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Your house may fold up like a baby carriage^ tucked away in a fluorescent lighted jeep.
by CHARLES H. HOGAN
omorrow
THAVE been doing a lot of reading lately, and much nervous thinking. It has occurred to me that the Little Helpmeet and I might as well give all of our stuff — lock, stock and rocking chair — to the Salvation Army, and be done with it.
For, come the future, according to every magazine I pick up, those treasured hard-bought items will be as outmoded as the wrappings on the late lamented Thotmes III.
It's enough to drive one creepy just contemplating what some international gang of super-duper meddlers are cooking up for the way we're going to live.
They tell me our houses will be a little number that you can fold up like a flexible baby carriage and tuck away in your air-conditioned fluorescent lighted jeep and haul away to new vistas of enchantment.
At first, in their crude pioneer days, these wizards were going to have plastic buttons which one would push and there
by set in motion various do-hinkuses that will do anything from mowing the lawn to washing the family's young.
Radionics or some such whimsey will make it possible for a citizen to sit in the living room (which is really the garage but you'd never recognize it) and whisper: "I sure wish them dishes was washed!"
Presto! Your voice, via short wave, goes to the kitchen and bellers: "Come out, come out, wherever you are," or some such to the sink and all hell breaks loose.
The sink comes sashaying out of the bathroom (with a photofilm of Wham, the Slick Magazine, under its faucet). The sink bows; silently and and swiftly washes the dishes, dries them, sprinkles talcum on them and lovingly pats their rosy little plastic bottoms.
We aren't going to have any sheets or blankets it seems. Wc are to lie down and tuck ourselves in under a lot of ether waves and thus off to