Dear Entitled Technologists,
Please stop complaining about your lack of jetpacks.
Please stop whining that you have no flying car.
You are discussing a future as seen from the back of a darkened theater during a 40-year-old Bond flick. At no point were you promised either: I do not recall the technology fairy wandering about granting wishes throughout our youths.
If you want a jetpack, build it; if you want a flying car, get out the oxy-acetylene torch and a physics degree.
Your compliance is appreciated,
Dear Peter Graves,
Now that you’re dead I feel kind of bad about telling everyone what an alcoholic you were. Lets face it though, we both know that it wasn’t your heart that did you in. I’m not sure if it’s the same fellow who got you stuck in Parts: The Clonus Horror, but your agent did you a favour by getting out in front of the story with this heart attack spiel.
I’m not Peter Graves,
P.S. I always liked you better than James Arness.
P.P.S. This message will self destruct in five seconds.