This strange email arrived in the KSK inbox the other day:
February 5, 2497
Subject: please help
@brothers and @sisters of the past,
i do hope this transmission finds you well. i’ve long been a fan of your whimsical musings on old-timey penancing®…though i do believe you still call it “football” in 2014, no? for you see, i’m sending you this message from the year 393 p.r. (“post reckoning” or “pewpewface regime” as me and my fleet call it haha). anyway, i believe that translates to roughly 2497 in your calendar, and to put it in the words of your prophet (father sinrod), things are “kinda concerning?”
a mere month from now, his lordship philip rivers will win the first of his ten super bowl trophies, celebrating each one by depositing a #love #pod into his wife, and thus every winter casting upon the world another rivers boy or 2 (or 7, as was the case after the aptly named super bowl lv, when he was especially potent).
this may sound innocent enough, mildly disturbing maybe, but you have no #idea what’s in store #friends. (forgive me if i’m not using your @interneting #lexicon correctly. we no longer have social media in the future, after an ironic twitter campaign inadvertently led to lorenzo lamas being elected president. capital letters and swearing were also admonished after a quelled uprising led by the one you call @zodiac_mf).
but digress, i do. back to my story.
upon retirement, leige rivers got into leading (coaching), much like his father before him. and fellows, was he ever a fecal cavern. really let the boys have it, even his own. much like his father before him, it worked. his sons bought into the lessons of tenacity, throwing it as hard as you can all the fracking time, constantly berating the officials (robots) — even after you’ve scored a glorybomb (touchdown), and doing it all with that patented rivers “i just upper-decked coach coach turner’s chambers we gotta get outta here” face. despite those outward appearances, he loved all 23 of his boys the same. because he was the best man at all each and every one of their weddings.
but oh, prosper at penancing, they did! all went on to successful rpl careers (aka nfl…in 2245 it was officially renamed ***spoiler alert*** the rivers penancing league), and all followed their dad and granddad into the family retirement plan: leading up their offspring in penancing. and, well…i think you see where this is headed. before long, penancing was being played and led by nothing by rivers men. the smart ones were groomed as sky painters (quarterbacks), the quick ones at the skill positions, the slow ones at quitter (punter) and quitter-lite (kicker), the unstable ones played roughhouse (defense), and the stragglers were fattened up to become retaining walls (linemen).
after a long day on the line fabricating hoverboards, sunday afternoons are supposed to be a way to blow off stress. but instead all we get is the same bloodline beating the sin out of each other in the name of that very same bloodline. which is why i’m reaching back to you. though technically illegal to use now, one of your lust boxes (computers) has been passed down through the generations of men in the floorbush family, and i’ve been reading with delight your musings on the one you call marmalard and the moving pictures that accompany them. for it is only you that can save football. do what you must, but do more. get the word out there. please, for the love of the game, make sure enough hate is cast upon this man so that his future reign never, ever happens.
i must go now. be well, but be mean.
sent from my i-frontalcortex device
Fake? Yes. Alarmingly possible? That’s how most dystopian science fiction works.
Fuck the Chargers.