It’s my unrelenting plan
to escape to the future
at any time now, to a time
where the ones greeting me
want only to offer the knowledge
and dynamics of their era.
We’re all quite familiar with that little bit of
science fiction by now–the storied
advanced civilization that doesn’t so much mind
a past-person stumbling upon their developments.
Ya see, these folks would require
astute pupils for their lessons
in temporal psychology, so
if an intuitive person
were to find themselves ensconced
in such an environment,
these lovely future guardians
would instinctively root out
the nature of said snoop’s intentions–
not to mention their accent
or parlance of the time
they oh so unwittingly represent.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Drawing composed August, 2019–
rollerball pen and dry erase marker on printer paper
Cheatersley Everington has never had much reason to spout drivel from the tip of his dorsal fin, mainly because he never inherited one of those peculiar things from his most recent mammalian ancestry. Perhaps a few hundred million years ago he would have still had a bit of a vestige from where he needed to propel himself through the water in a somewhat graceful way, but these days it would be silly to expect such an outdated mode of transport to have any trace elements remaining. But with all that aside, Cheatersley never made much of a fuss about the dorsal shortage. He would be the first one to tell you that such science fiction elements hold no significance in his day-to-day existence. In fact, he exists during a time in the “modern” human epoch when science fiction is not a term that people bandy about. He has been afforded a blissful existence of technological and historical ignorance simply because he happened to strap on his feed bag in what we commonly call the 19th Century. Lucky duck, basking in a world of intellectual stagnation and limited upward mobility (well, until he dies of dysentery, at least).
Scan through the canopies during our manmade apocalypse and you’ll more than likely find a locust generator spitting out hordes of the motoring insects for just pennies on the dollar. The average (stone age) manual locust scatterer would charge you thousands to get a result this consistently irksome, and there’s no way they’re achieving the same kind of long-lasting effect.
Before now, the world has only known one way of releasing plague insects: letting loose a large number of the critters that have been purchased–or raised–and held captive for an indeterminate period of time while the planner of mischievous deeds prepares for the most opportune moment to let them wreak havoc on unsuspecting heathens.
The dark days of locust infestation are over, friends. The Loc-U-Matic 7900 synthesizes live locusts–eight hundred per minute–then agitates them enough to immediately provoke flight, sending our biblical six-legged friends out over that country club’s outdoor dining facilities, into the once-appealing mai tais and overly-dry vodka martinis that the patrons had no problem drinking for lunch.
It is what it is, and we can’t change that anytime soon, so I suggest we go to the moon and sample the fine cheeses. Only the dweebs will be left on earth sampling the mediocre cow cheeses (to a lesser extent goat/sheep), and I truly feel sorry for them. They have nothing to lose now, forever stuck with terrestrial fromage.