Generation K

What about all those voters who aren't born yet? After we rub their mother's pregnant bellies, the future ballot-casters of Generation K (for Karl) will need to be mollycoddled, patronized, and confined to grotesque, liquid-filled chambers where their souls will be harnessed by a series of funky black tubes to perpetuate the Karl Wirsing political machine. But who are they?

We'll probably look down on the next generation of voters: those disrespectin' kids with their "moon landings" and their "rocket fuel" beverages and their "casual circles of premeditated sex." To the best of my knowledge, they will look like the kid from "Flight of the Navigator," except the aliens on their shoulders will be enormous, octopus-headed beasts with bloodshot eyes and a particular distaste for liberty.

Karl and Mike, I beseech you, as you plan out the most crucial election campaign of the century, do not forget to subjugate the young people. They will come into the Wirld with bright eyes and an enviable sort of innocence, convinced of their own potential to save humankind. But they won't know the difference between Karl Wirsing and the blackened stump of their hastily severed umbilical cords. Fortunately, we will have the element of surprise. It's never too early for 2032.