Taking a break from those political rants, but getting in a few jabs at the end for kicks

Me no likey ze presidente. Wah. Moving on.

I'd like to instead talk about the incompetence of the Secretary of...
no, just kidding.

I could entertain you by complaining about a cut on my tongue, but in order to do that I'd have to mistake "entertain" for "bore/disgust." I could tell you how I spent the morning adjusting the bridge of my guitar to try to fix the intonation, but that would only appeal to any guitar nuts out there.

So instead I'd like to talk about junk, because I think it declared war on me a while back. I'd clean my room every once in a while (under extreme duress, mind you), only for the place to be a mess again a few days later. It'd start out with just one or two toys not put away, and then there would be candy wrappers and old quizzes and water bottles and stuff. I mean, all I do is live there.

I'd also like to talk about how it is now 2010, The Year We Make Contact. But not First Contact and not plain old Contact either. Point is, it's the future, and I want to know where is the jetpack that's going to fly me to my floating office? Where are the cars that go 300 miles an hour and the airways that they can travel on? Where is the new class of slave labor, the robot? When are the robots going to show up and clear away all that junk in my room? When are the robots going to start winning American Idol because they can actually sing? When are the robots going to declare humanity an infection and purge them from the planet? (Don't worry; I've got plans to escape to Mars. Or just call Harrison Ford, assuming he's not a robot too.)

Where is that cool little device I can attach to my rearview mirror so whenever someone behind me shines his headlights directly into my eyes, the mirror tilts and reflects the light back into his eyes instead? That's what I really want to know. That's a device I want to use.

Where's the mute button for children? The one that makes the whining brats in church shut up when their parents are too lazy to spank them or take them to a crying room?

Where's my ray gun? As far as I'm concerned, we're not in the 21st century if I can't melt a hole in the wall with something I can fit in a large pocket. (PS: 20th Century Fox has been out of date for ten years now.)

Come on, people, you fumbled the ball for the first decade, and given the terrorism and the president who had a hard time pronouncing words with more than two syllables (and his frankly even more moronic opponents) you can be forgiven for failing this badly at bringing us into the future. I want my robot slaves, I want my jetpack, I want my flying car, I want my mirror-reflecto-thingy, I want my baby-muter, and I want my ray gun. And that's change I'll believe in.