… and I’m the black scientist guy that created them, I think.
In case you’re not already on board, let me explain.
A couple of years ago, I piqued my little cousin’s interest in PC building. I had built my own desktop, because I can’t talk to women, and you gotta keep busy. The results were mildly impressive, like with everything I do, so my cousin of course became infatuated with the concept.
Ever since, I’ve noticed a worrying trend: children, who used to be universally stupider than me, are now all geniuses. My tween cousin is now a hardware guru. I literally do not understand the esoteric alphanumeric combinations coming out of his mouth, though I assume they refer to the model numbers of hunter-killer droids that he’s been secretly constructing in the basement of his grammar school.
I smile and nod when he speaks. I now know with near certitude that he is only keeping me alive as long as I appear useful. As soon as he becomes aware of the fact that his knowledge of hardware diagnostics has already eclipsed mine 20-fold, my only remaining function in his computery mind will be as a test target. My brain, dulled by what have now been years of drinking and watching Comedy Central (often at the same time!), is now relatively useless. However, my legs are relatively longer than those of his peers, lending me a greater gait and superior strength and speed.
To you or I, blags, these would appear advantageous characteristics. But to this burgeoning generation of techno-fiends, my physical prowess is a festering symbol of the obsolescence of a generation past. Rather than signifying my formidability, it qualifies me, in the eyes of these young sociopaths, as a logical test subject for the aforementioned hunter-killers. The most dangerous game of all is not a 14-year-old boy; it’s a man. And I’m a man. Who built a computer a few years ago.
So, why do I write this? What can be done to stop the inevitable Tween War and subsequent human enslavement?
I do not write this for you, 2012 blags. I write it for a future generation. Use your advanced technology to travel back in time to 2010 and kill me. Kill me before I teach my little cousin how to build a computer. It is only by doing so that your history, and my people’s future, may be altered.
Once my body lies lifeless at the feet of your future assassin, you must get my cousin to buy a Mac Airbook. That ought to stifle his engineering ambitions and keep him properly subjugated enough to become something as impotently harmless as a graphic designer, or a video editor.
Dictated But Not Read