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If I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk all of the scientists who failed to deliver me what is rightfully mine in the year 2009: a flying car.

Scientist you Fail! You are worst than the airlines, banks and automakers put together. Can’t even get your world ending black hole making particle collider up in time, Cute! Actually I’m sort of glad you don’t know what you are doing. Continue to provide society with your consistent failings; we might be better off without your help.

I have a sneaking suspension that a few weeks after the model T was created someone converted one to work on water and then a week later: farts. I’m certain that a scientist said “Cavemen used wheels.  They are played out.”  And shortly after that they made a flying car. However once Goodyear, JP Morgan, and Henry Ford caught wind of the flying fart powered machine, they put a quick end to that idea.  Well just like that MY FLYING CAR is more of a fairy tale than the lost city of Atlantis or unicorns.

For the longest time I kept thinking that by the time we reached 2000, we were going to look at the 1980s like some sort of Neolithic era of stones, caves, and primitive wheels.  Shit was going to be crazy after 2000. We’re talking Jet packs, astronaut ice cream, the end of poverty and hunger, underwater cities, space colonies and FLYING CARS.  There were no visions of the future that didn’t have flying cars, it just seemed inconceivable that we would be rolling around on these stupid rubber wheels which really haven’t changed all THAT much since medieval times.

So 2000 came and went, no flying car.  Ok I thought, maybe next year.

Well it’s 2009 and WHERE THE FRAK IS MY FLYING CAR?

Do I not have it because we don’t’ have the technology?  No!  These scientists created Diet Pepsi, cloning, put a man on the moon, and invented the Internet.  They are responsible and so now it’s time to pay.

I would roll up to a science lab somewhere in Northern California and demand to see a group of scientists.  They would be all “we just make computers here,” and I would say “not my problem, where’s my flying car?”

They would then direct me to some PR person who of course would have in hand a Moller Sky Car brochure. I would gracefully accept the brochure wipe my butt with it, hand it back to him and ask what does your “Sky Car” and this brochure now have in common? They both stink! Now take me to your leader, I want to speak with the grownups.  As I suspected he would be wearing those Kareem Abdul-Jabbar goggles because some fortune teller had prophesied that this day would come.  And sure enough, here it is.

He’d say “ok, so we tried to make a flying car once but it didn’t work.” Then I would demand that he get some other scientists to bring it into the wind tunnel, because it was time to settle this.

Once we got in the wind tunnel I would make all of the scientists get into their stupid non-working car. Now as for me I showed up fresh, I wouldn’t need to change since I was already wearing an all black suit like LL Cool J in the “I’m That Type of Guy” video, and I would totally be wearing a toque too.  I would yell “PASS THE ROCK!” and the robot from Short Circuit would throw me the ball. The mechanics of pneumatic arms and hydraulic pistons would rearrange the room like a Japanese anime, Steamboy, Akari, whateva. A Kevlar reinforced backboard and hoop would descent from the ceiling (they had it installed to test wind resistance on Michael Jordan once).  Then I would say “I want a challenge! TURN ON THE FANS!” All the scientists would be freaking out!  “The fans will blow you back, you’ll never reach the rim, even Michael Jordan couldn’t do it.” One female scientist wouldn’t be able to control herself and would take off her lab coat to reveal her bathing suit underneath. I’d tell her “Get a hold of yourself, I’m married. Go sit on the hood!”

They would turn it on and I would run into the wind, but my toque would stay on, then I would do a pretty simple one handed slam into the hoop.

The lady scientists would look at me like an airplane flying over her and be impressed.

I would then land on the flying car and all the windows would blow out and that lead scientists goggles would shatter.  Later on he would lie and say he started crying because some glass got in his eyes, but we know, those are humiliation tears.

I would immediately demand a list of people on the waiting list for the first flying car.  I would then tear it up and hand them a list of one.

“Hubert White.”

And before you idiots make HAL or Cylons make me my flying car.

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stacydunkIf I could dunk on anyone, I would dunk on Mark Zuckerberg the inventor of Facebook.  I have chosen to target Zuckerberg because he created the thing that has caused me to waste what probably adds up to an entire year of my life.   I would also like to dunk on him because he’s filthy rich and super wealthy people deserve to have some demeaning and embarrassing shit happen to them once in a while.

To initiate my showdown with the king of social networking I would track him down in Palo Alto California where he would most likely be found lounging in a bathtub the size of an Olympic pool.  The tub would be filled with organic bubbles and salts that cost more than what an average American earns in a year.  No scratch that.  What the above average American earns in two years.

I drive up in my bright yellow Hummer (the regular size not the mini pussy sized H2), wearing a fur jacket, smoking cigarettes and throwing my empty water bottles out the window just to show those granola loving freaks in Northern California that I mean business. I confront Zuckerberg just as he is getting out of the tub and his three butlers are wrapping him gently in Egyptian cotton towels that are so luxurious they are like a million grams per square meter (Restoration Hardware’s are 802 grams just to compare.)  These are some fluffy ass towels.

“Mr. Zuckerberg,” I say.  “Prepare to be dunked on.”  Zuckerberg is shocked.
“Why, me?”  He queries.  (For the record, poor people question, rich people query.)
“Because you created Facebook and since I can’t dunk on an internet site and a bunch of applications, I have to dunk on you.”
At this point, I turn away because the butlers are now drying Zuckerberg’s balls, and while my goal is to kick his ass in basketball I do not want to come off as rude.  Having a free minute I grab my phone and go to my profile page and type: “Stacy is.”  Which I realize is the lamest status update ever but is the only one I can think of in the moment.

Finally, his balls dry and powdered, Zuckerberg taps me on my turned shoulder and asks “Why do you hate Facebook so much?”
“Because it consumes me.”   I reply.  “It is a time suck, and it taught me how to be a stalker, and made me friend people I don’t like or care about.  Plus, I’m so addicted to updating my status that I think of every moment of my life in the third person, and it’s driving me goddamn crazy!”

I suggest the dunking take place somewhere nearby, as I am starting to get hungry and want to get this done before lunch so I can go to the Oasis Beer Garden to grab a burger.  Zuckerberg suggests his private basketball court and arranges for the all the local Palo Alto celebrities (of which there are none) to be present.

I remove my fur coat, which by now has been covered in blood by passing PETA activists, and slip into my dunking uniform.  (I decide to wear a cute little jumpsuit because apparently they are on trend for spring and this seems like as good an opportunity as any to try one out.)   At the same time, Zuckerberg’s butlers get him dressed in Larry Bird’s Indiana State uniform, which they explain is the very uniform that Bird wore in the 1979 NCAA finals.  I tell them sports statistics are lame and I don’t give a shit.

On my way to the court I notice on my Iphone that I have a new friend request on Facebook.  I check it, and see that this dude I went to summer camp with has tracked me down.  I accept the request even though the only thing I remember about this guy is that we shared a sleeping bag once and his hand “accidentally” remained on my ass the entire night.  Again, I don’t want to seem rude.

The butler throws me a basketball made of gold (but not as heavy as gold) and I start to dribble down the court towards Zuckerberg.   Suddenly I realize that the fact that I am about to dunk on the creator of Facebook could be the greatest status update ever so I grab my phone to make sure that my two hundred and eighty-six friends know exactly what I am doing at this moment in time.  Because I’m distracted Zuckerberg gets the ball and performs a lay up on me.  Hard.  I shake it off, put down the phone and tell myself to focus.   But just as I am about to grab the ball, I notice that my ex-coworker has just gotten back from Jamaica, and I am dying to see her new album “Ya Mon 09.”   I tell myself I’m just going to scroll through a few pics, but before I know it, Zuckerberg has the ball again and now he’s beating me like 12 to nothing.

Suddenly, I get nudged by my cousin whom I never speak to because he wants me to take my turn in Scrabble Beta.  I realize that if I don’t log out of Facebook right now I am never going to be able to do the thing I came here to do: to show Zuckerberg what it really means to dry someone’s balls.  I steel myself, and throw my phone to one of the butlers.  “No matter what I say, no matter how hard I beg, do not under any circumstances give me that phone.”  I assert.
“What if you offer to blow me?”  He asks.
“Why the hell would I offer that?” I reply.
He shrugs, slightly embarrassed, and shoves the phone in his butler vest.

I jog on over to Zuckerberg then stop a few inches from him.  I pretend that my shoelace is undone, knowing that when I bend over my shorts (did I mention the jumpsuit was the shorts kind?) will ride up just enough that he’ll be distracted and I can get the ball from him.  He may be rich, but he’s still a dude.

My plan works, and within moments I’ve got the ball and I’m heading down the fairway.  It’s the third period, no one is on base and I am going to nail that golden ball into the end zone.  I take a running leap and dunk the ball so hard that the scoreboard breaks and makes it look like I have two hundred and eighty six points.  I’ve won.  I jump around the court like those people on the internet who have just discovered that they can lower their mortgage rate by half a point.  Zuckerberg, shamed and tired from too much activity retires to his regulation sized movie theatre to watch Untamed Heart, the guilty pleasure movie he likes to screen when he’s sad.

As I look up at the score-board, the number two hundred and eighty-six reminds me of all my amazing Facebook friends.  I approach the butler, punch him in the balls, grab my phone out of his vest and log on to see what they are all up to.

Stacy Traub is a writer/producer living in Los Angeles.  She both cares and does not care about your Status Update.