Thursday, 7 January 2016

Technology is a wonderful thing. levitate above your Hoversofa which X-rays your back and sends the results via Instagram to your doctor who is in a hammock in the Maldives where he re-calibrates your fridge to add 3 mg of radium to your water supply to destroy the benign tumor he's just found in your kidney and he also re-codes your Throbcushions to boost the ultra-sound waves to massage your aching limbs which makes you feel so warm and fuzzy you tune your fibre optic hair transplant and stream a 7D holographic concert comprising Mahatma Ghandi on guitar Adolf Hitler on drums John Wayne on keyboards Marilyn Monroe on bass and Stalin as backing singer whilst your Leap Forward Motion Headset detects a heightened level of mosh pit desire in your neocortex and hurls you on stage in your Teletubby onesie to join your personally constructed band so you can Twerk excitedly to Adolf's jazz inflected drum solos until your Jawbone beeps that your increased body temperature has risen above the acceptable levels of Tinky Winky and triggers your all-weather smart ceiling to precipitate a gentle flurry of personalised lime-green and cerulean tainted snowflakes which cool you down whereupon one Bluetooth snowflake reads your Facebook page and classifies you as  a potential skier and via your Ocular Rift Portal you are immediately whisked away from your Twerking to the top of a gentle blue run in Augmented Reality St Moritz wearing skis made out of potato peelings which your 3D printer has produced by the interface with the recycling bin and you take a gentle inhalation of cold alpine air from a phial in your headset as The Eye Tribe function in your ski goggles propels you forward to traverse the fluffy white powder and you ski so beautifully and gracefully you instantly fall in love with the sport and you purchase a ski chalet with your HSBC Saliva Recognition debit card  from the hologram time-share saleswoman at the bottom of the ski slope who has an uncanny resemblance to your favourite actress Sandra Bullock and after signing the mortgage contract Sandra scans the trace of saliva on your card and recognises that after a virtual ski you are extremely ravenous so she  texts the nearest Jamie Oliverbot patrolling your neighbourhood which glides up to your electrified front door electrified because the paving stones in your street have sensed a rather furtive walk from an unidentified individual with a dodgy beard so as a
precaution your local vigilante officer has switched your front door to taser mode and has granted the Jamie Oliverbot access to post your favourite pizza with Ecuadorian anchovies and
Nepalese mushrooms through your wi-fi letterbox which alerts your Domestic a 6 inch plastic model of Tony Blair with propellers who picks up your evening meal and via the Royal Doulton GPS which is disguised as a malnourished Chinese peasant on your mock willow pattern plate and delivers it to your lap and shortly after your final gulp your Bowel App says that the pizza will be through your gut in 228 minutes and 16.7 seconds and alerts your toilet to the exact time of fecal deposit so it can self-fragrance with Aux De Ski Instructor just in case you forget to pay your next instalment on the ski chalet you now own and yawning heavily you make your way to your amniotic pod knowing that every thought you had during the day will be written in to proper sentences by the Literati algorithm in your Microsoft pillow...

Technology is a wonderful thing.
But it's not as wonderful as a clear campaign strategy for a brand.

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