Radio-on-Demand.

A woman always wanted an expensive car: a status symbol to drive around and be seen in. She scrimps and saves, goes to the BMW dealer, and plops down several years' income for a brand new state-of-the-art, computer enhanced, kick-ass, dream mobile. She's driving off, decides she wants some music and searches for the radio.

The dashboard looks like a control panel at NASA. She fiddles with this button, that gizmo... jiggles these and those, but finally gives up. Can't find the damned thing.

Furious, she races back to the dealership and screams at the salesman. She tells him they forgot to install the radio.

He assures her it's right there in front of her. "It's hooked into the onboard computer. All you have to do is tell it what you want." He demonstrates: "Classical," he says. "click" The car fills with the sounds of Paganini.

"Blues," she says, and "click" a B.B. King classic plays.

She drives off amazed. "Country," she says, and "click" a Garth Brooks tune comes on. "Folk" and "click" Joan Baez sings about the night they drove ol' Dixie down. "New Age" and "click" Yanni at the Acropolis snaps on.

She's so captivated by this new toy that she isn't paying much attention to the road. Another driver runs a light and cuts her off. "ASSHOLE!!!" she screams.

"click" "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States....

    Forwarded from Robert Poserina.