Dear friends, family, colleagues and frequent passers-by who aren’t afraid to make eye contact:
Please join me in celebration as I formally announce the sale of my apartment, the disconnection of my land line and cable subscriptions, and the liquidation, placement and donation of all my worldly goods in preparation for my joyful move to my new home in the Cloud.
Many of you have long suspected I was in a transitional state -- the radical weight loss, the tardy, strategic return of phone messages, the auctioning of my Eskimo art. But only a few of you knew I had been working toward my goal of personally becoming vapor and joining, in the Cloud, with my vast musical collection; my broad assortment of e-books; my timeless, sentimentally digitized photographs; my critical, up-to-date medical records; my proudly maintained archives; and the last six years of scanned tax returns and backups. (Francis, apologies, dear. I wound up giving the mauve and green Fulper vase to Emeralda in gratitude for 26 devoted, dust-free years of not breaking it. Her Wednesdays are now open in case you know anyone.)
Oh, I’ve been weekending and summering in the Cloud for years. First the weekends got a bit longer, until, well it’s all a bit foggy now, but this final, complete relocation should be almost seamless. All of my banking, bill-paying, pharmaceutical and grocery lists are already in the Cloud. Heck, I’ve even been dating in the Cloud for longer than I can remember, though I haven’t actually met anyone FTF. LOL, isn’t that crazy? (BTW, the humidity -- my skin has never been better; my hair is another story!)
That, coupled with the nutty price of fossil fuels and the disparity between the real-time traffic alerts I’ve been getting on my satellite nav and the (can you believe I actually still listen to) AM radio traffic reports, meant it was time to put the old cavity-backs on EBay, along with my beloved hunk of bored-out, 340-HP, octane-sucking American muscle. Goodbye, alternate side of the street parking. Goodbye, car alarms, road rage, teens who text while driving, and poop on the sidewalk.
In the Cloud there are no real pets, so there’s absolutely no need for paper. History has always just happened and is open to everyone for rewriting and/or attribution. There is no infringement because there can’t really be any copyrights. It’s so great! And there are no jackhammers that can’t be muted, no context that can’t be altered, no preservatives and no expiration dates.
In the Cloud one needs no attic, basement, locker or luggage. Leftovers don’t congeal. Nothing ever spoils. There is no global warming because it’s always so wonderfully Cloudy. There is unlimited capacity for everything. I almost never get aggravated because I’m always aggregating. And nothing is ever dirty because everything is dirty. There is no pollution because everything is garbage. There is no pornography because everything already is. Oh, how I love my new big, soft, ever-expanding Cloud!
A few of you have already asked me some important questions. Will I ever return? For a visit, a Cub Scout reunion, a dental cleaning? What if I change my mind or someone moves into the Cloud next to me and cooks Indian food all the time? And of course, where exactly will I sleep?
Let me answer all of these by simply saying that I adore Indian food. I find that, though clarified butter congeals, I never seem to have leftovers. In terms of actual human contact, I’ll be watching, and therefore already knowing, everything -- all while dutifully flossing.
As for sleep, as easy as it would be for me to Google an appropriate quotation to copy and paste into an original, literary, intellectual articulation of my own feelings about the necessity of planning for such a triviality, let me remind all of you of what the few fine country music fans among you already know: It’s five o’clock somewhere. Which means I’ll be free at last to never again miss a news cycle, to trade global commodities 24/7 and to blog, tweet, tumbl, gwak, grp and greps wherever and whenever I so please.
And if anyone doesn’t like it, they can get off of my Cloud.
(Rick Moranis is a writer and actor who lives in New York City. The opinions expressed are his own.)
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