Dystopia is more fashionable, and profitable, than doing what the naysayers say can't be done, used to done, could be done if not for the blanks keeping it from happening. The New Yorker touted the doomsayers last week, their popular appeal, raking in the chink, amazed that the yokels slurp their bile. Pointing out what doesn't work any more when it used to, indicates sclerotic minds declining to rockhardedness, oh, if only things were like they used to be before brain synapses converted from creativity to certainty about the ways things have gone to hell. Young brains thankfully are not imprisoned by experience, by hard knocks, by failures, by loss of anyone giving a fuck what you want to do that nobody else has ever done. Oh, the futility of living too long, long enough to glimpse that the world doesn't want your stale offerings anymore. Get thee to the graveyard, old fuckers (like me), fertilize the soil, feed the worms, be useful again, one last time, your dark future shit doesn't even stink. My prostate is choking gland.