Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Hey Science, Thanks for the Segway

I like to get on science’s ass a lot. Some might say, lay off the guys in labcoats, Joey, they make differences to our everyday lives in imperceptible ways. I say suck my dick, hypothetical asshole. We’ve been subjected to nothing but cop-out inventions over the last twenty years, most of which seem to only consist of music and cameras. Know what, scientists? I could live out the rest of my life without encountering a new device to store pictures of people I don't care about, and I still wouldn't complain. Meanwhile, they haven’t even had to change any of the goddamn inventions in Disney’s World of Tomorrow since the fifties, and I don’t think anyone cares.

So why would it surprise us that when science unveiled its latest and greatest transportation device it turned out to be… the Segway.

It's okay, now erectile dysfunction doesn't have to be the most disappointing thing about you.

Now look. If I wanted to look like an idiot, I could take yoga for three years and learn the backwards pile driver so I could shit in my mouth at the park. This being a slightly more convenient way to accomplish the same goal. So let me get this straight, science. We don’t get to teleport anything, and we still have to open our own refrigerator doors, but OOHHHH in the event we want to ride around in a stupid big-wheeled scooter that looks like it runs on nothing, hey we’re all set.

There comes that time in the life of a divorce child’s life, when the estranged father makes that hard final push for a shot at his son’s affection. The boy has lost a lot of respect for his father since he lost his job and stopped trying to hide the Asian teen porno mags in the passenger seat footspace of his Chrysler LeBaron. But the wily father at least still knows his son’s interests. And that’s why on his thirteenth birthday, when all he really wants is a remote controlled helicopter, and dad walks in on visitation weekend with his newspaper-wrapped gift, and a stale layer of weasel dust in his bushy mustache, that boy knows exactly what’s inside that box. It’s an old balsa wood glider kit off the discount rack at that seedy Korean corner store downtown. And just like that, dad is dead to him.

You know, if science had just pretended to forget our birthday instead of trying, it would probably still have some of its photos up in the house.