Like a fat man sitting naked on a leather couch during summer, science fiction has always had a sticking point with me. Not the long time ago/far, far away stuff, because let's face it, unless mass-produced virgin's blood bath products hit Safeway shelves soon, we'll be in no fit state to mock these deluded visions of the Year 30,000. No, it's the not-long-from-now, chilling-warning-to-the-present-generations type of story that's got my goat. The reason is that the people who create these scenarios, with few exceptions, seem to predict transcendental changes for humanity over the next few decades. Some describe machines rising up against their human benefactors (presumably the international language of love isn't binary code), whilst others prefer widespread social and political upheaval. This is all, as I say in Latin when I wish to sound more arrogantly pretentious, tauri excreta. Basically, the future will be the same as today, except with more remotes.
What will change, however, is fashion. Now, let me firstly clarify that my hefty pectorals are not currently adorned with medals for services to style. Hell, I don't even have the type of chest required for accolade-displaying. I'm more of an advocate of the 'walking biodegradation' school of dress sense. If it doesn't shriek and crumble to dust on exposure to sunlight, it's acceptable attire. If familiarity breeds contempt, I look forward to a swift execution at the hands of my winter wardrobe. And so on. Fortunately, I don't intend to divulge pointers on what colour will become next century's black. Rather, my focus will be on a more neglected area of futurology - facial hair.
Beard protection - TO THE XTREME!!!
After centuries of conservative goatees and mutton-chops, the new millenium will see the birth of a stubble renaissance. The five o' clock shadow is in it's eleventh hour, and a glorious era in facial topiary approaches. Just take a look at what's in store:
It takes a certain kind of person to grow eye gutters, in much the same way as it takes a certain kind of disease to make you genitals fall off. But those few, those precious few, who do possess the gift shall have kudos heaped upon them like rubble on World Trade Centre workers. Women will vomit with lust at a mere wink of your parenthesised eye. Men will devolve into gibbering puddles of jealousy upon glimpsing the eye gutters gracefully encircling your orbit, like two furry slugs on a merry-go-round. The major problem with growing - nay, cultivating - these babies is the natural borders of facial hair. Few have the requisite sasquatch-like hirsuitism to be able to grow a truly inspiring pair, as most stubble simply doesn't grow high enough. If you happen to be in this unfortunate majority, I'm afraid there is only one option to redeem your future dignity - the peanut butter solution.
Wearing a scarf is a dangerous proposition for a man. Like being called pretty or owning anything pink, scarf-wearing has the potential to destabilise the musky balance of masculinity. Fortunately, the cold-intolerant will soon have another option besides sacrificing their manhood - neckmuffs. Simply shave your face as normal, but leave a dashing collar of bumfluff to insulate your neck. You'll not only be snug on those chilly winter morns, youll also have the perfect camouflage for the hickeys you will no doubt acquire from admiring socialites.
Despite what those lousy bums the foot fetishists will tell you, the lips are the most sexual of all the organs displayed in polite society. Lips advertise arousal, handing out pamphlets with a cheery wink to let people know you're up for some ugly-bumping. That's why people use lipstick, to add metaphorical flashing lights to their sexuality billboard. A more effective way to emphasise that most bee-stung of orifices, though, is by growing some sausage grease. Sure, it may look like a practical joke from Police Academy at present, but remember it's the future were talking about here. Ten years ago who'd have thought that happy pants wouldn't last? Evolution is strange thing though, and while yesterday's trousers become nothing more than fluoro-coloured fossil fuels, sausage grease reigns supreme in the world above.