Milk of Human Kindness

IN THE FUTURE everyone--and I mean everyone--will be lactose intolerant. Even a hypothetical mewling babe-in-arms supping on the teat of its uteral precursor (see also: mother [archaic, descended from "moth": a fluttering, light-seeking pest]) will succeed at naught but vomiting and writhing. It shan't, however, be just any hunch-and-wobble, quease-and-keel varietal of vomit which shall thus issue forth, but the particularly acidic melange of tapioca, spittle, grain alcohol, and raw lactase, which, then garbing the jolly knobs of the uteral precursor (as if a dimpled, meringue breastplate) will signal the final betrayal by the species of itself. We shall neither drink milk nor, long since, love. Happy Valentine's Day.