someone in a headphone stupor, mindlessly pushing their way through the world? 

 

If Picasso was a great artist and a bad guy, how many bad artists are great guys?

 

Why is it extra to have a side salad when it’s basically rearranged grass? 

 

Why do sports fans use the first-person plural pronoun and wear jerseys of other people? 

 

What year will saying “I can’t wait to put my feet up on a plush ottoman” become offensive? 

 

Forget robots, aren't most people artificially intelligent?

And didn’t most Hollywood writers stop writing years ago?