Goodbye to Your Crackhead Astronaut DreamsS

The Way We Live Now: Never sharing. It's just not in our nature. My cab is mine. My space shuttle is mine. My crack house is mine. You don't like it? Hop a rocket for the moon! Oh you can't.

Big surprise, New Yorkers don't like the idea of cab sharing. No wonder. Every time you try to share a cab in this city, you're sitting next to an annoying fucking New York Post reporter. Even though only 232 New York residents can still afford cabs, we'd rather go without Momofuku Ko for a solid year than to share a cab with your stank ass.

Things are that bad.

Space tourism? Russians are giving up on it. No rocket-sharing. There simply aren't enough people out there willing to pay several billion dollars to underwrite the massive space boondoggle in exchange for cramped quarters with a group of surly cosmonauts.

Goodbye, dreams.

An office tower in LA that was once grandly toasted as "the world's biggest crack house" is now just another boring yuppie building with a wine bar. The crack economy has collapsed. Forget the road to the riches and the fancy cars and fat chains and fast women, kids. It's a career as a wine bar waiter for you.

Menial servitude.

Janitors are robbing people. When you can't trust a janitor or an astronaut or a crack dealer, who can you trust? Maybe a little imaginary friend we like to call "The Good People with Money," who does not exist.