JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. Hey Future Josh, it’s your own handsome self! Giving you a call! I bet you got all excited when you saw you had a voicemail because you forgot about calling yourself. Didn’t you.

Let me guess. You were like: Goodness gracious who is this? Who is calling me on the telephone? Oh it must be the girl from the deli who seemed pretty impressed with my order today. Her eyes—blazing green like a majestic dragon-monster!—giving you that too-long are you for real kind of look? And you laid out the goods on a silver platter, like: Oh yeah, a hundred percent. And she gave you that long, deep sigh and then made your pastrami sub with extra mayo and extra sexy, as requested.

And then somehow she figured out your phone number? That’s what the internet is for. And she calls and her voicemail goes: I got a whole big Sam’s Club thing of mayo at my condo, which I just vacuumed and which has a surround-sound dealie if you want to watch Shawshank or something after we do El Deedo.

Dream on, jerk! Anyway, I just wanted to call to remind you about the sweet idea I had at the deli because remember how you forgot the last one? You wrote down something like koala buddy and were picking out what shape jacuzzi you were going to buy with all the cash moneys? And then completely forgot the genius idea?

Why am I such an idiot. It’s like you’re hanging out with God, nothing big, He’s got a party to go to later but is cool just relaxing with you beforehand, sort of getting His pre-party buzz on with the Snapple cocktails you just invented, and He’s feeling sort of sorry for you because He knows you’re looking down the barrel of a Super Nintendo night, so He’s all: Gotta run, Jigga, but real quick let me just give you my own personal secret recipe for potato chips that taste exactly like when you get out of work early because the power goes out or something and it’s a perfect spring day outside and you get in the car and the radio happens to be playing “When Doves Cry”? And then you completely forget to write any of it down?

What’s it going to take.

OK whatever, move on, don’t get bogged down by negativity, look to the future, and the future is this: Some kind of website or internet experience where you go there and type in some lady you know, OK? And then it would email you a really detailed description of what she looks like naked. Written in a fancy style? I think we can use JavaScript to make it really accurate. And we could do the gents, too, of course, no reason to shut out a potential customer. I bet you’d love to write those dude descriptions!

I think this is a pretty obvious money factory. Just needs a little TLC and imagineering. Do me a favor for once and add it to the spreadsheet, kay? We’ll sort it out together. You and me, buddy, till the end. Don’t go changing, Future Josh. I hope that mustache you’re working on is a little further along.

—click—