A Neo-Bank Finally Approved Me for a Mortgage!
You won't believe what I was able to buy.
It is the Lord’s Year 2057, and I just signed a 50-year mortgage at 32% interest with a cool neo-bank owned by a perfectly preserved Ryan Reynolds who is controlled by a Chinese investment firm. It is called Forever Mortgage™️ and they will pump me with recently legalized adrenochrome shots every week to keep me alive until it is paid off—a recent service offered by Living+. The Gen-Omega teen on TikShorts is teaching me neat finance hacks, like how to take advantage of Chase-Fargo’s life-extension mortgage policy to live forever by never paying off the mortgage.
This hefty debt was not to actually purchase a home, god willing, but to help finance the $50,000 monthly rent for my 1/8th share of a shipping container. It was a steal in this market because some of the metal over my luxurious sleeping bag has rusted out, so I get a small crack of natural indirect sunlight.
I receive an update from my Apple Watch, and apparently, the immortal Ryan Reynolds sold his neo-bank for $100 trillion to the Bank of America/T-Mobile megacorporation. Now these loans include Apple TV and Amazon’s micro-mobility Taco Bell delivery program, but I have to give up my 1/8 share of the shipping container to qualify. How could President Perfectly Preserved-in-a-Jar Head of Joe Biden let this happen to working people? At least the Democrats are still fighting to forgive some of our student loans. They also passed a bipartisan bill with Republicans that forced women to get their tubes tied while outsourcing pregnancies to Vietnam—I suppose this will help close the gender pay gap.
I have resigned myself to the fate of marketing SaaS until I’m waterlogged, bloated, and unrecognizable to my family, and then grubworms will feast on the rigor mortis permanently affixed on my disgusting Gila monster visage. The idea of being buried in my blue Oxford and my Lululemon athlesisure khakis is dreadful to ponder, so I’m considering a side hustle of selling my body parts until I don’t exist anymore. Let’s stick it to Big Funeral.
My grandxa just had their consciousness uploaded to a Tesla bot and it costs $799 to watch their funeral on my Apple Vision Pro 15. However, I have 30 years to pay that off at 21% interest. I’ll opt for electronic payments from my dogecoin account while I’m on vacation getting a mani/pedi at Elon Musk’s Martian resort and spa where psilocybin mushrooms are legal.
I deposit $75 into my kid’s Grubhub account for a slice of pizza before leaving an 80% tip to the drone that delivered it. Me and my significant other switch the channel on the Apple Vision Pro 15 to see the local philharmonic orchestra perform “Lo-fi Hip Hop Beats To Study/Relax To.” We both gaze into the AR simulation of each other’s eyes as the Olive Garden next door is burning to the ground in another race riot. I say, “Honey, remember this track? We did couples therapy to it once.”
After we slip off our VR goggles, we lie down on my sleeping bag. I stare into her actual freckle-specked emerald eyes and it transports me to a nostalgic idyl when things were less sinking and diseased and on fire. This quaint memory of throbbing love that was young and stupid and idealistic and full of possibilities. A tear of joy streaks down my cheek as I whisper to her, “Minimum security prison sounds legitimately fine.”
I freaking TOLD you guys you'd be able to own a home one day.
Read Jennifer government by max Barry. You will like it.