The slow worm gets sent to SpEd.

The penis socket with multiple attachments…whee!

The huge orange booty.

Oh, just fucking great. Noobs who can rent out their skin to advertisers.
Although, if ladies could adjust boob-size at will, well….
And of course, Johnsons too, then sign me up.

Sounds like somebody’s been watching too much Ghost in the Shell.

Oh – switchable tastebuds of course.

Back on-topic, what the fuck is “Turbocharged suspension flexibility”? Isn’t that a standard feature in all new Subarus?

But there WAS more fun in the 70s and 80s. More drugs, more screwing, goofy ass clothing (and if an old guy can’t wear goofy clothing, where are we going?)…

Here’s one solution to the soul thing in Star Trek: Souls have an affinity for the physical being to which their attached. When that physical being is discorporated, the soul becomes untethered; once the physical being is re-incorporated via transporter, the soul re-attaches itself. Since the soul is itself, non material, Einsteinian limits like the speed of light don’t apply.

Or, there is no soul and it doesn’t matter.

There are three possibilities* in the Star Trek universe:

Given how the process has been described, either (1) Transporter technology somehow transmits the human soul; (2) There is no afterlife; or (3) There are hundreds of James T. Kirks in the afterlife, a new one “born” with the previous one’s memories at the time of each teleportation. Naturally applies to everyone else as well, meaning there are hundreds of them as well.

Hundreds of Chekovs. Uk. I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

*Of course, there is a fourth possibility; that the soul automatically transfers itself across space to the appropriate receptacle. That’s a little too Intelligent Design for my tastes, though.

That did it for me. What prisoner would consider such a scheme and not want to sign up? Where’s the punishment? Enduring the day to day tedium is the essence of prison. This is one of the few books I’ve read which met Dorothy Parker’s description of a book which should not be tossed aside lightly, but thrown with great force.

Last fall we adopted a rescue dog who came with a regrettable name. He is good-looking, healthy, smart & adaptable, an excellent networker, neither aggressive nor over-friendly with other companion animals, great fun at parties. A mere 17 pounds, which is still twice the size a dog of his breed “should” be. The people who fostered him couldn’t understand why such a “perfect” dog was given up for adoption in the first place…

Shortly before the new dog came to live with us, my husband decided to have our brick front steps replaced. Unfortunately, once the steps were torn down, it turned out the base under them needed to be re-dug and re-cemented — and that couldn’t happen until spring, because it was too close to winter for the concrete to set properly. So, the front door now opens to a three-foot drop onto construction rubble.

Six days after New Dog joins our household, on a cold dark drizzly November Sunday evening, I make the mistake of opening the front door — and New Dog, who was sound asleep on the far side of the house seconds earlier, makes a noise I can only transcribe as “Kaaawabungaaa!!!”

Shoots past me through the pitch-black portal, bounces off the rubble without breaking stride, zips through the front gate, across the busy (truck traffic intensive) street, and into the darkness at full speed, head high & tail flying…

The next twelve hours were among the worst of my misspent life. Cruised the neighborhood on foot, in the rain, calling his name, for almost an hour. Repeated the spiral every hour or so, hoping none of the neighbors would call 911 to report a prowling lunatic, sometimes dragging along fat middle-aged Dog #1 in the hope that New Dog would come to her if he wouldn’t come to me. (FMAD#1 vocally objecting since she would have been just as happy never to see New Dog again, even as a pancake on the asphalt, even if she got to roll in the pancake.) Finally reached the town Animal Control official by phone in the morning: New Dog had been picked up by a sympathetic young couple perhaps 10 minutes after he got out, shared a nice dinner (his second) with *their* three dogs, and slept soundly in a nice warm cozy bed…

So now his name is Zevon, ‘cuz he’s just an Excitable Boy.

(/snark) Seriously, I was making fun of James Tiberius Kirk before most of you guys were born, but Shatner actually does a wonderful wink’n'nod parody of himself in BOSTON LEGAL. Also, Candice Bergen is still sexy & smart, James Spader is the snarky liberal who gets to attack rich bloviators almost every week, and there is a gifted & entertaining supporting cast. True, there is the mandatory ex-FBI wooden dummy striding through the credits like Tacticus’ wet dream, and the writers can get excessively self-referential, but there are worse ways to spend a Tuesday evening if you’re too old to go to work with a hangover on Wednesday…

Where are the tits?

Excellent question. We need to include the SmartSub Gel Layer, which will continually shift those fat cells so that its proud owner has giant ever-perky breasts, pert yet shapely buttocks, and wrinkle-free brows & lips.*

And Hugh Hewitt can take his C-cups and shift them to his skull, so that his hat size will approximate his ego size. (I mean, the exterior of his skull. The fatty matter inside his brain pan is probably unshiftable even in the NanoFuture.

*labial lips, in Jonah Goldberg’s world. Or Teh Aces’.