The Future

I like to think about the future.

The occasional whirring of flying cars the only sound outside of my space house, my space wife, 46 years my junior, fixing me the futuristic equivalent of chicken spaghetti casserole. Our 17 children, all boys, are outside floating around, playing the futuristic equivalent of baseball. All of them will go onto to the Major Leagues, because my space wife is Dominican and those guys are still really good at baseball. I’m 89-years-old, but due to advances in medicine and the healing powers of whiskey, which they discovered in 2041, I’m still in great health. I’m virile, svelte and spry as a cheetah, which is what we call cheetahs in the future. And what’s this? My Dominican space wife is pregnant again!

We’re pretty busy what with the sex and the casseroles and the passersby who recognize me immediately for something great I did. I’m not sure what yet because, you know, it’s the future. “There he goes!” they say, doffing their caps.
    My Dominican wife finishes the casserole and calls me to dinner. She starts to call the kids too, but I scowl at her and shake my head no, because they’re getting on in years and they need the practice if they’re going to make the majors. “It’s a little dry,” I say after a bite, and she hangs her head.
    “Just kidding,” I say, and we have a hearty chuckle. Then I say, “But seriously, order some pizza.”
    The pizza smells delicious, and I dive in. “Mmm,” I say, “What’s this meaty type stuff on here?”
    “Grilled puppy, of course,” she says in her cute accent.
    “Blech,” I say, spitting the chewed up pizza onto the floor, frantically wiping my tongue with my space napkin.
    “But honey,” my hot, rich Dominican wife says, as she cleans the chewed up pizza from the floor. “Puppy is an acceptable pizza topping in the future.”
    “Of course,” I say, and laugh. But I wonder for a moment if life wasn’t better in the past, before I could describe the taste of a puppy*. I’m scratching my awesome, silvery future-beard in thought when the civil defense sirens begin to wail. “Heavens to Murgatroid,” I say, because that’s what we say in the future, and run to the bedroom to grab the ray gun.
    I fight valiantly but the robots win the war. They take me prisoner, and force me to mine for sand, which is a treasured commodity on their planet. Occasionally, I spit at them, and say, “Get your goddamned metal hands off of me.”
    Only later will I figure out that they speak English after all, and that explains all those beatings. I have several torrid love affairs with exotic ladies and a few of the sexier robots, but I never see my hot, rich Dominican space wife again, and I wish someone would have told me how hot robot genitals can get during coitus. Working in the sand mines, we’re forced to subsist on a diet of seagull beaks and robot water, which is just like  regular water, only it’s vodka.
    So I guess that part’s not so bad.

    Anyway, I don’t like to think about the future.

    *It’s like chicken, only more soul-scarring.