A day with Pickles and me

I think a lot about my beloved, dearly departed cat Pickles. Some of you who know me in real life had the distinct privilege of knowing the Divine Miss P. For everyone else, click on the image below for an idea of what she was like:

Pickles was unlike any other cat I’ve ever known. She was her own breed—a breed of One. Fiendishly smart, contrary, spoiled, overbearing, disdainful, and endlessly lovable.

I’d like to share a little of what our days together were like. Below is an example of a typical Saturday for us. The dialogue has been altered for creative purposes, but the events are all true.

4:00am
I’m sleeping.

Pickles:  Bored.
Me:  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Pickles:  BORED.
Me:  Zzzzzz–sngh?
Pickles:  BORED! BORED! BORED! BORED! I’M BORED!!!!!
Me:  What the fuck? I was sleeping!
Pickles:  You were boring me. You will entertain me now.
Me:  It’s 4 o’clock in the morning.
Pickles:  I fail to see your point. You will entertain me now.
Me:  I’m not entertaining you now. I’m going back to sleep.
Pickles:  Suit yourself. But one day I’ll smother you. You’ll be sorry.

10:0am
Pickles is sitting on my lap. She peeks in my coffee cup and wrinkles her nose.

Pickles:  Is that coffee?
Me:  Yes.
Pickles:  I don’t care for coffee.
Me:  I know. We go through this every morning.
Pickles:  You insist on drinking coffee even though you know I don’t care for it.
Me:  I’m not asking you to drink it.
Pickles:  (sniff sniff)  What is that smell? It’s foul.
Me:  It’s toast.
Pickles:  NOXIOUS VAPORS!!!  YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL ME!!!
Me:  Sigh. We do this every day, Pickles. It’s toast. It won’t kill you.
Pickles:  VILE!!!  ASPHYXIATING!!!!
Me:  Oh stop, you’re being a drama queen.
Pickles:  You should cook whatever you made yesterday. That smelled delicious.
Me:  I didn’t cook anything yesterday.
Pickles:  Yes you did. That blue liquid you had in the kitchen. It smelled delicious.
Me:  That was Windex.
Pickles:  I don’t care what the recipe is called. I want some.
Me:  You’re so weird. You don’t like food smells but you like cleaning products.
Pickles:  Don’t judge.

This was how Pickles looked most of the time: annoyed.

2:00pm
I’m about to go out to run errands. I can’t find one of my flip flops.

Me:  Have you seen my other flip flop?
Pickles:  No.
Me:  It was right there. You must have seen it.
Pickles:  I haven’t seen it. (Pickles shifts position, revealing what appears to be part of a flip flop.)
Me:  What are you sitting on?
Pickles:  I’m not sitting on anything.
Me:  Is that my flip flop?
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Yes it is. That’s my flip flop.
Pickles:  No it isn’t.
Me:  Pickles, I can SEE it. Get up, I need it.
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Get up. Come on.
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Don’t make me take it from you.
Pickles:  No.
Me:  Come on, give it to me. (Tries to slide shoe out from under Pickles. She takes a swing at me and her claw snags on my arm.) Hey! Look, you drew blood! Give me my shoe, you rotten cat.
Pickles:  No. I’m keeping it.
Me:  Sigh. (Puts on sneakers instead)

5:00pm
I’m in the shower. Pickles is curled up on the bed, sleeping.

Pickles:  WAIL!!  BLOODY MURDER!!!!!!  HORROR!!
Me:  (running out of the bathroom and almost slipping and cracking my head open)  What??? What happened??? What’s wrong???
Pickles:  (sitting calmly on the bed) I want to go under the covers.
Me:  That’s IT? That’s your emergency? It sounded like your tail was being hacked off, the way you were carrying on.
Pickles:  I want to go under the covers. You will lift up the covers so I can go in now.
Me:  You know very well how to go under the covers yourself. You do it when I’m not home.
Pickles:  But you’re home now.
Me:  So what? You can still do it yourself.
Pickles:  Not when you’re home. When you’re home, you do things for me. That’s how it works. So lift up the covers and let me in. But if you don’t make an interesting enough tent, I will come right back out and you will have to try again. And stop dripping on me.
Me:  Sigh. (Lifts covers so Pickles can go under them. After three attempts, a satisfactory tent is created and Pickles is reasonably content.)

This sort of thing might explain why Pickles looked annoyed all the time. 

9:00pm
I have music playing. Pickles is sprawled on the couch. Shirley Bassey’s “Goldfinger” comes on.

Pickles:  This song is too loud.
Me:  It’s the same volume as all the other songs.
Pickles:  I don’t like it. Turn it off.
Me:  Maybe you’ll like this one. (Plays “Diamonds Are Forever.”)
Pickles:  No. I hate this one too.
Me:  What is it with you and Shirley Bassey??
Pickles:  I don’t like her voice. Turn it off.
Me:  No, I like this song.
Pickles:  TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF!!!!
Me:  Okay, okay. Relax.
Pickles:  Yes. This song is acceptable.
Me:  There’s nothing playing right now.
Pickles:  Yes.

Midnight
Pickles is taking up a disproportionate amount of space on the bed.

Me:  Time for bed.
Pickles:  Whatever.
Me:  Move over, you’re in my way.
Pickles:  Why can’t you sleep around me?
Me:  Because it’s not comfortable.
Pickles:  Yes it is.
Me:  I can’t curl up into a perfect circle the way you can.
Pickles:  Too bad for you.
Me:  Come on, shove over or I’ll move you myself.
Pickles:  (Moving) I was going to move anyway.
Me:  Good night.
Pickles:  Good night.

12:15am

Pickles:  Stop that.
Me:  Stop what? I’m not doing anything.
Pickles:  You’re in my area.
Me:  I am not in your area.
Pickles:  Look at your arm. It’s on my blanket.
Me:  So what? It’s not in your way.
Pickles:  It’s on my blanket.
Me:  Big deal. You drape your tail over me half the time and I don’t get all bent out of shape about it. Or how about when you sleep on my head?
Pickles:  That’s different.
Me:  How is that different?
Pickles:  Because it’s me.
Me:  That’s not an answer.
Pickles:  Yes it is.
Me:  (long sigh)  Fine. I’ll move my arm. Is that better?
Pickles:  I suppose.
Me:  Good night.
Pickles:  Good night.

12:30am
Pickles comes over and curls up against me.

Me:  What is it?
Pickles:  Nothing.
Me:  You’re right up against me, you know.
Pickles:  I know. I was bored with my blanket and wanted to lie over here instead, that’s all.
Me:  I see. Okay. Good night.
Pickles:  Good night.

12:35am
Pickles rubs her face against mine, purring loudly.

Me:  What’s all this about?
Pickles:  I’m—my cheeks are itchy. Yes. I’m just using you to scratch them, that’s all.
Me:  Is that purring? You’re purring.
Pickles:  No I’m not.
Me:  Haaaa, you’re purring.
Pickles:  Shut up and go to sleep.

12:40am
Pickles rests her head in my palm.

Me:  You have your head in my hand, you know.
Pickles:  Just in case my cheeks get itchy again, that’s all.
Me:  Mmm hmm. Good thinking. (Kisses her on the head)
Pickles:  Stop that. (Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)
Me:  Good night, little Pickles.
Pickles:  Good night, Mommy.

She was the best cat ever.

McCrabass + Bat-eatin’ spiders = FUN!

First, I must say, that I am completely honored and humbled to be axed by Madame Weebles to be a guest blogger. I swear, it’s better than anything I’ve ever had to drink barium for.

On to why I’m really here–to point out the weird, the wacky and the uber-choady. Oh and the creepy.

Like this story.

Prepare to feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand the fuck up and run for cover, because this just creeps the shit outta me.

Bat-eating spiders are everywhere, study finds

From CBS News.

Now, first a bit of history. McCrabass (me) was bitten by a Black Widda Spider many years ago while I was living in LA. I got very sick and ended up hallucinating in the Cedars-Sinai ER for about 12 hours. Ever since that day, I pay attention to spiders. Now, I don’t kill them, I keep a healthy distance from them. Just like they  know better to NOT fuck with the McCrabass–or else. On my McCrabass blog, I’ve even written about spiders you can fucking throw a saddle on and go “Tally ho!” Then, ride off into the sunset.

Here is yet another post about the wonder that is the creepy as all hell spider.

Back to the arachnids that EAT flying mammals, and I bet they don’t do it just for sustenance..they probably do it for sport. Fucking asshole spiders. Sheesh.

“There’s only one place in the world to escape bat-catching spiders: Antarctica. These arachnids ensnare and pounce on bats everywhere else in the world, researchers say.”

Please don’t pack up the U-Haul just yet to move to Antartica–that’s an awful place too. There is other shit that’ll kill you there faster than a spider and that shit is called sub-zero temperatures.

“Approximately 90 percent of known bat-catching spiders live in the warmer areas of the globe, in the third of the Earth surrounding the equator. About 40 percent live in the neotropics — the whole of South America, and the tropical regions of North America — while nearly a third live in Asia and more than a sixth live in Australia and Papua New Guinea.

 Eighty-eight percent of the reported cases of bat catches were due to web-building spiders, with giant tropical orb-weaving spiders with a leg-span of 4 to 6 inches (10 to 15 centimeters) seen catching bats in huge, strong orb-webs up to 5 feet (1.5 meters) wide.

 In instances seen in Costa Rica and Panama, the spiders had built their webs near buildings inhabited by bat colonies. Bat-catching via spiderwebs was also witnessed particularly often in the parks and forests of the greater Hong Kong area. Future research may investigate whether the huge webs that sometimes block the entrances of tropical bat caves in east and southeast Asia and the neotropics may occasionally snag any members of the giant swarms of bats thatemerge from the caves at night.”

Ok. WHAT. THE. ENTIRE. FUCK????

(courtesy livescience.com)

Waaaaaaait for it ….

COME THE FUCK ON!!

Poor Batman …

You know, there really is nothing more to say on this subject except this: I smell the plot of the next Batman movie.

*shudders*

 

Sit Down & Shut Up: Volume II

Welcome, dear ones, to the latest installment of Sit Down & Shut Up, in which the Magnificent™ Le Clown and I help you with life’s pressing challenges.  Our inaugural column was a huge success and we look forward to assisting you once again.

Today, we turn to the subjects of love and sex—two of the greatest and most powerful forces on earth.  Gandhi said, “Where there is love there is life.”  Nietzsche: “Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil.”  And from the great philosopher Steve Martin: “I believe that sex is the most beautiful, natural, and wholesome thing that money can buy.”

If you are plagued by problems regarding love and/or sex (and who isn’t?), we invite you to ask your question below.  As always, we are here to serve.

Here’s your diploma ‘cuz you’ve been SCHOOLED

I considered making the title of this post “Ohhhhhh SNAP!” or “Awwwww DIP!!!” but this title felt a little more mature.

Some of you may recall this post, in which I talked about coming up with a great, pithy line but the troglodytes at my workplace didn’t get it.  It was less than satisfying.

Today’s discourse is on snotty comebacks.  Usually I think of them about 20 minutes after the fact and I kick myself for not coming up with them sooner.  Every once in a while, though, the gods smile upon me and I think of the right thing to say at just the right time.

For example, when I was in high school (yeah, I was snotty back then too), some friends and I were talking to this guy who was sort of obnoxious.  One of my friends wasn’t in the mood for his antics and she told him he was a jackass.  He turned to me and said, “What’s her problem?  You guys have never called me anything like that before.”  And I replied, “Not to your face, anyway.”  BURN!

Then there was the time I was having dinner in a nice restaurant with a friend.  A couple with a screaming child (he was maybe 2 years old) was two tables away.  The parents paid no attention and made no effort to comfort their little boy, and the wails became higher and more ear-splitting as the evening went on.  To be fair, it wasn’t the kid’s fault—he never should have been subjected to a 2+ hour meal at a place like that.  And it wasn’t his fault that his parents were inattentive fucks.  When the family finally left, they passed our table.  My friend loudly proclaimed, “Thank God they’re finally leaving.”  The mother, presumably thinking she would patronize us and shame us into submission, stopped and snipped, “Oh, I know, you’re really suffering.  Kids are such a pain, right??”  I smiled. “Not all kids.  Just yours.”  BURN!

Then there was the time I was at my local pet food shop.  It was a small space with little room to maneuver.  On this particular day, I was joined in the store by a shrieking harpy and her doormat boyfriend/husband.  She bitched nonstop about anything and everything, and stood around blocking the entire fucking store.  No matter where I was, she was in my way.  And she took umbrage at my efforts to get past her.  Mind you, I did say “Excuse me.”  If she hadn’t been so busy yattering away, perhaps she might have heard me.  Instead, she muttered “Bitch” just loud enough for me to hear.  I looked at her, rolled my eyes and calmly said, “You’re so boring.”  An unconventional response, but one that I suspected would drive her apeshit.  And it did.  BURN!!

Now I’d like to close with one of my all-time favorites, which wasn’t a burn but a great line nonetheless:

When I was in college, a bunch of us got into a stuffed animal fight, hurling teddy bears and other plush toys at each other (yeah, I know, but give me a break, we were freshmen).  One of my friends sustained a direct hit with a bunny.  She cried, “I’ve been killed by a Gund!!”

And I said, “Gunds don’t kill people.  People kill people.”

I’m still patting myself on the back for that one.

Search terms: WTF edition

I’ve got to switch things up around here.  My recent posts have been sentimental and/or introspective and frankly, I’m starting to annoy myself.  It’s time to break away from all that thoughtful shit and bust out a new batch of search terms.  For a refresher on the other mind-boggling search terms that bring people to my blog, please click here and here.

First, the newest members of my I Hate Alex Trebek club:
why is alex trebek such an insufferable prick
why does alex trebek think he’s hot shit
i fucking hate trebek
alex trebek isn’t a nice guy

I wish I didn’t like Jeopardy! as a game because I have such a hard time watching it with that smug bastard hosting.  I yell at the television at least once per episode, usually more:  “Fuck you, you little douche!”  “Shut up!  Stop talking!”  “Ass!”

What is WITH these people??
weebles boobs
weebles rack
weeble porn
weeble butt plug

Based on the disturbing popularity of these sorts of terms, I’m going to create a new literature genre: Weeblerotica.  There’s obviously an unmet need here.  A very twisted, baffling, unmet need.

Not quite the right URL, sorry:
heynicerack.com
loveyourtits.wordpress.com

If only I had thought of either of these for the name of my blog.  I could have been Madame Boobs.  Both of these domains are available, by the way.  I checked.

Some pressing questions that require answers:
can cats carry demons
Yes, but only if the demons are very small.   Cats can’t handle a big saddle.  Also, cats are pretty lazy.

what do i do i’m scared of weebles
Did they not read the title of this blog?  FEAR NO WEEBLES.

can i touch up my hair and raid it the same day
I suppose so, if you have a lot of bugs in your hair and you don’t mind that bug spray smell.  But you know, you may have more important concerns than your hair.  Just saying.

i wore pantyhose for halloween, now i can’t stop
I find this one particularly curious.  Is this person now addicted to pantyhose?  How does this happen?  What was their Halloween costume, anyway?

you see another brother in christ and you get nauseous
Whoa, is that any way to talk about a brother in Christ?  Let he who is without nausea-inducing qualities cast the first stone, dude.

Um, what?
prepare to fuck a new woman every day … but first read through our policies below

What the hell kind of organization is this?  I’m going to need to see these policies of theirs.  And is there a division for those who might wish to fuck a new man every day?

Variations on Fuck You:
fuck you american style
i fuck people like you in prison

Yes, well.  “American style” could mean so many things…  And although I’ve never been to prison, I watched Oz, so I know what’s up.  But if someone says, “I fuck people like you in prison,” does it mean that you’re a tasty piece or does it mean that you’re an obnoxious jerk who needs to become someone’s bitch?  It could go either way.

So many weevils, so many idiots:
how to make sure weebles aren’t in your food
what happens when you swallow a weeble
what to do if spaghetti has weebles in it

You mean like this? I usually just pick them out and lick off the sauce. It’s really no biggie.

If I had a dime for each search term where they obviously mean weevils and not Weebles, I’d be writing this post from my yacht on the Riviera.

My personal favorite:
geddy lee madame weebles in bed

Geddy, is that you????  Don’t be shy, baby.  Email me.

More search terms that would make great band names:
picturesque vagina
barricading the cheese
big pubes little dick
pantyhose ascendant
precocious tits
subway penis
dead marshmallow

Because we care

Ann Landers.  Dear Abby.  The Oracle at Delphi.  All known for their knowledge and wise counsel.  And now joining this pantheon of giants:  Le Clown and Madame Weebles.

Do you want help with life’s pressing issues?  Do you yearn for guidance?  Maybe you seek a solution to a problem that has plagued you for a long time.  Whatever your situation, you may now rejoice, as your prayers have finally been answered.  We are here to serve you.

Join us here for the premiere of our new advice column, Sit Down and Shut Up.  If you need direction, we’ll tell you where to go.

A great injustice

I need to tell you about something that has bothered me for a long time.  It’s something that makes me want to start a grassroots movement to raise awareness and sensitivity about it so that people aren’t so quick to stereotype and condemn.  We all make snap judgments; it’s natural.  But we need to remember that our first impressions are not necessarily the truth.

I became aware of this particular issue when I was in high school.  I went to see Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home.  Great movie, even though Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan really is the best one.  This is the scene that triggered my epiphany.  Watch and listen closely:

Did you catch the accent on the one guy?  I’m sure it’s supposed to be New York.  The actor does a really crappy New York accent, but it’s evocative enough that I get the point.  He’s a blue-collar worker, so he has a blue-collar accent to match.  Despite the fact that this movie is set in San Francisco.

The other day I was watching a rerun of NCIS.  The episode involved mob guys in Virginia.  They had New York accents.  (Does the Mafia even operate down south?  I have no idea.)

Fonzie?  Motorcyle-riding greaser in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  New York accent.  Same for Lenny & Squiggy, Carmine, Laverne, and Mr. Di Fazio.  Apparently dumb punks and Italians have New York accents regardless of where they live.  It could have been the influence of Garry Marshall, a New Yorker with an accent so thick you could slice it, but still.

I won’t even get into all the other movies, TV shows, and commercials where the cop, bus driver, cab driver, construction worker, waitress, criminal, hooker, or [fill in your favorite non-white collar worker here] have New York accents—no matter where they’re supposed to take place.  You’re casting for a movie where one of the characters is a two-bit thug?  Make sure he sounds like he’s from Brooklyn, even though the film is set in Texas.

Everyone associates a New York accent with a certain type of person, with a certain socio-economic level and intelligence level.  People do it with other accents too—the southern accent, for example.  But southern accents aren’t often deployed like that in shows or movies set in non-southern areas.  (Or maybe they are and I just haven’t noticed them as much.)  And over the past 50 years we’ve had four presidents with southern accents: LBJ, Carter, Clinton, and W.  Not one who sounds like Joe Pesci.

I mean, there’s nothing at all wrong with doing blue-collar work, but we can do other things credibly too, you know.  Imagine hearing a hardcore New Yorker take the Oath of Office as president, saying, “So help me Gawd”?  Doesn’t that instill massive amounts of confidence?  Wouldn’t you go all dreamy and swoony if you saw a production of Romeo and Juliet in which the two main actors spoke the Queens English?  Just think of how reassured you would be by a doctor who spoke in a Bronx lilt: “Ya got KEEAN-suh butcha gonna be foin.”

So please, the next time you hear a New Yorker talk and automatically think, “What an imbecile,” remember that we’re people too.  It’s just a matter of appreciating the unique beauty and music of our cadences.  As Shakespeare said, If you prick us, do we not say, “What the fuck, asshole?”  If you tickle us, do we not say, “Whaddaya doin’a me, knockit ooowahff”?  If you poison us, do we not say, “Shit, what the fuck didja put in here?”  And if you wrong us, shall we not cut you?  If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.  Fuhgeddaboutit.

Madame Weebles’s predictions for 2013

As many of you know, I have something of a hotline to the spirit world.  I know things.  And I sense many important and exciting events in store for the coming year, so I want to share my predictions with you.

Jack Kerouac will return to earth in the body of a rabid dog and rip out the throat of the numbnuts who decided to crank out a tepid, unnecessary film adaptation of On the Road.  The casting director who signed Kristen Stewart for a role will be found with a copy of the novel rammed up his cold, dead colon.

Prince William and Kate Middleton will welcome a son who will bear an unfortunate and uncanny resemblance to his grandfather, Prince Charles—complete with giant ears and constipated countenance.  The front page of the Daily Mail will announce the birth with a photo of the baby and the headline, “A Royal Shame.”  The Times header will read, “Newborn Prince Healthy but Lost Genetic Lottery.”  And The Sun will simply declare, “BLOODY HELL!!”

In other celebrity baby news, the spawn of Kim Kardashian and Kanye West will have cloven hooves and will perform its own C-section.

The governments of the United States and Canada will jointly decide to banish Justin Bieber to an ice floe in the Arctic Circle.  He will never be heard from again.  The IQ of millions of tween girls will skyrocket shortly afterwards.

In sports, the New York Yankees will go 162-0, sweeping the playoffs and winning the World Series in 4 games. Alex Rodriguez will be out for the season, tormented by the ghost of Lou Gehrig yelling, “Suck it up, bitch!”  The NFL will be rocked to its core next winter when a meteor lands in the middle of Cowboys Stadium, destroying both the Dallas Cowboys and the visiting Philadelphia Eagles.  Americans will once again fail to give a rat’s ass about the upcoming Major League Soccer season.

Buoyed by the continued federal funding of PBS, the Children’s Television Workshop will introduce a new Sesame Street character, Bruce—Snuffalupagus’s boyfriend.

Sometime next month—or maybe later today—a woman in front of me will walk way too slowly, causing my blood pressure to rise until I finally go batshit crazy and push her in front of a bus.

President Obama will appoint Betty White as United States Ambassador to the World, which will usher in a new era of peace on earth.

There’s more, but my spirit guides just went for a cigarette break.  If you have any questions about the year ahead, please feel free to ask.  I will provide answers when my guides return.

I wish I had created this cartoon

I’ve had this cartoon for more than 20 years. Way before The Oatmeal, way before xkcd.com. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s a masterpiece.

It speaks to me on a profoundly deep and meaningful level.

Stay tuned… the next post will be a thrilling account of my evening with Joe, Calahan, and Darla.

All I want for Christmas is…

But first, Happy Pearl Harbor Day!  I might have forgotten were it not for Sandylikeabeach, who observed that yesterday was Pearl Harbor Day Eve.  So thanks, Sandy!  Yes, it was 71 years ago today that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and facilitated America’s entry into WWII.  It wasn’t a good day.  Nor were the 828 days of war before December 7th, nor were the 1,347 days after it.  War sucks.

And this is a good segue to the subject of today’s post:  my Christmas list.  I would like world peace, but that seems to be a pretty tall order.  Santa’s good, but he’s not a miracle worker.  I’ll have to be more realistic.  Here’s what I’ve got so far:

• A Tesla death ray to eradicate the idiot tourists in Manhattan.  I will not rest until New York is free of loud, intelligence-free, giant map-wielding visitors who have not mastered the art of walking in a straight line.  They’re a plague.  Like locusts, except dumber.  I’d almost rather deal with the aliens from Cloverfield than maneuver around some dipstick trying to take a photo of the tree at Rockefeller Center without any people in the way.
• The ability to summon a perfect cup of coffee from the ether by clapping my hands.  I realize this could pose a problem when I’m at an event where applause is involved.  But I’m willing to take that risk.
• A magic middle finger.  You have now seen a photo of me flipping the bird—it comes quite naturally to me.  I want to be able to give the finger to people and things and have them automatically behave themselves.  How cool would that be?  Next time I encounter a douchebag yattering away on his cell phone, I can just strike the pose and he’ll magically shut the fuck up.  Car alarm wailing in the middle of the night?  No problem—I’ll just stick my middle finger out the window and presto: sweet silence.  Nasty bitch giving me attitude?  I’ll flip her off and she’ll feel compelled to apologize.  As a bonus, she’ll spontaneously gain ten pounds.
• A calorie vaporizer.  We’ve sent probes to Mars and the far reaches of the solar system.  The Hubble telescope has revealed images of galaxies billions of light years away.  We have programs that allow me to hold my phone up to the speakers to identify a song I don’t know.  If we can do cool stuff like that, then surely we can invent something that will zap the calories in a piece of chocolate cake while leaving the cake intact.  What the fuck is all this technology for, if not to better our lives??
• This guy.  I know what you’re saying.  You’re saying, “Madame Weebles, Robert Cornelius has been dead for 119 years.”  That’s true.  However, if we can build Tesla death rays, vaporize calories, neutralize idiots with our middle fingers, and conjure coffee out of thin air, then I can’t see why bringing someone back from the dead should be a big deal.  But listen, I don’t want to be unreasonable.  Santa Claus has enough on his plate. If it’s too difficult to get Robert Cornelius, I’d be overjoyed to receive this guy as a gift instead.

Now I need to know what to get for all you guys. Kindly tell me what’s on your list and I’ll go shopping this weekend.