- Welcome to the Programmable World
- Connected Sensors Watch the Earth's Murmurs and Translate Into Data
- The Boat That Could Sink America's Cup
Another spring has passed and as summer warms the ground,
The chance to celebrate a great tradition comes around:
We skip the parks and cookouts, and we head inside instead
To watch movie after movie till our eyes fry in our head.
Every year it's like a pilgrimage, a popcorn-fueled hajj,
Where Mecca's a reclining seat the size of a garage.
But this year we've sensed a trend—no matter who's the leading man,
The only thing that's guaranteed is shit's about to hit the fan.
It's really no surprise; we've always thrilled to tales of peril
When our first-world lives begin to feel too safe, secure, and sterile.
So Hollywood's obliged us with a steady diet of fun—
Or at least a steady diet of threats from which we'd better run.
The '90s loved to trumpet that the end was drawing near,
Even though that meant releasing carbon copies every year:
In '98, two space disasters threatened kin and kith.
(And they both sucked—sorry, Morgan Freeman; sorry, Aerosmith!)
But the wake-up call of Y2K was more like narcolepsy,
And the Mayans' prophesyin' went the way of Crystal Pepsi.
When these IRL disasters fizzled out in such grand fashion
Directors clearly thought they'd better supersize the smashin'.
"Let's ramp it up," they thought. "We need a threat that makes us wince
But can only be defeated by someone like the Fresh Prince."
He'd passed on being Django, so he jumped into the mix—
But so did people in like 37 other flicks.
In After Earth, Will and young Jaden fight a land in flux
A thousand years after we'd all decided M. Night sucks;
World War Z pits Brad against the hordes—wait, no, they're faster ...
Or are they all just angry extras from Inglourious Basterds?
In Man of Steel, it's Kal-El saving us from General Zod
(Who we'd thought was in Chicago, selling irons to the mob).
In White House Down our president's in danger from new foes
And Channing Tatum has to save the day—while wearing clothes!
Too much genre for your liking? Too much undead, too much space?
Not enough regular people trying to save the human race?
How 'bout This Is the End, a more comedic doomsday blast
Starring everyfuckingbody Apatow has ever cast?
It's aliens! It's zombies! It's ambiguously stated
Hazards that purport to tell us our existence is outdated!
Sorry, we're just being peevish; we don't mean to sound annoyed,
But we're finished buying tickets just to stare into the void.
It's like shelling out 12 bucks to have an existential crisis—
And we haven't even added in insane concession prices.
But we've thought up a solution, and we're sure that you'll be thrilled;
The editors of Wired are going to join the Writers Guild!
We can't beat ’em, so we'll join ’em; now, get ready for some scripts
In which a monthly-magazine staff saves the world from an eclipse!
Wait, you wouldn't want to see that? We've been fired? Oh-em-gee!
Ah, forget it—we'll just see you all in line for World War Z.
