Do you think in another 50 years when we are all getting senso-messages streamed directly into our neocortex there will be anyone out there standing up for e-mail?

Will you or I go on the general broadcast feeds and show ancient 720p archive footage of rows and rows of server racks, or the venerable bearded UNIX admin who worked so hard to deliver your e-mail?

No. That will never happen because nobody likes e-mail. Don't ask me why everyone is writing them if nobody likes to get them. I don't care.

Oh, and the first sentence of his is pretty remarkable, for a couple of reasons.

"I got an email from a friend I'd never heard of the other day, suggesting that I do a story on the trouble that our US Postal Service is in"

In 50 years Andy Rooney will still be alive only technology will have progressed to the point where he's literally a giant human turkey.

We're all going to look like Andy Rooney in the future; hunched and shriveled, bodies ravaged by age, disuse and hot pockets, sitting in our little rooms, sending notice of our pissy emotional overreactions to minor shit out into the world in the form of dense clouds of information-rich nanomachines, instead of mashing our fat, stupid hands against keyboards.
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Just imagine that last paragraph floating into your window, turning iridescent as the light from neon signs on the buildings outside filter through its gauzy impermanence. It floats toward you, reaching out with foggy tendrils, operating with an obvious desire to insinuate itself into your nervous system. It's 2050 and you're too old to run. Even if you could, where would you go? These stupid posts are everywhere, commingling above the streets and alleys in thick ropy clouds of glittering, useless opinions.

They're watching and waiting, these millions of ignorant thoughts, looking for a body to infest so they can be heard. So, I ask again, where can you go? Nowhere, you realize. You are trapped. Defeated, you slump down in your mesh-back chair and let it have its way.

Anyways, the point of that was to help illustrate Rooney's disgust, rage and barely concealed terror.

I like this. This is a very powerful argument for all my paranoid wanna-be anarchist acquaintances.

because nobody wants to spend time engaging in meaningful conversation these days.