Stone Age

This is not me, but it might as well be. Apparently, I now live in the 1950’s. Jilly doesn’t know it yet, but it looks like from here on, she will have to load my lunch pail every morning before I drive the station wagon to work. I will clock-in down at the factory at 8:00am and work eight hours and then clock out. I will arrive home at 5:30pm at which time Jilly will meet me at the door with my slippers in hand and a cocktail at the ready. I will whip the kids (don’t have any, I’ll have to breed a few) and then we will have dinner, at the dining room table, in silence. Afterwards, I’ll watch the news while Jilly does the dishes. At 9:00pm, I will climb into my bed and she will climb into hers. Our beds, separated by a nightstand with an opened bible within easy reaching distance, will be kept four feet apart in order to avoid surreptitious physical contact in a manner not sanctioned by the “Laured.” How did this happen? Only a few short days ago, I was a proud member of the generation that dug the grave, and then shoveled dirt onto the corpse of the Victorian mindset. I hitched my wagon to the computer and trusted that my faith in it was justified. Yet, here I am, at the end of a long string of failed post attempts, unable to post videos and fighting to keep Word and Exploder from overheating and burning the g*ddamn house down. I remember what it was like before computers and the internet and this is worse. If things don’t start getting better fast, I’ll find myself living in the 1930’s or worse, Jilly will be washing our clothes down at the river and I’ll be clubbing small mammals on the head for dinner. I am not looking forward to tree bark, or gravel, or whatever they used before toilet paper was invented.