NOTE: Previously, I have shared with my readers letters that I wrote to myself from 2036 and 2024. Here now is one I just received from 2019. I do not know why my future self seems to be writing from increasingly closer years, but, if this trend continues, the next letter might be from my past.
January 1, 2019
Well, it’s all gone to hell!
Remember how much fun you had in 2015, what with Star Wars Episode VII, and the Mets going to the World Series, and all the easy jokes emanating from Donald Trump’s candidacy?
I try not to include any spoilers in these letters, but I can tell you that Star Wars EpisodeVIII: The Beard Was Fake really sucked, and that Cuban superstar the Mets are going to sign will turn out to be one final prank Fidel played on American imperialists, and the high-rise apartments topping off the Muro de México (Los Apartamentos de Trump) are not selling, in spite of their panoramic view of the Rio Grande and victims of various drug wars.
Of course, the campaign for the 2020 presidential election has already started. One candidate is trying to kill two birds with one stone by saying that America will never be safe from Muslims as long as there are so many Jews living here. Rand Paul is trying something new–he’s running on a marijuana legalization platform: “Paul for Pot. We need it–and him–now more than ever.” Still another is promising to repeal Obama Care with the slogan: “Fend For Yourself, America!”
I find the whole thing comical because the eventual winner (who I know from my last letter from the future to you, which I previously sent five years from now), hasn’t even declared her candidacy yet. Did you ever get Taylor’s autograph like I told you to?
Congress finally passed some gun legislation, by the way. It’s not too far in your future, either. In fact, it will come after, I think, the 11th mass shooting of 2016–February, I believe. So now people are limited to only one assault weapon.
I have good news and bad news for us, personally. The good news is that our son-in-law Alex sold his internet start-up for several billion dollars. The bad news is that he and our daughter Casey now live in Ireland for tax purposes, and, although she Facetimes with us frequently, we can’t understand a word of her newly developed brogue, and all we can see of her on our Apple Watch is her nose.
Meanwhile, just as we were a month away from being eligible for Medicare, they moved the minimum age to 66, so I’m majorly pissed off about that, particularly now that the FDA has approved that new weight-loss procedure involving genetic modification, an implanted stomach stimulator and large quantities of prunes.
Speaking of diets: you know how we hate quinoa? Not just the taste, but the very idea of it? Well, in 2018, some company is going to come out with a quinoa milkshake mix that is supposedly the healthiest food ever invented, and will add years to your life, and sharpen your mind, and prevent you from ever getting sick. Just about everyone will drink it–except us, of course–which will suit us fine when it is discovered that quinoa causes hemorrhoids that are so painful you want to die, but you can’t, because you’ve been drinking the friggin’ quinoa milkshakes.
So, congratulations to us, we’re going to get a lot of “I told you so”s out of that debacle.
Let’s see–there was one more thing I wanted to tell you. It was very important. What the hell was it? You know, my memory’s not so good these days. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me (or you); as I recall it already wasn’t so good in your day, but maybe I’m remembering that wrong.
Wait–now I remember. I wanted to remind you that the decisions you make then directly affect me now. So, for example, if you happen to be wandering around the city one day and see a teenager zipping around on one of those hoverboards, please think twice before asking if you can try it.
Warmest regards, You
Well, there you have it. Happy New Year everybody.
See you soon.