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Home > Articles > Happy Morning in Hedonistia, November 14, 2050

Happy Morning in Hedonistia, November 14, 2050

Posted: Wed, November 14, 2012 | By: Hank Pellissier



6:00: I wake up euphoric after a wonderful night of programmed dreams. After climbing out of my deprivation pod, I challenge my synthetic heart with 350 pushups — the recommended workout for a 114-year old. Next I gaze out the window of my 153rd floor home at the other Farmpartments, all energy self-sufficient and covered with dwarf fruit that the robo-monkeys pick for us in the night.  What should I do first?  Get my e-democracy voting over with, or loosen up with my Sexbot?  I chose the latter. As I grunt happily with my Margaret Sanger model, I hear my wife in the next room doing the same thing with her love-droid. Ha, ha. These were great 80th Anniversary presents for each other.

6:30: Now I’m voting. What a chore. With direct democracy, instead of the every-two-year ballot box, I now vote on numerous issues every single day.  My phone shows me myriad ways that the budget can be balanced. I check “b” and move on to the propositions.

7:00: My son Lexus e-calls to find out how I voted. We generally disagree on everything. I tell him I voted “no” on the proposal for government-supervised eugenics because I support the rights of parents to choose. “But those moron Luddite kids are failing in school!” he screeches. “They’re so retarded that they can’t do calculus in kindergarten! Plus, they’re crippled with near-sightedness and acne!” I interrupt. “You’re arguing about a tiny demographic,” I counter. “Hardly anybody has kids anymore; only one in thirteen women” (fertility rates plummeted when immortality arrived in 2041.)

7:15:  My wife joins me for breakfast. I’m very happy with our In-Vitro Meat Box. Last night I loaded in some saltwater crocodile cells and this morning I have nine chunky sausages to devour. Chewy. Delicious. We both drink the supplements that our wrist doctor, a medical monitoring bracelet, recommends, then we chat about our grandchildren and make plans to rendezvous for an orgy with our ‘droids at 11:00.

7:45: I go for a relaxing 20-mile run; naked. Nobody wears clothes anymore, because our community is domed and temperature-controlled. My synthetic heart has a maximum rate of 320 beats per minute, but I set it at a 70% because I want to loiter along at 20 mph. I do “the pre-history loop” so I can go by the waterfall to see the new dinosaurs that arrived, recreated from fossil DNA.  They’re friendly, due to genetic therapy. I swim with the dolphins when I’m done, then I hunker down for some work.

9:15: I am an Urban Aesthetician. This means I examine the city planning designs that the robots have developed. I choose my favorites, adding suggestions.  I’m working on OgoniLand this morning, the Hippo Family apartment-boat complex (where 100,000 people can dwell), embedded in the Niger delta. I add 9 Flamingo Towers and 3 GiraffeScrapers on the shoreline. I also add water-slides because the Niger is the warmest, cleanest river in the world ever since the oil-eating bacteria unpolluted it.  I listen to music while I work and play chess, half-attentive, with an old Bobby Fischer model that I handily dispatch.

10:15: Shopping Time! I browse through my phone, looking for a “Pog” — a dog-pig hybrid — friendly like a canine, but you can feed it anything and it’s got that pink funny tail. I don’t have to worry about the price because money was abolished along with copyrights and property back in 2038.

10:30: Laugh Time. I watch a podcast of the recent rude jokes. There’s a character sketch about Luddite kids that’s horribly cruel, but I can’t help laughing hysterically. My lymphatic system is pummeled with chortles.

10:45: My wife arrives early because she wants to have a conversation before the orgy. “Mental foreplay,” she explains.  She talks about her job. She’s an Asteroid Mining Manager harvesting platinum and other precious metals. This bores me, but I don’t want to ruin my chances for some bi-guy fun with her sexbot. So I just smile concernedly and ask occasional questions. Sure enough, she shuts up at 10:59. We pop our horny-pills and have nasty fun with our ‘droids.

11:30: Meditation Time. This is immensely harder than laughing, but I need it severely. Even though I’ll live forever, and I never have to do mindless labor, there’s still the angst-ridden questions: Why am I here? What is meaningful? I have eternity to figure this out, but I’d be happier if I solved it today.  Should I join that mission to Titan? Should I worry about robot insurrection? Finally, I decide that I need to build my own city. I’ll ask for a nanobot team but should it be underwater? Or in outer space? I drift off in my imagination, knowing that whatever I create there, will eventually be realized in my hedonist-futurist world.

(this is dedicated to Vegard Madsen, with thanks)



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