As we careen down the final chute to the year 2000, it is my most sincere and profound wish . . .
That sometime in the next two years, the NHL’s Buffalo Sabres trade Miroslav Satan to the New Jersey Devils and send millennial doomsday disciples into a mouth-foaming frenzy.
That the policy section be bigger than the porno section at the Clinton Library.
That Congress enact a law making it a felony for companies such as Yahoo! to include punctuation marks as part of their trademarks. At the rate it’s going, by 2050 you won’t be able to type (excuse me, “input”) the name of any corporation in America without hitting the shift key five times.
That the legacy of Taco’s Bell charismatic mascot Dinky not be a plague of overbred, mutant Chihuahuas assaulting the ankles of a great nation.
That enlightened marketers find a new phrase to substitute for “leveraging my brand equity.”
That one of the first casualties of the Millennium Bug be my credit card bill.
That anyone spinning the Prince song “1999″ this year be forced to pay the androgynous rocker a royalty surcharge of $100 per play. Not only will that decrease the occasions we’re bound to hear it by 16 gajillion, but the Artist Formerly Known As deserves it. Writing that song was the most ingenious, end-of-the-century retirement plan I’ve come across.
That promotion professionals get their due.
That the most popular name of the 24th century turn out to be Flash Gordon. Top female name? Barbarella, of course.
That consolidation tones down enough so that the world not be ruled by five global corporate empires. Earth would be a lesser place devoid of the creativity spawned by competition – especially from our dear friends in the advertising and promotion communities.
That if we do have to live with the dominance of five global conglomerates, they actually institute Rollerball as the way to settle their differences.
That they give that woman from All My Children an Emmy already.
That American affluence continue to grow without feeding American arrogance.
That Hell freeze over.
That the tobacco industry put all its resources into the speedy development of inexpensive artificial lungs that can be cleaned out like pool filters. That would save billions in tax revenues, millions in promotion campaign fees, and a planet full of weak individuals like me who just can’t quit.
That Cindy Crawford and Katarina Witt be reincarnated as themselves in alternate centuries, ad infinitum.
That the Red Sox somehow reverse the Curse of the Bambino.
That executives of Coke, Pepsi, McDonald’s, and Burger King refrain from arming themselves when they succeed in locating the last, godforsaken outpost for a burger joint or a pop distributorship.
That society continue to reserve a place for cynical wiseasses such as myself.
That we be spared a second year of millennium promotions when it dawns on the general populace that the 21st century doesn’t start until January 1, 2001.
That, in the Arthur C. Clarke-ordained year, at least one high school in the U.S. not have “A Space Odyssey” as its prom theme.
And, finally, the ultimate hope: That mankind establish a system of peaceful co-existence that allows the dawning of yet another millennium. May you all have a healthful and joyful next thousand years.