- Published on
It's Hot and Damp, and I've been Thinking about Fish Tanks, and the cleanliness of one's water -- As small flakes of food and poop settle upon neon gravel, I'm reminded of the sadistic joy of capturing lightening bugs in a jar in late-June. Because I'm "Mature" I remember Sea-Monkeys, and Ant Farms, Trips to the Zoo, and to the Aquarium -- All as a primer for how to capture and keep a "pet". This was the training, I'd suppose... A macabre primer for how to conduct oneself at weddings:
A. Don't pull anyone's wings off.
B. Be sure they eat, regardless.
C. Never ask anyone "What they Do".
and...
D. Never explain anything by showing them your fucking phone.
The smarter thing behind the glass eventually escapes, and / or dies there. -- And likely it suffers the profound indignity of blisters, nausea, and a huge credit card bill. Summer weddings, are practice for prison. Like a parochial school, Church Camp, or In-Patient Detox -- Wedding captivity removes one's locus of control, gently explaining that "THIS is how we will be doing things now..., followed by some shit-tastic line-dancing -- All while you slowly starve to death -- Impeccably dressed, but wasting away
When we place specimens in a terrarium, we think they will love all the conveniences we have provided... Alcohol, Airline Food, and Alprazolam.
As On Mars, this charade is where we grant our captors a day-pass to glare down at us from lofty table dressing. They torture us under fluffy white archways laced with Lilys and crinoline. A film set terrarium of stretched polyester over filthy plywood folding tables. Within this Terrarium is an excruciating weekend re-education camp. Alas, once completely humiliated, de-fanged, and bankrupt, survivors are released back into the wild to reclaim their lives.
"We did try to provide a comfortable environment", She Claims... "...With all mod cons".
But in the end captivity, incarceration, and reform school, simply harden the haters, and damage the meek. -- Within the bubble, We can only dream of a spectacular Bond-film escape.
But let's not hire a madman to rocket us into space just to find our tranquility. Send a Gift and your regrets, because with or without A.I. we aren't heading to Mars. We just want to go for a bike ride, and a Huge Fund-raiser group ride is superb cover for missing the wedding.
Welcome to the Pleasure-Dome
Dystopia was a hard sell in the fifties, simply because authors lacked the tools to portray something more dreadful than modern warfare. With War still just in the American rearview: Authors lacked the people's appetite for much more than End of Days fiction and Sci-Fi. Meanwhile, People were busy doing outdoors things, like walking, talking, playing, edging the lawn, waving to the postman, and earnestly building a synthetic version of the "Middle-Class This construct promised white picket prosperity, TV Dinners, Two weeks of vacation, a tow-behind camper, and a place "UP North". If you already lived "Up North", then you naturally drove South, trailering your boat to Destin FLA. Classic Rock wasn't yet a thing, and so all of this wood chopping, and small motor repair occurred without a Creedence Soundtrack.
Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing.
Anyways, when the cold war came into full focus for America, Anxiety was born from a complete lack of control over two crazy fuckers with big red buttons -- Much like your young friends who'd waited far too long to get married. These two zealots kept everyone in a damp suspension.
Music, truly creative music, and cinema flowed as protest. But What began as the safeguard of having amassed a dome of Uber weaponry, became dreadful fear of an outcome beyond "The People's" control. This smug surety began to scare the shit out of citizens everywhere. Because I recall that shitty dread of having given up... I know that captivity is where you land when you give into the machines. So it is no surprise that Silent and desolate Space would soon become a trillion dollar IPO. Are you ready for a dreadfully sub-par Wedding that never ends?
If a "DEEP TRACK" at your wedding is Motley Cru, then you have failed your constituents.
As the Nukes became sub-sonic, and the world shrank, we spoke of bubbles, and domes The flight time of an ICBM defined one's final hurrah. Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing. As with singles at a wedding, The seating chart could define one's final moments on this planet. Daily news forecast precisely when a snowy Nuclear-Winter would blanket your town. Even in Nebraska, a family could imagine living atop a secret Nike missile silo which would inevitably become the direct target from a volley of ICBM's. Later that same fear quelled into numb acquiescence, like living along a fault-line, beside a volcano, or attending a wedding, where you just did not give a fuck.
Better to eat before you attend.
In those days, fear and anxiety bloomed from a complete void of curbs in place to prevent two zealots from pounding a Whisky - Vodka, before taking humanity with them to the fucking cleaners... And, Like a wedding nothing has changed.
A. Don't pull anyone's wings off.
B. Be sure they eat, regardless.
C. Never ask anyone "What they Do".
and...
D. Never explain anything by showing them your fucking phone.
The smarter thing behind the glass eventually escapes, and / or dies there. -- And likely it suffers the profound indignity of blisters, nausea, and a huge credit card bill. Summer weddings, are practice for prison. Like a parochial school, Church Camp, or In-Patient Detox -- Wedding captivity removes one's locus of control, gently explaining that "THIS is how we will be doing things now..., followed by some shit-tastic line-dancing -- All while you slowly starve to death -- Impeccably dressed, but wasting away
When we place specimens in a terrarium, we think they will love all the conveniences we have provided... Alcohol, Airline Food, and Alprazolam.
As On Mars, this charade is where we grant our captors a day-pass to glare down at us from lofty table dressing. They torture us under fluffy white archways laced with Lilys and crinoline. A film set terrarium of stretched polyester over filthy plywood folding tables. Within this Terrarium is an excruciating weekend re-education camp. Alas, once completely humiliated, de-fanged, and bankrupt, survivors are released back into the wild to reclaim their lives.
"We did try to provide a comfortable environment", She Claims... "...With all mod cons".
But in the end captivity, incarceration, and reform school, simply harden the haters, and damage the meek. -- Within the bubble, We can only dream of a spectacular Bond-film escape.
But let's not hire a madman to rocket us into space just to find our tranquility. Send a Gift and your regrets, because with or without A.I. we aren't heading to Mars. We just want to go for a bike ride, and a Huge Fund-raiser group ride is superb cover for missing the wedding.
Welcome to the Pleasure-Dome
Dystopia was a hard sell in the fifties, simply because authors lacked the tools to portray something more dreadful than modern warfare. With War still just in the American rearview: Authors lacked the people's appetite for much more than End of Days fiction and Sci-Fi. Meanwhile, People were busy doing outdoors things, like walking, talking, playing, edging the lawn, waving to the postman, and earnestly building a synthetic version of the "Middle-Class This construct promised white picket prosperity, TV Dinners, Two weeks of vacation, a tow-behind camper, and a place "UP North". If you already lived "Up North", then you naturally drove South, trailering your boat to Destin FLA. Classic Rock wasn't yet a thing, and so all of this wood chopping, and small motor repair occurred without a Creedence Soundtrack.
Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing.
Anyways, when the cold war came into full focus for America, Anxiety was born from a complete lack of control over two crazy fuckers with big red buttons -- Much like your young friends who'd waited far too long to get married. These two zealots kept everyone in a damp suspension.
Music, truly creative music, and cinema flowed as protest. But What began as the safeguard of having amassed a dome of Uber weaponry, became dreadful fear of an outcome beyond "The People's" control. This smug surety began to scare the shit out of citizens everywhere. Because I recall that shitty dread of having given up... I know that captivity is where you land when you give into the machines. So it is no surprise that Silent and desolate Space would soon become a trillion dollar IPO. Are you ready for a dreadfully sub-par Wedding that never ends?
If a "DEEP TRACK" at your wedding is Motley Cru, then you have failed your constituents.
As the Nukes became sub-sonic, and the world shrank, we spoke of bubbles, and domes The flight time of an ICBM defined one's final hurrah. Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing. As with singles at a wedding, The seating chart could define one's final moments on this planet. Daily news forecast precisely when a snowy Nuclear-Winter would blanket your town. Even in Nebraska, a family could imagine living atop a secret Nike missile silo which would inevitably become the direct target from a volley of ICBM's. Later that same fear quelled into numb acquiescence, like living along a fault-line, beside a volcano, or attending a wedding, where you just did not give a fuck.
Better to eat before you attend.
In those days, fear and anxiety bloomed from a complete void of curbs in place to prevent two zealots from pounding a Whisky - Vodka, before taking humanity with them to the fucking cleaners... And, Like a wedding nothing has changed.
Yesterday Anthropic, (an advanced purveyor of A.I. systems), disabled their premier functional model, to curb potential Armageddon. Soon they will begin advertising Armageddon on TV -- (e.g. a careful Ken Burns-esque slide show of human suffering), in hopes that their 30 second spot during the World Cup may convince a nervous public on how AI "could prevent the ants on display from suffering excessive heat, flooding, and loneliness.
But, AI doesn't consider the ants, nor the bugs in the jar, it just compiles human nonsense and feeds it back to us, in any voice you desire. The Robots and the Wedding Planners believe that we will totally love the appetizers, the seating chart, and a puck of dry chicken breast.
Fish Flakes waver and wiggle downward through dark liquid until they settle to the bottom.
Picture menu's in a wedding binder, Airline food, and dog chow -- ALWAYS resemble that savory steak on the bag. But they all suck, because like Astronaut and Prison food, you don't have options.
A.I. is a VR wedding where tacky bride's-maids stroke an old college fling, drowning in tequila, hoping to forget who is in charge, and to survive until morning. Can I make it 'til tomorrow to have a real breakfast?, Or will they drop the bomb tonight?
Today in My Bubble the AQI was 401. Its damn Hot in My Ant Farm, and the Particulates are killing the colony.
These days -- I'll take the bomb before Breakfast.
Our Bubble is a real thing... It's where you dwell every day of your life. Making it smaller and more cramped only matters if you'd prefer to put the phone down and venture outside. On Mars that's impossible. No mailman, No bike-rides, and no verdant plains to roll through.
Welcome to the Terror-Dome
Protest Music isn't keeping up with the mayhem on this side of the glass. Where are the Punk Bars? They have been sterilized. Wallflowers at the wedding are not necessarily scared to dance, They simply cannot relate to the music on offer. Throw on Minutemen, Sleaford Mods, or Black Flag, and you may break the paradigm, along with a few tables and chairs.
Today We have little stomach for protest anthems, for much the same reason as riding bareback on a bomb, seems futile to make a doomsday point. We are far too lazy to climb aboard. Even Bombs are too analog for attendees. We are simply too full of white-washed country-pop, and daily freak-shows, to have a stomach for protest agendas, or punk rock. Meanwhile, the Loonies want to relocate to Mars. Me, I personally want them to leave ASAP...
Sporadic Smart people romance refugee status, any place but in America.
Queue "Two Tribes" by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
"WHERE SEX AND HORROR ARE THE NEW GODS"
But, AI doesn't consider the ants, nor the bugs in the jar, it just compiles human nonsense and feeds it back to us, in any voice you desire. The Robots and the Wedding Planners believe that we will totally love the appetizers, the seating chart, and a puck of dry chicken breast.
Fish Flakes waver and wiggle downward through dark liquid until they settle to the bottom.
Picture menu's in a wedding binder, Airline food, and dog chow -- ALWAYS resemble that savory steak on the bag. But they all suck, because like Astronaut and Prison food, you don't have options.
A.I. is a VR wedding where tacky bride's-maids stroke an old college fling, drowning in tequila, hoping to forget who is in charge, and to survive until morning. Can I make it 'til tomorrow to have a real breakfast?, Or will they drop the bomb tonight?
Today in My Bubble the AQI was 401. Its damn Hot in My Ant Farm, and the Particulates are killing the colony.
These days -- I'll take the bomb before Breakfast.
Our Bubble is a real thing... It's where you dwell every day of your life. Making it smaller and more cramped only matters if you'd prefer to put the phone down and venture outside. On Mars that's impossible. No mailman, No bike-rides, and no verdant plains to roll through.
Welcome to the Terror-Dome
Protest Music isn't keeping up with the mayhem on this side of the glass. Where are the Punk Bars? They have been sterilized. Wallflowers at the wedding are not necessarily scared to dance, They simply cannot relate to the music on offer. Throw on Minutemen, Sleaford Mods, or Black Flag, and you may break the paradigm, along with a few tables and chairs.
Today We have little stomach for protest anthems, for much the same reason as riding bareback on a bomb, seems futile to make a doomsday point. We are far too lazy to climb aboard. Even Bombs are too analog for attendees. We are simply too full of white-washed country-pop, and daily freak-shows, to have a stomach for protest agendas, or punk rock. Meanwhile, the Loonies want to relocate to Mars. Me, I personally want them to leave ASAP...
Sporadic Smart people romance refugee status, any place but in America.
Queue "Two Tribes" by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
"WHERE SEX AND HORROR ARE THE NEW GODS"
Vendetta I'd suppose you could say became the Modus of so many Cold War nightmares, where people dreaded two world leaders in a grudge match, wiping out everyone. And Weddings, like AI prognostication, is a bit like children fondling a pistol in a closet, expecting great outcomes.
We now have a phone in hand, on the toilet, out to dinner, while driving, and at the beach. On a faster path to Armageddon, we bury our heads in an APP to tune it all out, while having Claude write your vows, and your eulogy
As in a wedding ceremony where pedantic priests pressure people to assist the new couple to keep their shit together -- The same priest is forbidden from knowing anything about marriage whatsoever. It's not that Marriage is gloom and doom, quite the opposite, but going into marriage via the gauntlet of a party one is certain will outshine all others, is a bit naïve.
Bright-sides, of course, remain that Bicycles and being outdoorsy became way more popular back when, than hand-guns, or A.I. Also, for the older crowd, it was still popular to go outdoors, to exercise, and to ride around on bikes. I mean really popular -- And everyone who wanted a bike, likely had one. People actually pedaled them all over the place. For Ice-cream, To the beach, to the Park, to play baseball, to deliver pizza, newspapers... And even to go on a date.
Today the Throttle bike, is a dreaded missile which brings fear, anxiety, and destruction to The idyllic respite of the bicycle's charm. E-Bikes, A.I., the Atom Bomb, and the modern Wedding, are rogue carcinogens. But who really gives a fuck! It's ludicrous to equivocate these fears.
Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct.
A.I. seldom even has those two periods punctuating a proper abbreviation. Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct. Missiles still point straight at your dick, but nobody is dwelling upon that crap. What's important now is the movement toward self-immolation by Device. Devices will be the death of us all, and what better place to enjoy a touch screen, and some A.I. than on the dashboard of your throttle bike, Your church wedding or the dinner table?
Analog Living includes rejecting dumb shit like E-Bikes, Pop Country Music, A.I., and outsourcing one's creativity to the Internet. Evidently writing dumb shit about Bikes and Robots is way lame.
Go someplace. Suffer a bit. Embarrass yourself. Listen to Music loudly, and don't show anyone your fucking phone at a dinner table. NEVER put your fucking phone on your handlebar. Don"t even bring it to a wedding unless you need to call a Lyft for exfil.
Just as Thumbs used to type this shit out -- A.I. now writes the AD copy, for a "Go anywhere" electric thingy. Or the IPO for a rocket maker who is selling vapor-ware, empty space, and branded cold weather gear.
Hop aboard a rocket ship and blast-off to Mars, and or the Moon, for a bit of R&R. When you touch-down, you will find wealthy mice on a wheel, spinning in synchrony with a peloton phony, sipping Soylent, suffering behind the bubble. Voluntary Captivity remains a big joke. Space doesn't want me, I don't want It., nor do I want A.I. to read to me at bedtime. I certainly don't want my bike to pedal for me.
OH, and I also don't want to go to your wedding.
Whilst questions no longer use these things ??? "Quotation marks" no longer ascribe an individual with the words they've written. Bots read your unpunctuated messages just fine. Who really needs punctuation when poor Adverb's have been dead for a decade or more?
Remember that thing which once modified the verb. Words ended in LY. Like Quickly, Strangely, Carefully Nobody needs those anymore because all this change came quick as fuck. (NOT QUICKLY) Sorry Adverbs... We don't do anything safely, so Fuck you "L.Y".
What is punctuation anyway? Plagiarism is the new creative. We are all imitating, Faking it.
Why use anything mechanical, when you can use a motor. Why count with a calculator. Why make change when we have daddy's Mastercard. Competency, (An old-person fetish), like grades, and manners died on the vine about 20 years ago. Which, as history goes, is a massive acceleration toward haptic isolation in a small glass terrarium, where all of one's needs and wants are attended to, by the ROBOT zoo-keeper. Much like Willow and Autumn's summer Wedding day.
Why worry about spelling "fear" while you are swimming in it.
I'm thinking of getting a place "UP NORTH", ... You know, off the grid, but not too far off the grid that I cannot brew Single origin washed Guatemalan Coffee. I'm thinking about joining a cult-ish coop, where we make our own tools, but still have access to Cool Carbon Bikes, Shimano Components, and Recovery Drinks. Up North, I can get back to nature by getting dirty, pedaling, and catching fireflies. As long as Canada remains sovereign.
Just Before I got your wedding invitation, all of my existential dread, came from fiction books, like "Fahrenheit", and films Like "Strangelove", or "Austin Powers". Now I have to consider the seating chart at your fucking reception -- for who I'll grab when the shit hits the fan.
Nearly every Sean Connery film for two decades handled the topic of Humanity's Certain Annihilation by some Jillionaire evil leader. I wonder if Sean knew while he was peddling Propaganda that people quietly munching popcorn, would soon give in to it all. No heroics, and no saving humanity from a giant space laser... Just captive idiots on cruise ships staring blankly into phones. Just give up James Bond, and Mike Meyers, your mentorship for two generations of dickhead Autocrats is now complete. The world is run by TV Bad-Guys, and malevolent Wedding planners. I re-watched a few Bond films which centered around laser-beams, death-rays, and nukes. Comparing them to Dr. Strangelove -- I then I doubled my search for that Place UP NORTH. I figure when I'm off the grid, I'm immune to all this, and immune from "Save The Date" cards.
Space-X, is making more rockets, and they are all going nowhere really fucking fast. There is NO sanctuary beyond this sky which would ever compete with the dark stars "up north". In fact you cannot get to rural Vermont, Maine, Alaska, or Montana by rocket, and if you could the noise would certainly ruin the scene. Which is a bit like riding your E-Bike out into the woods looking for AC Mains. To zip in on a buzzing electric throttle bike to take in some bird-watching, some camping, some beach yoga, or a swim... is like a camper running a generator all night beside a bike-packer with a tent. To make that trip work, you need to install outlets all along the way. Whereas a real human could carry a banana, and go a bit further into the wilderness. Fuck E-Bikes, Fuck Wedding Planners, and Fuck A.I. I've got some dumb-shit cycling event scheduled for next month, and am using that as my excuse to miss your stupid Wedding.
It's ironic that the most profitable Ponzi scheme next to wedding pageantry on our planet is to get people to buy into rockets and fly into empty space. This is a bit like the E-Bike in the woods. Rockets, like Throttle Bikes beget the singular prophetic question... "Where are you gonna fucking go when the battery dies?"
We now have a phone in hand, on the toilet, out to dinner, while driving, and at the beach. On a faster path to Armageddon, we bury our heads in an APP to tune it all out, while having Claude write your vows, and your eulogy
As in a wedding ceremony where pedantic priests pressure people to assist the new couple to keep their shit together -- The same priest is forbidden from knowing anything about marriage whatsoever. It's not that Marriage is gloom and doom, quite the opposite, but going into marriage via the gauntlet of a party one is certain will outshine all others, is a bit naïve.
Bright-sides, of course, remain that Bicycles and being outdoorsy became way more popular back when, than hand-guns, or A.I. Also, for the older crowd, it was still popular to go outdoors, to exercise, and to ride around on bikes. I mean really popular -- And everyone who wanted a bike, likely had one. People actually pedaled them all over the place. For Ice-cream, To the beach, to the Park, to play baseball, to deliver pizza, newspapers... And even to go on a date.
Today the Throttle bike, is a dreaded missile which brings fear, anxiety, and destruction to The idyllic respite of the bicycle's charm. E-Bikes, A.I., the Atom Bomb, and the modern Wedding, are rogue carcinogens. But who really gives a fuck! It's ludicrous to equivocate these fears.
Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct.
A.I. seldom even has those two periods punctuating a proper abbreviation. Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct. Missiles still point straight at your dick, but nobody is dwelling upon that crap. What's important now is the movement toward self-immolation by Device. Devices will be the death of us all, and what better place to enjoy a touch screen, and some A.I. than on the dashboard of your throttle bike, Your church wedding or the dinner table?
Analog Living includes rejecting dumb shit like E-Bikes, Pop Country Music, A.I., and outsourcing one's creativity to the Internet. Evidently writing dumb shit about Bikes and Robots is way lame.
Go someplace. Suffer a bit. Embarrass yourself. Listen to Music loudly, and don't show anyone your fucking phone at a dinner table. NEVER put your fucking phone on your handlebar. Don"t even bring it to a wedding unless you need to call a Lyft for exfil.
Just as Thumbs used to type this shit out -- A.I. now writes the AD copy, for a "Go anywhere" electric thingy. Or the IPO for a rocket maker who is selling vapor-ware, empty space, and branded cold weather gear.
Hop aboard a rocket ship and blast-off to Mars, and or the Moon, for a bit of R&R. When you touch-down, you will find wealthy mice on a wheel, spinning in synchrony with a peloton phony, sipping Soylent, suffering behind the bubble. Voluntary Captivity remains a big joke. Space doesn't want me, I don't want It., nor do I want A.I. to read to me at bedtime. I certainly don't want my bike to pedal for me.
OH, and I also don't want to go to your wedding.
Whilst questions no longer use these things ??? "Quotation marks" no longer ascribe an individual with the words they've written. Bots read your unpunctuated messages just fine. Who really needs punctuation when poor Adverb's have been dead for a decade or more?
Remember that thing which once modified the verb. Words ended in LY. Like Quickly, Strangely, Carefully Nobody needs those anymore because all this change came quick as fuck. (NOT QUICKLY) Sorry Adverbs... We don't do anything safely, so Fuck you "L.Y".
What is punctuation anyway? Plagiarism is the new creative. We are all imitating, Faking it.
Why use anything mechanical, when you can use a motor. Why count with a calculator. Why make change when we have daddy's Mastercard. Competency, (An old-person fetish), like grades, and manners died on the vine about 20 years ago. Which, as history goes, is a massive acceleration toward haptic isolation in a small glass terrarium, where all of one's needs and wants are attended to, by the ROBOT zoo-keeper. Much like Willow and Autumn's summer Wedding day.
Why worry about spelling "fear" while you are swimming in it.
I'm thinking of getting a place "UP NORTH", ... You know, off the grid, but not too far off the grid that I cannot brew Single origin washed Guatemalan Coffee. I'm thinking about joining a cult-ish coop, where we make our own tools, but still have access to Cool Carbon Bikes, Shimano Components, and Recovery Drinks. Up North, I can get back to nature by getting dirty, pedaling, and catching fireflies. As long as Canada remains sovereign.
Just Before I got your wedding invitation, all of my existential dread, came from fiction books, like "Fahrenheit", and films Like "Strangelove", or "Austin Powers". Now I have to consider the seating chart at your fucking reception -- for who I'll grab when the shit hits the fan.
Nearly every Sean Connery film for two decades handled the topic of Humanity's Certain Annihilation by some Jillionaire evil leader. I wonder if Sean knew while he was peddling Propaganda that people quietly munching popcorn, would soon give in to it all. No heroics, and no saving humanity from a giant space laser... Just captive idiots on cruise ships staring blankly into phones. Just give up James Bond, and Mike Meyers, your mentorship for two generations of dickhead Autocrats is now complete. The world is run by TV Bad-Guys, and malevolent Wedding planners. I re-watched a few Bond films which centered around laser-beams, death-rays, and nukes. Comparing them to Dr. Strangelove -- I then I doubled my search for that Place UP NORTH. I figure when I'm off the grid, I'm immune to all this, and immune from "Save The Date" cards.
Space-X, is making more rockets, and they are all going nowhere really fucking fast. There is NO sanctuary beyond this sky which would ever compete with the dark stars "up north". In fact you cannot get to rural Vermont, Maine, Alaska, or Montana by rocket, and if you could the noise would certainly ruin the scene. Which is a bit like riding your E-Bike out into the woods looking for AC Mains. To zip in on a buzzing electric throttle bike to take in some bird-watching, some camping, some beach yoga, or a swim... is like a camper running a generator all night beside a bike-packer with a tent. To make that trip work, you need to install outlets all along the way. Whereas a real human could carry a banana, and go a bit further into the wilderness. Fuck E-Bikes, Fuck Wedding Planners, and Fuck A.I. I've got some dumb-shit cycling event scheduled for next month, and am using that as my excuse to miss your stupid Wedding.
It's ironic that the most profitable Ponzi scheme next to wedding pageantry on our planet is to get people to buy into rockets and fly into empty space. This is a bit like the E-Bike in the woods. Rockets, like Throttle Bikes beget the singular prophetic question... "Where are you gonna fucking go when the battery dies?"
