There are many things about the corporate world that I’m forced to inhabit during normal business hours that regularly perplex and frighten me — for example, the tendency of its residents to use “spend” as a noun and “parking lot” as a verb. (E.g., Corporate Wonk 1:“What was our spend this quarter?” Corporate Wonk 2: “Let’s parking lot that discussion for another day.” Me: Baaaaaaaaaaarrrrrffff)
Occasionally, however, my experiences drift into a more metaphysical realm. Case in point: the existential crisis that arose after I finally remembered to update my emergency contact information yesterday following my marriage last year. As you can see, the first few text fields are fairly standard. However, after selecting how I was related to my emergency contact from a handy — and, I must, say, quite thorough — drop-down menu, I became genuinely stumped by the final piece of information requested: my “Relationship Start Date.”
Uhh, say what now? You want to know when my relationship with my emergency contact started? What does that even mean? If I had listed a parent, would my faceless overlords have wanted to know the day I was born, the day I was conceived, or the day I truly began to recognize my parents as flawed human beings who I could finally and legitimately consider peers? More importantly, would Virginia and Oklahoma require a personhood amendment to even be able to answer this question?
Of course, I didn’t list a parent. I listed a spouse, which makes the question even moreproblematic when you consider the possibility that, in the event of an emergency, whoever contacts her could conceivably share the information about when I believe our relationship started. Sure, I could just play it safe and list the date we met, but it would certainly be a stretch to say we had a relationship at that time. And since we were friends before any sort of romantic entanglement reared its snarled head, which phase of our relationship is more pertinent in this case: our fledgling friendship or consequent courtship? I suppose the former could be said to have begun the first time we hung out socially in any capacity, but the latter is a much trickier knot to unravel.
Did “she” and “I” become “us” the first time we danced together in a raging discotheque located beneath the local bullfighting arena? Were we “we” the moment she agreed to accompany me unchaperoned through the narrow, winding streets of the ancient Moorish barrio on the outskirts of town? Or perhaps the solidifying moment came during our unexpected, Lady-and-the-Tramp-style kiss over a mutually munched churro? (In case you’re confused, I should probably point out that we met in Spain.)
Then again, her relationship as my spouse obviously didn’t begin until the day we married, so maybe I should simply list our anniversary as the “Relationship Start Date.” Yeah, our anniversary, which is on…uhhh…I remember it was summer-ish…
On second thought, maybe I should just start looking both ways before I cross the hallway, since avoiding an emergency at work seems to be the only way to avoid a much bigger emergency at home.
When creating a new online presence, it’s important to choose a name that’s both memorable and at least vaguely emblematic of your site’s intended purpose. This usually means following one of two broad naming strategies: 1) Choosing a random, possibly foreign word that is spiritually — if not literally — related to your mission (see: Google, Amazon, Yahoo, Hulu, Yelp), or 2) mashing together two or more words that allude to content and purpose (see: YouTube, WordPress, Facebook, Pinterest).
The danger with these strategies, of course, is that they require powerful branding to become household names (or, at least, Web-hold ones). Otherwise, n00bs coming across them for the first time may become confused about what they’re all about. Forthwith, a collection of popular online entities whose names could have easily been co-opted for other purposes had the original ventures failed to make it out of the digital starting gate:
What it is: An eclectic group blog aggregating various links and stories from around the web
What it sounds like: An X-rated Tigger fan-fiction site
The wonderful thing about Tigger is Tigger’s wonderful thing!
What it is: A comprehensive source for tools and information relating to the financial markets
What it sounds like: A depressing online community of former sports stars consumed with reliving their glory days
What it is: A centralized control system for the collaborative development of software
What it sounds like: A British-run revenge site where wives send in stories about their idiot husbands
What it is: A tech blog covering consumer electronics
What it sounds like: What you get when that adorable snuggle ball from Gremlins mates with the largest living species of lizard on earth
What it is: Another tech blog devoted to consumer electronics and technology
What it sounds like: Where Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees go to buy high-quality bad-guy paraphernalia
What it is: A leading provider of “time-critical” dining data
What it sounds like: A place for lonely city dwellers to cuddle with strangers
Surprisingly, UrbanSpooning very rarely leads to UrbanForking.
What it is: An amateur pornographic video site
What it sounds like: Uhhh, okay, I guess there aren’t a lot of ways you can go with this one
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(cross-posted on MotherBoard)
Reading the discomforting announcement that the first case of Mad Cow Disease in six years has just reared its large, cud-chewing head in a dairy cow in central California, I was reminded of the following joke from my high school days:
Two cows are standing next to each other in a field. The first cow looks at the second one and says, “Hey, aren’t you worried about mad cow disease?” The second cow looks back at him and says, “Why should I be? I’m a helicopter!” [crickets]
After reading the article though, I also couldn’t help but think, man, “mad cow disease.” Now that’s a pretty badass-sounding affliction. Hell, even the bowtie-rockin’ scientific name — bovine spongiform encephalopathy — has a tattoos-and-tequila poetry to it. Then again, compared to some of the following diseases I came across while researching this article, “mad cow” is actually a bit of a featherweight on the scale of awesomely terrifying maladies, starting with:
They say that idle hands are the devil’s workshop, but apparently a bored Beelzebub will take any part of you it can get its forked mitts on, since Devil’s grip — caused by Group B coxsackieviruses — can evolve from a “headache, nausea and vomiting, and sore throat” to “severe, stabbing [chest] pain” in a brief period of time for an unfortunate few. Despite the name, however, the infection usually goes away on its own after a couple of days, regardless of how much holy water you ingest during that time.
But what would happen if the devil in all of us attempted to exit our bodies a little too carelessly? Might I suggest a Mephistophelean case of:
Well, no, I won’t suggest it. That was just a cheap literary ploy since EHS has nothing to do with Devil’s grip — or physical afflictions of any kind, for that matter. In fact, out of all the diseases on this list, it’s probably the one you’d be most likely to volunteer to contract just to be able to say you had it. According to the American Sleep Association, “Exploding head syndrome is a rare and relatively undocumented parasomnia event in which the subject experiences a loud bang in their head similar to a bomb exploding, a gun going off, a clash of cymbals or any other form of loud, indecipherable noise that seems to originate from inside the head.” Fortunately, despite having perhaps the most violent name in medicine, “exploding head syndrome is not dangerous” and “has no elements of pain, swelling or any other physical trait associated with it.”
Thankfully, our next ailment doesn’t have any pain associated with it either. Unless you count psychological pain, in which case, depending on your emotional constitution, all bets are off:
In its congenital form, human werewolf syndrome is caused by an extremely rare genetic mutation that presents at birth, leaving its unlucky constituents wolflike in their incredible hairiness from an extremely early age. However, it can also be acquired after birth in various ways, including from “the side effects of drugs, associations with cancer, and possible links with eating disorders.”
Formerly the near-exclusive province of carnival sideshows, the hypertrichotic among us have received significantly more constructive attention in recent years thanks to articles like the one published by the Daily Mail last February about the Sangli sisters of India (see video above) and a Guiness World Record being awarded to Supatra Sasuphan of Thailand for achieving the coveted title of world’s hariest girl. (Okay, so maybe not all of the attention is constructive. Then again, Supatra says that she is “delighted after her new-found fame helped her become one of the most popular girls in school,” so what the hell do I know?)
From the benign (if beleaguering) to the very, very scary, we come to:
I’ll admit it: there’s no gussying this one up. Toxic shock syndrome is as bad as it sounds — maybe worse, considering that it “may be deadly in up to 50% of cases [and] the condition may return in those that survive.”
And fellas, don’t think you’re off the hook just because you remember reading once that toxic shock was a lady-parts problem caused by faulty tampons or whatever, since in reality,
Although the earliest cases of toxic shock syndrome involved women who were using tampons during their periods (menstruation), today less than half of current cases are associated with such events. Toxic shock syndrome can also occur with skin infections, burns, and after surgery. The condition can also affect children, postmenopausal women, and men.
I don’t know about you, but after suffering from confusion, diarrhea, general ill-feeling, headaches, high fever, low blood pressure, muscle aches, nausea and vomiting, widespread rashes, seizures, and, ultimately, organ failure, I think I’d pretty much welcome a chance to contract the next illness on our list:
Offered as a possible explanation for the origin myth of vampires since at least 1985, porphyria is a nasty collection of rare, genetic blood disorders whose symptoms do, indeed, sound gnarly enough to spawn an entire subculture of mythical creatures. And no, there’s not a sparkly marbled six-pack among them. Instead,
Extreme cases of the disease can manifest gruesome symptoms where victims accumulate pigments called porphyrins in the skin, bones and teeth. While harmless in the dark, porphyrins become caustic, flesh eating toxins that can cause gruesome facial disfigurement when exposed to the ultraviolet rays of sunshine. Noses and ears can be eaten away with lips exhibiting a red, burned effect until they peel back from the gums that in turn recede, exposing the teeth in an unnatural way with a frightening, fang-like appearance.
The article linked to in the subheader also presents plausible explanations for the porphyria-related origins of other common vampire-y characteristics, including their unfortunate taste for blood and their entirely reasonable aversion to garlic and crucifixes. The less-than-cinematic takeaway here is that the longest-suffering victims of real vampires throughout history appear to be the vampires themselves.
That said, a vampire is a vampire, and there’s only one way to fight an army of the un-undead…and that’s with another army of the un-undead! That’s right, I’m talking about:
Unlike the victims of porphyria, whose physical symptoms are all too real, for the wannabe zombies suffering from Cotard delusion, it’s all about brains — and I don’t mean dietarily. First described by French neurologist Jules Cotard in 1882, walking corpse syndrome is classified as a “neuropsychiatric disorder” in which a disconnect in the brain leaves people unable to even recognize “their own face; as a result, they come to believe they’re dead.” Moreover, “in advanced cases, they sometimes believe their flesh is beginning to rot or that some of their internal organs or their blood is missing.”
Fortunately, if recognized and treated in time, the delusion is reversible. Not reversible, however? The 19 hours you’re scheduled to spend catching up with The Walking Dead on Netflix this summer before the third season begins this fall.
Bride-(who-wants)-to-be-(thinner), Jessica Schnaider, who spent $1,500 for eight days on a feeding tube to make sure her wedding photos — if not her new body — would look good forever. Credit: Barbara Fernandez for The New York Times
Months of winter forcing you to chow down on ‘comfort food’ making you feel like Violet Beauregarde? You’re in luck: the New York Times was kind enough to shine a spotlight on the latest diet trend sweeping the nation (in this case, a nation made up almost solely of prospective brides looking to shed a couple-twenty pounds): nasogastric tubes, which provide a highly controlled daily dose of calories after being inserted through the nostril, down the esophagus, and into the stomach.
Needless to say, this type of weight loss regimen isn’t for everyone — and in some experts’ opinions, shouldn’t be for anyone. As Time reports:
Dr. David Heber, director of the UCLA Risk Factor Obesity Program, says complications can also include aspiration, infection of the lung, kidney failure and erosion of tissues in the nose and throat. “People are taking an unnecessary medical risk by putting in a [feeding] tube,” he says. “To do it for no reason seems to me overly risky. Without medical supervision, if the protein and electrolyte levels are not monitored, it’s not safe.”
Of course, humans have experimented with destructive ways to maintain their figures since people realized they had figures. The ancient Romans would vomit between courses to make room for the next round. William the Conquerer adopted an all-alcohol diet in 1087 after becoming too fat to ride his horse. Unfortunately, he died that same year after supposedly falling off said horse, which gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “crash diet.” Even Lord Byron had some less-than-appealing practices to keep the poet pounds down:
Existing on biscuits and soda water or potatoes drenched in vinegar, he wore woolly layers to sweat off the pounds and measured himself obsessively. Then he binged on huge meals, finishing off with a necessarily large dose of magnesia.
Of course, if they’d existed in his day, I’m sure Byron would have been one of the first to purchase one of the many variations of the Jiggle-a-Tron 5000 that became popular in the early half of last century, especially considering that its main attraction seemed to be how little physical effort its users actually had to exert in order to reap its supposed benefits.
That said, it’s hypocritical to pretend that many of today’s high-tech solutions are any better. Take Japan’s 4 in 1 Pressotherapy Slimming Machine, which promises (in its own delightfully poetic way) that
With perfect combination with magicconversion curve & lymph conduction, fat elimination, breach of fat, magnetic skin tension, integrated with weight loss, body beautification, massage, and exercise, four-in-one body beautification instrument transmits 32 different types of myriametric wave signals to strengthen normal electrochemical process of human nerve endings and generate 32 different moving modes of fat in the body of patients so that the fat in different people will be completed decomposed.
Couldn’t have said it better myself. Especially with a feeding tube up my nose.
Last Friday, keen-eyed Twit-wit, Andrew Bloch, noticed something slightly askew in his copy of Malaysia’s top-selling English-language periodical, The Star: namely, that America’s third richest hip-hop star, 50 Cent, was only worth RM1.50 in local currency.
An innocent mistake by an over-zealous, under-hip copy editor? Well, yes. Nonetheless, the amusing misappropriation started me thinking. There are plenty of current and latter-day MCs whose pseudonymous handles have the potential for inadvertent cross-border translations. How might those folks be referred to in different parts of the world?
Forthwith, a less-than-comprehensive compendium (offered in graphic form, since tables in this template are some ugly-ass Mofos — see end of post):
Hat tip to Benjy Sarlin.
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(Actual table version available after the jump.) Read the rest of this entry »
My wife and I ordered a new corner TV cabinet a few weeks back to replace the particleboard Walmart number we’d purchased after moving in together five years ago. Eager to ditch the college-quality eyesore, I began disconnecting components as soon as the new cabinet arrived and we managed to maneuver its wider-than-remembered bulk through the front door and into the kitchen.
Five minutes and one minor electrical shock later, I was greeted by this rather horrifying sight:
For those of you keeping track at home, this is apparently the sort of electro-intestinal carnage that one can expect from a years-long Royal Rumble starring, in no particular order, one high-definition television, one Nintendo Wii, one Blu-ray player, one satellite receiver, one Apple TV, one sound bar, one cable modem, one wireless router, and one high-definition signal switcher — that last device being necessary to manage the feeds from the aforementioned Blu-ray player, satellite receiver, and Apple TV in light of the single, solitaryHDMI input on our (relatively) old Westinghouse.
My first instinct upon witnessing this modern-day Cobble’s Knot was to hit up Maniac Mageeon the celly and then curl up in the fetal position while he worked his way through it with only the promise of a large cheese pizza for payment. After learning from my school-teacher wife that the book was not, in fact, based on a real person however, I eventually hunkered down to untangle the Gordian gnarl myself, wondering all the while when technology would finally free us from a tethered entertainment existence once and for all.
The most obvious candidate for wired obsolescence, of course, is the Blu-ray player (which would already require one less cord if I hadn’t cheaped out and purchased the ethernet-only version instead of the wireless one to access online content). In my opinion, there’s a better-than-even chance that Blu-ray discs will prove the last physical audio/video medium to gain widespread adoption, as more and more of us turn to Internet-enabled streaming media to meet our Hollywood hankerings.
Unfortunately, aside from pre-recorded movies offered by your cable or satellite provider, conventional bandwidth wisdom dictates that broadcast television is probably still a few years away from being able to pipe true 1080p resolution (at 60 fps — not 24 fps) directly into your living room — to say nothing of Ultra HD programming, which DIRECTV has just recently announced it is working on and which Japan intends to transition to by 2020 (the year — not the TV show).
Of course, once you ditch Blu-ray, cable/satellite doesn’t need to be far behind. As streaming content libraries at Netflix, Amazon, Apple, Google, and future competitors continue to grow, the concept of paying for dozens of channels that you never actually watch will become almost quaint. And while we’re consolidating, why not build TVs with wireless routers right in them? They’re already a prominently and centrally displayed piece of equipment, so Internet signals to your other connected devices shouldn’t suffer.
And if you can figure out a way to build a portal into the TV for third-party video game manufacturers, perhaps a single peripheral is all you’ll need to integrate their controllers as well, while the games themselves are delivered directly through your all-in-on uber-monitor. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the real Apple TV rumored to be debuting this fall incorporated multiple elements of my cord-free free-thinking.
[Googles…] Well, speak of the devil! (who, I might remind you, did convince Adam to partake of a certain doctor-repelling fruit once upon a time). According to Macworld UK two days ago, “Apple is working on a television set with voice-control and a touch-screen remote, which will come with Apple’s very own game console.” Well, applejacks! Now if they can only figure out how to power the whole thing via a giant Powermat, we’ll really be in business.
On January 13, 1946, Chester Gould gave Dick Tracy a two-way wrist radio and adolescent boys across the country became transfixed with the idea of miniature portable communication devices. In 1964, Gould upgraded Tracy’s radio to a two-way wrist TV, and our collective pubescent unconscious immediately began conjuring all sorts of filthy possibilities that continue to haunt our dreams to this day.
Early efforts to duplicate Tracy’s most iconic gadget were, how to put this… less than sophisticated.
Even employing Groucho Marx as a spokesmodel failed to satisfy our cravings for wrist-worn awesomeness.
Now fast forward to last Thursday for thedebut of Sony’s new ‘SmartWatch’, which is designed to work in tandem with your Android phone to provide you with more — ahem —timely access to the various and vital tweets, emails, status updates, phone calls, etc. that would otherwise force you to paw your phone out of your too-tight thrift store jeans every time your pocket buzzed.
Facing competition from Kickstarter darlingsPebble and inPulse and having just revised its losses for the previous financial year to $6.4 billion (yeah, that’s right — “billion”), Sony, the former consumer electronics giant, is undoubtedly praying for the SmartWatch to become as iconic as Tracy’s own well-known band of techno-bling — or, better yet, anything made by Apple in the last ten years.
However, whether or not the SmartWatch is a hit on its own merits, Sony certainly could have taken a bite out of Apple’s recipe book when it comes to advertising. As of today, there is absolutely no information about the SmartWatch on Sony’s homepage, forcing potential customers to glean second-hand information from sketchy-ass blogs.
Moreover, even typing “SmartWatch” into the main search bar yields zilch at the moment. It’s only when you click on the Sony Store and then search for “SmartWatch” that the product appears. Can you imagine visiting Apple.com at any given moment and not seeing a drool-worthy photo of the latest iPad or iPhone right on the front page?
On the plus side, Pottermore — the Harry Potter uber-site created and overseen by Just Kidding Rowling herself — opened last weekend, and since it’s apparently being run in partnership with top Sony brass like CEO Charlie Redmayne, CTO Julian Thomas, and COO Tom Turcan, maybe the boy wizard has enough tricks up his over-sized sleeves to turn the floundering federation’s fortunes around again. Don’t bet your last raven’s claw on it though. Vanquishing He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was probably a hell of a lot easier than yanking Sony out of the scrap heap.
When I was a kid, my friends and I used to spend hours inventing and constructing different paper airplane models in my basement during sleepovers. Sometimes we brought along the latest book of templates we’d convinced our parents to buy us during last month’s Scholastic book club order, but mostly the designs were our own. We experimented with paper size, material, and thickness; held contests to see who could invent the most and least complicated planes still capable of rudimentary flight; and then staged epic dogfights on the front lawn the next day that completely undermined all the preliminary aerodynamic conclusions we had drawn the night before in my wind-less, low-ceilinged cellar playroom.
I recall one particular optimism-inducing day when one of my parents brought home a thick roll of paper at least three feet wide that looked like it belonged on some sort of old-fashioned, room-sized receipt calculator. Our response was to make a paper airplane just about as tall as we were.
Unfortunately, after hours of carefully cutting, folding, and coloring the plane to make it as radical as a bunch of nine-year-olds could conceive of, its lackluster structural integrity ultimately forced us to admit defeat as sprinting launch after sprinting launch yielded nothing more than a crippled nose cone and approximately five feet of aggregate horizontal flight. It was the first of many times in our lives that we would learn that, despite what you hear on TV, size really does matter.
You’d have found that especially true if you were in the Arizona desert in March, when, according to the LA Times, the Pima Air & Space Museum used a helicopter to launch possibly the largest paper airplane ever constructed. The craft (aka, Arturo’s Desert Eagle) was 45 feet long with a 24-foot wingspan and weighed 800 pounds. It was constructed as part of the museum’s Giant Paper Airplane Project to excite kids about aviation and engineering.
Despite ascending to more than half a mile, the plane was able to remain aloft for no more than 10 seconds after its release from the tow cable. During that time, however, it reached a top speed of 98 miles per hour while covering nearly one mile across the ground before tragically accordioning into the cracked and arid landscape below. (No word yet on whether North Korea has called to discuss using the design for its next missile launch attempt.)
Half a mile is a hell of a drop point, but as a kid, I would have been psyched to have access to even a second-story window to toss our creations from — to say nothing of an 18th story window like the lucky (from the point of view of my adolescent avatar) Mumbai miscreant whose own homemade hang glider stars in the increasingly entrancing video below (via 3 Quarks Daily).
The cosmic beauty of this video isn’t that the airplane seems like an especially ingenious design (any wide-body glider constructed with even mild competence should be able to approach this much flight time given the heights and subsequent cross-winds involved), but the fact that anyone skipping ahead to the one-minute mark or so would probably be more likely — if they didn’t know any better — to label the swooping white object a clumsy bird rather than a man-made craft.
Best of all, the predatory raptors circling overhead seem to reach the same conclusion, considering how quickly they hone in on their unsuspecting papyrus prey before snatching it out of the sky during one of their sudden ascents.
Watching these bewildered buzzards, I began wondering what else was going on in the world of paper airplanes that no one had told me about and was pleasantly surprised when a quick Google search turned yet another significant event in the field.
On a smaller dimensional scale than Arturo’s Desert Eagle but a broader geopolitical one, May 4 and 5 will mark the third-ever Red Bull Paper Wings World Final in Salzburg, Austria, which has occurred every three years since 2006. The contest sees finalists compete in three distinct areas: Longest Distance (official World Record holder: Stephen Krieger [USA, 2003] with 207’ 4”), Longest Airtime (Takuo Toda [Japan, 2009] with 27.9 seconds), and Aerobatics (no world record, since winners are judged on creativity — e.g., Addison Asochak, who won the Canadian aerobatics finals by “dancing in western chaps while sending a dozen paper airplanes into the air during his one minute of competition time”).
Who knew that my youthful dalliances with paper-based aviation could have led to so many exciting opportunities if I’d stuck with it? I guess that should inspire me to continue with my current pursuit: paper furniture. If I could just solve this damn paper-cut problem, I might really have something here.
The Internet is nothing if not a powerful enabler of the very best and the very worst in ourselves. Its anonymity allows trolls that would otherwise be spending their time under bridges to spew hateful garbage in Tommy-Gun patterns without fear of reprisal, while its versatility fosters vibrant, passionate communities capable of changing laws and toppling dictators.
This post is about none of that, however, because for most people, the Internet is usually nothing more than biggest, weirdest, niche-iest mall of all time.
For example, while stumbling through StumbleUpon yesterday, I came across a page forTrunk Club® Men’s Outfitters. Initially hoping it had something to with either elephants or vintage bathing suits, I was almost equally amazed to discover it was actually a start-up devoted to helping men “who want to look great without having to go shopping in stores or online.” Wait a second, I thought. I want to look great without having to go shopping in stores or online!
So naturally I signed up for an account, at which point I was asked to enter my physical measurements (though not all of them, ladies!) and various personal style choices, such as how I dress at the office — “Business Dressy (Ad Agency, Law Firm)” vs. “Casual (Silicon Valley Start-Up)” — and how I roll on the weekends — “Classy (Country Club)” vs. “Relaxed (Bumming Around).”
Annoyingly, though perhaps predictably, after about five minutes of filling out style-preference questions related to the potential contents of my first trunk, I still hadn’t come across a single reference to what the hell this might all be costing me. Then I got to the final page, where I was told that, “Now that we know what you want, save your shipping address and credit card below to expedite your order. We won’t ship anything or bill anything without being in touch first!”
Thanks to computers, you no longer have to dress yourself!
Umm, yeah, No thanks. I prefer to see the price tag on my Tommy Bahamas before leaving Kohl’s in disgust. Apparently, elite Yelp user Johnny T. can relate:
Maybe this is customary. Maybe this is what shopping is all about. Thing is, when your target audience is made up of guys who don’t tend to shop all that often or consistently, take some time to warn a fellow. When I saw the bill for my 5 items, I might have blacked out a bit. Don’t get me wrong: everything looked ridiculously awesome, was made of fantastic quality and bore designer names I’d never heard of, but my wallet took me outside and slapped me around a bit.
So maybe Trunk Club wasn’t for me. (I’m more of a valise guy anyway, to be honest.) But what about my wife? Where can a bag-lady-at-heart like her go to rep all the hottest styles without filling our non-existent closet space (and, ideally, without emptying our very-much-existent-but-not-exactly-sumo-sized bank accounts). Well, apparently, there’s an app for that, too. Enter Bag Borrow or Steal — the catchily titled online retailer that lets ladies and Lucky Cheng’s employees alike Netflixorcise their fashion demons with weekly, monthly, or seasonal rentals of designer handbags, jewelry, and any number of accessories that only the truly terminal should have to live without.
While something like a Hermes-brand Porosus Crocodile Birkin 30 Satchel Handbag (WTF?!) might set you back a cool $1,632.00 per week, at least you know up front what food groups you’ll have to give up in order to afford it. And to be fair, there are actually plenty of purses made by other companies I’ve never heard of that’ll run you as little as $6.00/week, so you pick your pecuniary poison, I suppose.
Of course, no mall is complete without a food court…but since my doctor worries that evenwriting about Bacon Freak might raise my cholesterol to dangerously high levels, I’ll have to save that post for another day.
iRobot’s line of autonomous Roomba vacuum cleaners has been extremely popular with both lazy (or, in some cases, lonely) homemakers and practical hackers alike ever since its debut in 2002. The former demographic loves its idiot-proof, Ron Popeil-esque “set it and forget it!” interface, while the latter loves its built-in array of high-tech sensors and “hackable” serial interface. In fact, programming the little vac-bot to perform non-cleaning tasks became so popular that, not only has it spawned various books and websites on the subject, it also inspired the company to relase the iRobot Create® Programmable Robot, in which the vacuum motor is replaced by an empty space for attaching whatever other instruments the user can dream up.
It really makes you wonder: What Would Rosie Do?
Not surprisingly, with the Roomba and its various companion/competitor technologies improving with each generation, local maid services have begun to realize that they might need to start stepping up their own game in order to compete in a mechanized world. Enter Texas’s own Lubbock Fantasy Maid Service, which offers “nude or topless maid services” to discerning patrons in the Lubbock area.
While most of the stories on the subject are focusing on the possible legal ramifications of this type of business operating without a “sexually oriented” permit, I think we can all agree that the more interesting angle comes on the “IMPORTANT INFORMATION!” link of Fantasy Maid’s website, where we learn that — despite being a literally half-assed idea — the company has actually thought this thing through quite a bit, to the extent that they even have a comprehensive policy for how to deal with any nudists who hire them.
To wit:
NUDIST POLICY: LFMS will provide services in the homes of nudist [sic] under certain circumstances. If the nudist answers the door nude AND has immediate family (mixed gender) present (clothed or nude) then the customer may also be nude. The relation must be provable by identification and the family members must be clearly visible upon opening the door.
As much as a publicity stunt as it is, we ought to applaud Fantasy Maid for showing that, in the coming struggle between cold, hard robots and living flesh, humans still have a chance.
