26.27580 OMT (Orbital Metric Time)—6:08:22 AM MDT (Mountain Daylight Time, for all you old-timers)
Sensing a peak in theta waves, my SleepTracker® watch gently begins to sound its alarm. Within seconds, my SleepSmart™ alarm headband chimes in too (I have an early morning meeting today, so last night I set the spare alarm in accordance with my Space neurosis.) I open my eyes and focus on the three dimensional scene projected on the holographic ceiling. It's one of my favourites: giant Space giraffacondas feeding on puppies—ooh, Dalmations; a rare and nutritious treat!—in a sun-lit meadow to a musical mélange of Kraftwerk and Stevie Nicks (my own personal composition; Thanks, Bach-in-a-Moment™!) My Thaiwai'ian futon begins to massage and stimulate my muscles. Though the bed has over 6,451 massage settings in a coconut-curry base, I usually leave it on acu-tantra-lomi since I gave myself a serious Space migraine the last time I tried to neuro-load the manual from the Uninet (or the Space Wide Web, if you're un-Space-cool like my mom). Besides, by now the Space pineapple stings my rectum only slightly. Feeling refreshed and invigorated, I hop out of bed and activate my servo-implants in preparation for my morning Space yoga routine. I still have difficulty performing the 'Collapsing Binary' asana unaided, as do most beings without radial symmetry, so gimme a Space break, okay? Remembering a particularly erotic dream involving the Solid Einsteinium Dancers and a cameo by the wisdom-dispensing (and parallel-processing) Terence Trent D'Ar-Bot, I hit the 'Bookmark Last Night' button on my Dreamcorder and head to the bathroom.
Fuck, waking up sure is a detailed process when one lives in THE FUTURE! in SPACE!
First things first: I sit down on my Captain's Commode® (James T. Kirk seat cover not included) and do my business; probably the only human bodily function that hasn't substantially changed with technology. I find the sharp hiss made by my wastes as they hit the event horizon of the singularity in the bowl to be one of life's little pleasures. I step in and back out of the sonic shower, and while the clono-loofah separates my DNA from the detritus in preparation for injection into McStem Cells® (§4,567,099.99 a dozen at Wal-Mart®) I examine my MRI in the mirror for any abnormalities. I don't like the looks of my heart; it's a good thing I've got a spare in my Ronco™ Angio-Matic™ (Defibrillate and Forget It!™). Ah, well, at least my diamond teeth still gleam. Only black people can get away with wearing their original teeth. (Of course, by 'black people' I am referring to anti-matter humans. Their discovery led to a new wave of segregation for pragmatic rather than ideological reasons: if you want to avoid a universe-annihilating explosion, you damn well better be sure you're using the correct Space water fountain. And you can certainly forget about any inter-matter relationships, Mr. Fermion-Fever; as the saying goes, 'Once you go Dirac, you never go back'. If you're wondering, people of African ancestry were all swept into heaven during the Rapture. Except for the Wayans brothers, of course. Who knew the Flying Spaghetti Monster would hate White Chicks so much?) Finished with my morning ablutions, I throw on a Space mesh under-robe and prepare for my meeting. (In THE FUTURE! in SPACE! mesh is the new, er, non-mesh, so those of you who complain about the yellow mesh singlet I wear now can just take solace in the fact that I am centuries, if not millennia, ahead of the times.)
30.20949 OMT—7:15:00 AM MDT
Armed with a steaming cup of Kona Luwak™, the solar system's finest gourmet civet-scat coffee (grown, picked, roasted, and packaged on the slopes of Olympus Mons by 2000 Flushes®), I turn on my UltravioletBerry™ and log in to my meeting.
30.21296 OMT—7:15:03 AM MDT
I hate long meetings like this, especially so early in the morning. It's really my own fault though: I’m getting reamed out by the editor for my addition to the Wikiverse entry on the Capital of the Universe:
The only Earth city to ever hold the title of Capital of the Universe was Mohenjo Daro in the Indus River valley from 13,713,546,411 Universal Date System: Earth Years (2635 BCE) through 13,713,546,548 UDS:Ea (2498 BCE). Though its bathing and sewage facilities were considered excellent, inadequate electricity (none) and lack of indoor climate-control (two settings: hot during the day and cold at night) led off-world dignitaries to nickname it "the Big Bake," and avoid it whenever possible. As a result, very little universal legislation was passed (or even proposed) during that time. Those dignitaries who did take their obligations as elected officials seriously enough to sit in session in the citadel (as well as those from desert worlds) rarely met quorum, and so, having little to do, spent much of their time pursuing a variety of local diversions (earning "the Big Bake" its double entendre status.)
In 13,713,546,512 UDS:Ea (2534 BCE), the Universal Legislature began using the subterranean convention city of ¡//ft on the gas giant planet ððlR as the de facto capital, finding its nightclubs, prostitutes, and all-day breakfast buffets to be more than adequate to the task of servicing its army of elected officials and their personal armies of interns and assistants, lobbyists and their personal armies of interns and assistants, journalists and their (albeit much smaller) personal armies of interns and assistants, and activists and their, well, and activists.
In 13,713,546,548 UDS:Ea, ¡//ft was officially designated the Capital of the Universe (and thus had to change its name to ¡//fL to reflect its new noun class and gender in the local language). Three years later, Mohenjo Daro was temporarily destroyed by yet another inundation of the Indus River, an event that culminated in the passing of Bill ∝249935-p-Ξ, restricting the Capital of the Universe from being a city on a floodplain. Interestingly enough, the bill was nearly defeated by a delegation of aquatic methanotrophic lobbyists who campaigned to have the Capital moved back to the newly-submerged and substantially more anaerobic Mohenjo Daro.
According to the editor, words like 'capital', 'legislation', and 'elected' are now considered jargon due to the gradual decline of interest by the populace in political processes. The processes themselves would be completely forgotten if it weren't for 'white voters' and abstentionists such as myself. Of course, it all makes sense when I consider that terms such as 'mastopexy', 'capsular contracture,' and 'transconjunctival blepharoplasty' are easily overheard on the playground, spoken by newly-hatched children. Anyways, my editor seems to accept when I offer to replace every offending word with 'Anna Kournikova-Tron 6500.' Before its sarcasm circuits kick in and it has me terminated, I log off and set my UltravioletBerry™'s status icon to 'Overdosing'.
30.41667 OMT—7:18:00 AM MDT
The day's work done, I recline in my Co-MA-Boy™ lounger and finish my coffee. A gentle mewing at the door interrupts my thoughts; I rub my tongue against the Timex® calendar watch implanted in my left maxillary lateral incisor (Takes a licking and keeps on ticking!™) and realise it's Saveferrisday: the day the maid comes. (In order to reconcile the need for an eight-day workweek with the want for a four-day weekend, five extra days named for defunct ska-punk bands were added to the week.) Wondering whatever the hell happened to Thebeatday, I open the door and let in Manopla, who greets me by rubbing my face with her whiskers and purring before reminding me I still owe her for last month's services. Embarrassed, I make a half-assed attempt at tidying up the living room (priority: hide the holo-porn discs!) before giving up and sitting down to watch her work. Captivated by her lithe yet curvaceous body, I marvel yet again at the way her tawny fur turns to milky peach fuzz at her pert breasts and flat stomach, yet darkens to ebony black at her groin. As she bends over, flicking her tail, to lick the lint off the zebriger rug, I consider asking her to stay after she's done. I decide against it, remembering how the last time I hit dat, she stayed mad at me for two months for giving her Space hairballs. Then again, you haven't had sex unless you've had a rough-tongued rimjob. Fuck it: if my dry spell lasts until Operationivyday, I'll ask her to stay then.
33.70949 OMT—8:05:25 AM MDT
Finished cleaning the apartment, Manopla washes herself in the bathroom and then heads for the door. Just as she's about to leave, she turns and winks, pulling a bootleg holo-disc of Catwoman out of her purse. She looks so excited, I don't have the heart (or the Space-Spanish) to tell her it's not porn but rather a shitty movie Prime Minister Berry made before entering politics. At any rate, it looks like I'll be gettin' pussy later! (Even if I have to pull out the 'Ninguna tarjeta verde' card.)
Anyway, I've got the whole day ahead of me, and a whole universe to explore. So many things to do; so many choices! But I guess that's life when you live in THE FUTURE! in SPACE!
To be continued....
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