Someday, when my son is old enough to understand words like “spent honey pot” and “washed-up pop whore,” I’ll tell him about what life was like before Britney Spears exposed her bare vagina at least once a day. It’ll probably go something like this:
Me: Son, stop playing spaceball with your hologram robot and come over here.
Son: What is it, pop?
Me: I wanted to tell you a story about the olden days.
Son: You mean before the benevolent mutant cyber-goats took over?
Me: Yes, my boy, long before that.
Son: And before President Osment saved the world by eradicating spaghetti-pox?
Me: Yes, even before that. Son, believe it or not, before you were born we weren’t bombarded with images of Britney Spears’s downstairs garage door.
Son: Attorney General Britney Spears?
Me: Yes, son, the one and only.
Son: Gosh, pop, why didn’t anyone stop her?
Me: I’m afraid the folks in my generation were just too darned selfish. We weren’t thinking about our children and our children’s children.
Son: Or your children’s children’s dino-clone-bots?
Me: Precisely. If only we’d known then what we know now. I just want to say I’m sorry, son.
Son: It’s too late for sorry, pop.
With that, Son aims his bionic-tentacle at me and liquifies me with a single laser-beam shot.