Mops, Socks, and Chardonnay: September 2009 Archives

Ah, it's nice when I come across an article that explains what I'm doing with my life. I like labels. They let me know exactly where I fit in and it helps the marketers figure out just what kind of mouthwash I need to attract the female of the species or to avoid social pariahness.

Like gastrosexual. What is it with Brits and appending, or is it prefixing, gastro to everything? First there were gastro-pubs - which is just a fancy dancy way to say a bar that serves food. Now there's gastrosexuals. As far as gastro anything is concerned, anytime I hear it, all I can think about is gastrointestinal distress which I'm pretty sure is the complete opposite thought picture the jargoneers are looking for. And why is everything male, sexual? I didn't accept metrosexuals and I'm sure going to fight like the blazes against being labeled as a gastrosexual.

Mary has alerted me to the next most important internet site, after of course Mousesavers.com, and not forgetting the Chowhound boards. The new site is chock full of content that invokes responses like, Oh My God, and Are You Freaking Kidding Me, and That Is Most Definitely Wrong In SO Many Ways, I Can't Even Begin To Count!

This website is, of course, ThisIsWhyYourFat.com. Though after reviewing the offerings I think they should change their name to - This Is Why You've Had a Massive Coronary And Are No Longer Among the Living.com. Well, that uses up this month's allotment of capital letters. I'll just start tweeting from this point. Yeah, when hell freezes over and/or Paris Hilton enters a convent.

According to Jaunted, Sydney, Australia, (Down Under, Bottom of the World, just go south till you hit it, if you see penguins you went too far) has moved ahead of the once mighty United States in the quest to make the Jetsons era a reality.

The Aussies now have robo-restaurants. Well, not completely robotic - there's no robot waiters or robot bus boys, or sadly - robot bartenders, but they do have touch screen menus and ordering. That's pretty much completely awesome.

What is it about men and our apparent ability to forgo logical thought because we think something sounds like it might be fun. This product for instance, raises alarm bells from sixteen states away and yet, and yet, I am still ever so slightly tempted. Because, it's a jetpack, man! I've been promised a jetpack since I was a wee tyke and I'm still waiting (along with flying cars, robot maids, and a meal in a pill, though in retrospect, the latter is not really high on my list anymore but still).

The idea that someone has cobbled a jetpack together in his garage workshop seems a bit chancy I will admit. And the fact that it will require an hour to cool down after a couple of short flights, okay, a bit of a limitation. Still it's only a few thousand and god knows people spend more money than that on sillier ways to kill themselves like ATV's or eating KFC.

Damn, okay, it turns out it's a fake. I guess I'll forgo tempting the fates a while longer. Someday though, like Icarus, I will fly too close to the sun. Or trip over a small yappy dog, do a face plant in front of a speeding ice cream truck, and buy the farm that way. Which seems much more likely.