“We shall have no better conditions in the future if we are satisfied with all those which we have at present.” – Thomas Edison
Mate hunting may not be better in the future, but it will certainly be different. We’ve gone from clubbing with a club to clubbing at a club. The next logical step will involve the evil machines we carry: phones.
People over share already, and it’s only going to get worse. I’m confident pregnancies will be documented from insemination to extraction. How long before WombTube launches and Stacey shoves a WiFi camera up her cooter so all her friends can watch her baby tumor grow? I don’t want to see the inside of Stacey’s flesh cradle. I don’t care if it’s a boy, girl, or tadpole. I don’t need side view updates as Stacey’s bump becomes more bumpous. I’m tempted to begin posting side views of my tumor named Hefeweizen. (I call him hairy little Heffie.)
The exciting prequel to this silliness (looking around a bar for a slut to fuck), will change drastically.
Back in Pop’s day: “Hey, Butch. Check out that fine lass over there next to the jukebox. Wonder if that dame is taken.”
In the no-too-distant future: “My facial recognition app identifies her as Chelsea Rankle. She’s single, gave her last blowjob on March third, which lasted four minutes. She’s an accountant, has three siblings, enjoys a good syrah, and she had a bladder infection last year. Based on the last five men she has dated, she likes tall blue collar men with shaven heads, tattoos, and large dogs. She is ovulating, so bag your cock.”
Sounds far-fetched? It ain’t, I tell ya. Go to Facebook and start clicking friends-of-friends’ pictures. It’s all there. Need more information? Check LinkedIn. More yet? Pretty good chance there’s a profile on Match.com, which will pretty much lay out enough information to make psychics a fortune. All an app needs to do it connect all the dots and match the person in your iPhone’s range, and you’ve got all you need to approach the prey in the most efficient manner.
“Scanning, scanning, scanning … found him. Fifty-one-year-old Virgo.”
“Who is he?”
“A guy named Phil. He’s an author. He sure likes to say ‘fuck’ a lot.”
“That can be good, no?”
“I don’t know. Hm. Says here he has twelve books, two cats, and he drives a blue, electric car.”
“It’s not a Prius.”
“OK. What else? How big is his junk?”
“Says here just under six inches.”
“Well, then he had better enjoy tongue-punching the love button.”
“He does indeed.”
“Oh, goodie. Is he rich?”
“Not the best credit score on the fella.”
“Sad. He’s not one of those balding munchkins, is he?”
“Says here he’s just under six feet tall.”
“Heard that one before. How far under?”
“I know, right?”
“Does he at least exercise?”
“Yep, almost daily. Hairy legs. Hope he manscapes.”
“Any DUIs or convictions?”
“Nope. Voted for Obama both times, watches Game of Thrones, and bought his mother a gourmet tea set last Christmas.”
“How’s his colon?”
“Clean. Want to see the colonoscopy video?”
“Pass. Can he cook?”
“Seems so, but he burned a pan of lasagna last July, because he was stoned.”
“Spinach or meat?”
“Fine. I’ll go pinch him, and see what’s up.”
Heck, these apps could probably use fancy algorithms to predict dates for first penetration, engagement, marriage, childbirth, divorce, and death. Scary shit, and it’s coming.
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