Dear 2008 Resident,

Greetings. I write you from the future.

I’ll bet you’re surprised to hear that. “How could I possibly receive a letter from the future?” you may ask yourself. Do they use wormholes? Some sort of ray? Is the US Postal Service now so slow that it runs backwards? Hardy-har-har. Nice attempt at observational comedy, douchebag. In the future, that sort of insensitive joke would expose you for the ignorant jerk that you are. The real answer is that we get all the Chinese to run in the same direction, thereby reversing the earth’s rotation.

You are shocked. You fall silent. Perhaps you are intimidated by my futuristically sophisticated ways, or by the enclosed photo of me doing this one chick from behind. Your reaction is understandable. The future has advanced far, far beyond your present in every measurable way, with the possible exception of hockey, which we find to be frustratingly low-scoring. Also, ice no longer exists.

You shouldn’t feel bad about your inferiority. We future-men are so very highly evolved that to refer to us as “human” is hardly accurate. I, for instance, am part robot, part Eloi and part Jewish, meaning that I am prohibited by law from playing in a reggae band. Of course, when I say “reggae” I refer to something completely unrelated to your limited use of the term. Reggae in the future is dominated by accordions and overdubbed speeches from Eastern European presidential candidates and is primarily played at greyhound races in order to anger the dogs.

But you must be wondering what it’s like, living in the future. First off, get this straight — we future-men obviously don’t call it the future. We call it “the fyootch,” which is shorter and therefore more efficient. But to answer your question: it’s bitchin’. To demonstrate this, a list of great things from the future follows:

Time travel

Jetpacks

Alpacas

Venusian sunsets

All poor people wiped out by mysterious virus

One free Jamba Juice

And the list of benefits goes on. Not to say that there aren’t disadvantages to living in the future — we live lives of such absurd excellence that we frequently experience an all-consuming ennui only curable by a night with the 20-limbed whores of the Caloris Basin. Plus, Jetpack fuel smells like cookies, which is great, but sometimes you get sick of cookies.

This brings me to the one big question you must currently be nursing: “Why is someone from the future writing me? They are intelligent, and we are stupid. They are handsome, and we are ugly. They are highly evolved, and we wallow on our dung heaps like apes.” These are all good points. In fact, you could add others, like your poor hand-eye coordination or your halitosis. But none of that is relevant right now because, as it turns out, you do have something we don’t have: $32.50. That’s how much a pack of Marlboros costs these days. $32.50! Jesus Christ! I know — the filters better be made of shredded twenties. But that’s the future for you.

So what I’m suggesting is something of a trade. You, 2008 resident, must collect $32.50 and hide it in between pages 315 and 316 of the San Francisco Public Library’s copy of Heinrich Pestalozzi: Father of Modern Pedagogy. Alternately, you could just jam a bunch of cigarettes in there.

If you do this for me, you will experience the long-lasting satisfaction of having aided one of your descendants — one of the children for whom you are stewarding the world through its many crises. Do what you know is the charitable thing — if not for me, then for your conscience. And if you don’t give me the money, I’ll come back there and have sex with your mom. I just have to rope up the Chinese first.

Futuristically,

Keith Richards