iPad's REVENGE: Look Ma, No Thumbs!

Funny story written by John Peurach

Monday, 26 July 2010

image for iPad's REVENGE: Look Ma, No Thumbs!
EXIT - STAGE LEFT: All according to Chuck, "Not to be an I-told-you-so, but, hey......save me a seat."

EAST CHINA, MICHIGAN - Don't look now, but do, by all means, hold onto whatever you still can. Because based on the first substantial wave of studies attempting to determine what sort of possible long-term package deal effects might be coming our way, due to the quick ascension of Apple's almighty tablet computer toy, the iPad, any outside-the-box multi-tasking days we were led to believe were ours to enjoy, might, in fact, now only be heading us collectively straight down a somewhat more rockier one-way road than we've (like, forever) been accustomed to traveling. So far.

One, that if ultimately realized, would indeed take us into back to the future times that promise to be, if anything, not only nothing to behold, but, in the long (and short hair) run, oh so much more un-multi-like. And thus, nothing to write home about. Since, of course, that will, by then, be one of the more limited options available for inter-personal communication within the immediate family-of-man kind.

(Not that some of us aren't already out there trying to achieve such an inflexible state of back home-specific affairs, regardless. But then, that there's another story entirely, for another time. No doubt, because, someone's Aunt Minnie in New Jersey is already starting to take what's going on here the wrong way. So, again, cue the regardless, if you haven't already.)

Meanwhile…….because of the rapid, relentless, direct-hit success of the iPad, and its immediate ability to briskly capture the seemingly forever lock-step hearts and minds (and, of course, any and all quick-response, point and drag along fingers, as well) of an otherwise, ever-anxious, unsuspecting pubic-at-large (that's only getting larger, if not down right ultra-slavish, in their ongoing pursuit of the new, the so-called improved, and, as always, the whatever they're told they must have, like, NOW - if not sooner) any would-be fully accurate study of its more commonly acquired societal effects was forced to endure a rotating series of follow-up reviews before any positive or negative results were either properly presented, indiscriminately posted, or, if necessary, breathlessly passed on to an otherwise appropriate clergyperson, who would hopefully, Lord willing, take "yes," as the only true answer to any question they might have had at the time that otherwise started-up, and/or ended with, "Are you sure?"

Consequently, although it may have taken some time for experts in the field to finally come up with something that approached what could best be described as their final answer "Ah-ha" moment, those with a particular gruesome doomsday sort of streak (excluding, of course, lovers of TV's "The Golden Girls") would have to wait for any so-called clearance hurdles to officially be, once and for all, overcome.

And so, as promised, our long national temporary nightmare is finally, for now, as partially over as need be. Which, although fine for some, may in fact, be just what the doctor never thought to order. And thus, the possible beginning of the end of something else entirely. Especially for anyone tuning in still hoping to hear how the Mets did tonight.

Mainly because, as strange as it may be to, for now, wash, rinse, and repeat accordingly, whatever impeding "lost baggage" apparently has been un-earthed by these short-to-long (and then back again) iPad "regress proceedings," comes bathed in enough "uh-oh" steam to more or less (go with more) totally curl the not-yet-mussed up hair of just about anyone still somewhere out there/in here sporting a wide enough awake head to actually think (when needed) that, even at this late date, it's still just one of their, more or less, very own. (Head, that is.) Or, at the very least, one that they, or anyone in a similar non-knuckle dragging/mouth breathing position might (at this point in so-real/so-right about now how time) hope well beyond the nearest available hope one day to maybe still call their (by then, hopefully paid-for and/or not totally sold-out) own.

That is, within, of course, the most available, readily accepted, previously thought to be understandable reason, as previously stated, suggested, and/or (often enough) even partially implied in any number of pre-arranged "good books," not already (or, as yet) deemed to be so systematically irrelevant and/or entirely unworthy of receiving any future unclaimed continuing portion of ones seemingly (so far) misdirected loyalty and/or, at best, temporarily misplaced unremarkable, code-word prone attention.

And well, aside from the, as expected, rapidly heightened correlative connection between multi-hand/assorted digit nose-picking and (from almost out of nowhere) a new and improved, better-than-average, compliance and inevitable completion rate, with regards to the successful (and, in most cases, entirely semi-thorough) reading of various books and periodicals, the partial temporary viewing of and/or unlimited participation with, an equally wide assortment of available movies, TV programs, streaming videos, games, music and/or unrelated, yet seemingly necessary, information via appropriately designated online sources, and, last but not least, the continued 24/7 reception of (and sometimes even occasional response to) an ever-increasingly wider access to a variety of poorly worded e-mails, and many other, as yet, only semi-regulated, social networking vehicles, the bulk of these particularly penetrating inquiries into what may or may not give (or get) in the all-important, brave new ever-dependent relationship world now unfolding between an anxiously receptive humankind and the powerful, preferred, pre-assigned machines continually enlisted to "service" them, would seem to suggest that, by and large, there really doesn't appear, at first glace, to be anything too far out of the usual sort of ordinary to be concerned with, or, in fact, begin to start worrying any pretty little heads over.

Although, any reasonably coherent second glance does, however, promise to stir up the pot a bit. Which, in turn, definitely is cause for concern, and goes a long way into making things perhaps just a wee bit more tricky, if not altogether spooky, in a major WTF way, since…..

Well, since at least one of these recently completed research studies (the somewhat now mysteriously infamous, "Idy Report: Whatever It Is, It Gets Worse," which was spearheaded by Professor Kipness J. Idy at the Ruehle Okoren/Shollbrook-Cohen Institute in East China, Michigan, and subsequently re-checked twice by an award-winning UC-Berkeley mathematical savant, and further substantiated by several off-the-record University of Chicago physicists - three in Condensed Matter, two each in Nanotechnology and Fluid Dynamics, and one used-to-be Particles & Fields scholar, who never gave up the dream to become a Biotechnologist, just to please his mom (the current Mayor and co-manager of a Dairy Queen in Pawtucket, Rhode Island) - while each were caught both on, and somewhat beyond, the fly (during some down time while otherwise attending an Atomic, Molecular & Optical conference at Cal Tech), spending pretty much what was left of their rock-the-hard-place-casbah afternoon at the Hustler Hollywood store on Sunset Blvd. either collectively changing a light bulb, or, as it eventually turned out, searching unsuccessfully, for any sort of DVD featuring the altogether alluring plumped-up pregnant version of primo porn star, Queen of all T&A Carmella Bing) concludes, in no uncertain terms, that in our continued, epically proportioned, intimately designed desire to always be ahead of whatever curve is awaiting us, we have inadvertently overreached our, till now, natural order destinies into unanticipated areas better left for any remaining GPS boys to sort out (once, of course, they ever get there, by way of the usual, pre-arranged assortment of already well-traveled roads, of an understandable kind), and for the rest of us to completely avoid, ignore, and, with any luck, pass through unscathed, before becoming any further caught up within what is so obviously "THE Big U of All U-Turns" back to the long thought-to-be forever dormant proverbial origins of us all.

Or, at least all those headed for, and thus, soon-to-be entering said aforementioned reverse process, so as to better trip and fall themselves into a realm which, although quick with the sucker punch, has now been found to save its most lethal blow for when whoever gets there first least expects it, and, for better IS worse, soon no longer in a position of even attempting to perhaps get, or, at best, even maintain, anything but a limited and totally un-functionable weak link grip on what shall forever so remain, so to speak, the new is, and not the old was. As for what's behind the curtain why, maybe just because.

And, although, at first somewhat tricky to fully appreciate, and certainly nothing all that comforting to initially consider, at least to all those determined to stay well outside the various research and intellectual communities, once the most obvious, and, in many instances, potentially more difficult to pre-suppose findings were finally in an allowable position to be carefully laid out, and indirectly explained in a manner that hopefully would prove to be not only soup-to-nuts informative, but entirely beneficial (without, of course, being, in any way, too condescending, or, worse yet, unnecessarily "noogie") the wandering, wildfire thoughts of an ever-more anxious put-upon public would finally be given their final resting chance to achieve and maintain a worthwhile sense of semi-immediate and/or about-to-be impending calm, so as to allow for, if not a higher degree of necessary closure, then, at least a more readily available level of informational transference so as to make all things considered even that much more mentally digestible, and/or hopefully anything but a continuation of the already assumed to be ongoing well established "Scare-The-Pants-Off" proposition currently sweeping what remains of an otherwise reasonably wide awake world.

Thus, several in-the-field community forums were arranged. The first one being "The Not Yet Wow Now Conference," which was staged recently in the sparkling Crystal Ballroom high atop the Connie Striker South Riverside Pavilion in East China, Michigan, and Co-Sponsored by Upper-Thumb Citizens For A Better Everything Reaction Committee (a regional watchdog group generally made up of various overly-concerned business leaders, recreational boating enthusiasts, former public school Home Economics instructors, still-active volunteer firefighters, not-yet-retired and/or totally re-called public officials who like to eat, sleep, and fish, and at least one local starving artist who has no particular use for the "big picture", unless of course Asian women are somehow included, or graphically depicted, hopefully dressed up in nothing but their skimpy underwear, while otherwise in the kick-ass process of firing off whatever latest line of hand held government-issue military weaponry is available to whoever agrees to pay the cost of shipping and handling), Gary's Collision Shop, Malcolm Marine, Inc., River Place Mercantile, the St. Clair River Country Club, Silk's Flower Shop, Sue's Coffee House, and the International House of Hughie Durham Learning Annex - in order to bring forth those particular lab-based discoveries concerning the somewhat complicated aspects of the iPad's seemingly inherent involuntary capabilities that, when filtered through what many experts in the field have now accepted as an entirely probable case of "give or take envisionary certainty," might prove to not only be directly heard, up-close and personal, straight from the origin sources of the researcher's ground-zero mouth, but also, within reason, at a more readily available, and, quite possibly, an even more humane-like, understandable pace, without, of course, the nicks and cuts of a blade.

"By first laying out the necessary one-on-one data of the average iPad, we were quickly able to formulate and extend a looping series of open-ended, yet still fully reversible equations," said Dr. Mossi Don, Acting (He's here all week, folks!) Research Spokesperson for the Ruehle Okoren/Shollbrook-Cohen Institute (ROSCI), during his opening remarks before an altogether packed house of uneasy onlookers wedged into the Connie Striker Pavilion Crystal Ballroom waiting for coffee and cake to be served. "Then, after cracking the sequential dimension of the inverted second half of whatever internal bionormal frequency was found to best expand the sub-prime boundaries of the Themistocles Code, we ignored the resulting positive-negative ratio, and chose to instead, re-establish any pre-existing diffeomorphic conditions that were, until then, only retreating conjectures, previously thought to be beyond the, as established, limits of the Smale Theorem. From there, it was only a matter of time, a short hop really, before we introduced one of Poincare's lesser known surmisals, at which point we couldn't help but soon enough isolate a, till then, boundless wrinkle within a long thought to be lost fixed-point of a differentiable function, that, although initially alluded to, if not officially recognized, by Raoul Bott, via his often cited, yet never completely written down (except for the back of a cocktail napkin and bar coaster from The Plough & Stars pub in Cambridge, Massachusetts) more or less unintentional presumption, which, in turn, mistakenly put a looser than usual canon sphere inside what was now the reciprocal of the original manifold, rather than the customary other way around, only to discover that any resulting foliations were next to impossible to properly access without, of course, the written consent of Major League Baseball."

Meanwhile, although Dr. Don's address to the by then (or, not soon enough) semi-interested attendees had successfully discovered a way to ramble on to a point of no return, it's fair to say that the group-like festivities did pick up considerably, what with the altogether sudden, totally abrupt, seemingly out of nowhere, middle-of-the-room intrusion of a distinguished well-age man claiming to be Dorsey Patterson (suddenly there in shirt, tie, and well pressed clam diggers, on the mouth-breathing assumption that he was there to deliver an economy size truck load of frozen veal cutlets).

Needless to say, this quickly proved to be a welcome relief, in that it not only caused a delay in the now no longer in-progress community outreach presentation, but allowed, during a brief enough pause in the so far totally convoluted proceedings, for an assortment of princess-like young women, currently affiliated with the Therese Boulier Blue Water Cotillion, to expertly pass out some recently arrived fresh pastries from nearby Barringer's Bakery, and thus, quickly calm what, at the time, remained of the thinned-out audience, just prior to the loud, nerve-bending onset arrival of un-planned fire drill. All of which, quite naturally, unfortunately forced an immediate evacuation of the Striker Pavilion, and, an hour, or two later, the temporarily permanent re-location of the community forum to three tables and one booth at the St. Clair River Lanes Sportsman Lounge, approximately a mile and half north of the original conference site.

However, due to the fact that it was also apparently League Night at the St. Clair River Lanes, Dr. Mossi Don, was soon forced to cut short the continuing postscript to his more formal earlier address, once it was announced by Councilman Foley (who, due to the passage of an unpopular referendum in the most recent citywide election, is now apparently required by law to go shirtless whenever he's drinking beer in public) that, after local basketball legend (and nationally renowned polka music scholar) Jim Shafran (58) was through trying to make his first frame spare in Lane #4, he was up next.

Still, Dr. Don did have one last final thought to pass on to anyone waiting in line at a poorly stocked Confection Infection vending machine near the lobby, while River Lanes Assistant Manager Bradley Cooper retrieved the good doctor's bowling shoes from the trunk of his vintage '71 Oldsmobile Cutless, right before it was allegedly vandalized by some renegade St. Mary's alter boys, rumored to be high on un-holy water, model airplane glue, and cupcakes given to them by Father Timothy in lieu of the traditional four "Our Fathers," and six "Hail Marys," and the usual carefully whispered reminder to "Keep this under your vestment. No, not that……this."

"Look, it's not like I'm making any of this stuff up," Dr. Don said, while jumping out of the way of an onrushing member of the River Lanes custodial staff, Herb Pauley, as he headed to the men's restroom in response to an emergency situation involving two shoe clerks, Joe Vito and one Mr. Willie Cici, and, allegedly, either a Brunswick C-(System) 3.5 bowling ball or a built-in hand dryer, or, most likely both.

"I mean, what do you think?" he continued. "That we'd be foolish enough to just invent something like this, to create all the why, and who what, why for's, and how come's, just so we could scare you into being something else, in a way you really don't want to? Huh? Are you serious? You think that's what we want, what we went into this whole up-the-road thing looking for? Really?? Knowing full well that, even if the public doesn't jump into a panic, that those damn knuckleheads at Hitchhikers Anonymous certainly will. And after them, all the usual pain-in-the-ass parade of registered card carrying thumbsuckers, too??? And then, the friggin' Baseball Umpires Union, plus the glove and mitten people, and, as always, a whole bunch of pasty faced classical pianists, violinists, and piccolo players from everywhere, from Julliard, from the New York Philharmonic, from…….hell, from the Sheboygan Conservatory of Music, and anywhere else there's a thumb that someone's now not so happy to be just sitting on. That's what we need, what we got to be so all concerned about, now?? What with LaBron going to Miami, Miss Lindsay locked-up in the cooler, Bashir on the run, if not all the way up the lamb, "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" tanking big-time, the brain surgeons at USC on probation, the "Jersey Shore" babes and bozo's literally going everywhere - without flushing, and before you know it, nobody left in Arizona to do low-cost, yet high quality, gardening, lawn care, and assorted other customarily unspecified yard work, heretofore avoided like the plague by most, if not all, true, red, white, and blue, real Americans, excluding, of course, native ones and/or any others still claiming to periodically enjoy the sometimes overwhelming benefits that have been known to occasionally occur whenever a fully-responsive "green" thumb, otherwise still attached to their person, is allowed to enter the field of play within ones current front, back, and even, side yard vicinity? What do ya say? How's about them apples? Nothing too much to sneeze at there, now, right? Of course, right! Although to tell you the truth, from where I choose to stand and sit this one out, if losing a thumb, or two, would forever guarantee me the chance to never be concerned about crap like any of that ever again, then show me where to enter, and sign in, please, before I can't even begin to do neither anymore!"

Luckily, Bradley Cooper soon showed up with Dr. Don's bowling shoes just in time to spare (surprisingly enough) Quentin Tarantino, Margaret Cho, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt (in town to scout some tentative locations for their possible upcoming project, "Ball-peen Racine") the anything but golden opportunity of hearing anymore of what obviously seemed to be itching to come crawling out of Don's suddenly uncorked and, by then, totally on-tap mind, of sorts. Including, most (if not all) of the not exactly pretty details concerning his long ago failure to wear a jock during a high school basketball game against Marine City, his inability to properly impress an exchange student from Finland with the old "What's-that-in-the-bottom-of-the-popcorn-bucket?" routine during a screening of "Cool Hand Luke," and, of course, anything to do with what accidentally transpired following an extended moment of gastro-intestinal distress at the tail end of, what eventually would become, his last Roman Catholic-oriented confession.

Meanwhile, needless to say, numerous other honks hoping to sound off about the tipping points poking out all over the Idy Report, have, of course, lined up to let loose with their inevitable litany of follow-up reactions to ROSCI's eventual self-serving spin job, and how it took the long way around the park before getting all the way down in the mud before it began spouting its pointed, yet aimless view, while seemingly going all the way out of someone's (who's?) way to protect whatever (whoever's) origins may have actually sponsored, dictated, and, ultimately, benefited (handsomely) as a result of the possible misdirected intentions of its rather unyielding scope job in an unwelcome cavity most of us would rather not live to see (or feel) even slightly fulfilled.

And, on a side note that can't help but add just a wee bit more to any ongoing "My Bad" tab, ROSCI (via Dr. Idy and his partially cracked team of off-duty manicurists and visiting St. Clair County Community College GameCube Majors) has, at last count, seemingly used every trick in the book (either, "The End Of The Road" by John Barth, or "South Of No North" by Charles Bukowski) to so far not pay for any office supplies (including copier ink & toner), assorted hair care products and "previously enjoyed" hunting and fishing periodicals from a local barber shop, numerous non-insurance covered prescriptions for various painkillers and anti-depressants, and a two-month stay at the legendary St. Clair Inn, that included, besides three "On-The-River-Side" top-deck suites, an additional satellite dish, an in-room workout center, a rather sizable selection of seafood specialties (both, in and out season), daily round-the-clock laundry service, plus, a somewhat lengthy, and all-inclusive, arrangement with both the hotel bar, and several nearby establishments specializing in spirits, package goods, and state lottery tickets.

Meaning, of course, that, despite numerous threats from any interested suppliers, participants and/or on-the-case collection associates, very few from the ROSCI home office (currently situated in what was once a long and semi-thriving Sunoco station, mainly because their primary base camp was flooded out by the spring rains, but also, on account of the fact that during the summer months, said camp space is leased out to the Boy Scouts of America and a somewhat under-the-radar traveling evangelical/survivalist concern from Idaho) have lined up to tell who knew what, when they knew it, and how its once again too late to either say, or pretend, to not know the difference.

And well, so the chorus begins……..

"Oh sure, that may be easy for him to say," responded Ms. Rajie Theobold-Lancelot, current Grand Duchess of the International Sister & Brotherhood of Emotionally Detached Thumbsuckers, Nail-Biters, and Otherwise Discreetly Efficient Personal Scratch-A-Holics, when asked to comment on the powerful, no-budge company line coming out of ROSCI, that, as a rule, always seems to arrive with no one claiming to know which way the chicken lips are moving. "But, seriously, such a doomsday situational proposition is never going to sit well with the primary portion of our present, and most consistent, grouping of individuals currently committed to both the public and private enjoyment generated by oral stimulation centered in and around the thumb, particularly in times of stress, and those occasional moments when a firearm is upside ones head, due to a more or less (usually less) unresolved financial situation that also involves two guys not wearing socks, who wear pinky rings and never, it seems, do any talking on the phone."

Spunky, gravel-voiced TV talk show/cooking guru Rachael Ray, seemingly resolved, but decidedly unbowed, by the likely prospect of someday only being able to count to four on one hand, had this to say, while waiting (again) for the starchy cooking water to properly boil, "What do expect now that the planet got smaller? We, the people, went global, and everyone and everything in between, not already tuned in, tied up, and/or reasonably well spoken for, to say nothing about being precisely peeled, or diced-up - alright, I won't - got swept into the rest of the uneven tabletop fixings currently on today, and thus, tomorrow's menu, or in the pre-selected recipe that apparently goes into the making up what has ever so swiftly become a more or less hail and hearty (though, never quite filling) croc pot of worldwide viral soup 2.0 nuts. Back in a couple."

Even though "King of All Deadpans" Will Ferrell has made a career out of playing dumb, his off-the-cuff comments about The Idy Report to ESPN's Amy Lawrence, who caught up with hairy-legged comedy superstar in Los Angeles during the 7th inning stretch at a recent Dodgers-Mets game, were perhaps a little more tongue-in-cheek than usual. Although, to be fair, despite the obvious hilarity and/or would-be intention of the impromptu ball yard face-off, some of that may have been caused by the poorly cooked jumbo-enchilada still stuck in Will's pearly whites. Which, it seems, was put there during a recent meal he endured with an in-transit family of six, who he gave a lift to after making a wrong turn, following his quick-exit attempt to bolt the Comic-Con parking lot before either Tom Kenny or Seattle Seahawks Head Coach Pete Carroll could spot him, and who, were (and still are) living in his late model Land Rover, which, at the moment, was poorly parked in VIP section 8.

"You mean to say that based on what several recent findings about the iPad would appear to indicate," said Will, as he bounced slightly, back and forth on either leg, several yards away from the nearest over-crowded men's room, "that even though things will no doubt certainly be picking-up, like, big time, in the short run. As luck, and an uncertain amount of inadvertent regressive collective-like de-evolution fate might have it, in the long-run, that is, it'll be nothing but different? And, as such, way, way, WAY, out of our reach, especially with regards to any flash-forward to the future, where humans hoping to hold onto anything other than their not yet last gasping breath, will most certainly face the possibility that the beginning of "the end" of what we've come to count on, and, for the most part, continue to expect, from our, till now, traditional forward-progressing evolutionary process, might not only soon cease to exist, but could, very well, at long last, finally be just one more present tense glitch in the system that's been, what? Out there for sometime now, and thus, already well in place to be, once and forever, another final, oooh look-see, nightmare put upon us for some outside forces still unusual sense of amusement?"

"Or, rather," continued Will, as he hopped around a little more unsteadier than would otherwise by readily advised, having by now not gained immediate hang loose access to the closest available indoor plumbing, "worse case scenario-wise, much closer than many of us would certainly like, or were previously lead and/or allowed, to hopefully believe? In other words, something's at hand. Literally, right? But, according to some now super-skewed findings, even that might not be the case, for too much longer, huh? Sound about right? Well, shoot…….if you say so. And, here I thought, because I'm nothing if not a cockeyed optimist, that it was something else entirely that was causing me to get mine caught in the zipper every other day. Just goes to show ya. Voila! What do you know, I feel better already."

It was at this point, that both Will and Amy finally took turns reacting to any recently arrived in-coming nearby dampness.

"Uhh, don't look down," Will cautioned Amy, just prior to her quick retreat to anywhere but there. "Hey, where you going? Wait, I'm not through yet. I still got more! What about the infield fly rule? No, wait, I already did that. But, what the hell, give me a half hour, and a couple more Budarooskies, and I'll be good to go, I promise. Before you know it, or whenever the authorities arrive, whichever comes first. No, let me rephrase that. Who comes first. What do you mean who comes first? What do you mean, what do you mean who comes first? Who's on second? Now you're talking! Hey, I rang the bell, didn't I?? Cannonball!!! Check, please! My compliments to the chef."

And, on the heels of that unfortunate, voices-in-the-extra-inning-head exchange, it only seems fitting that, when all is said in fun done, leave it to "The Spoof" to finally locate the one person best qualified to (for now, anyway) conclude this upset the applecart affair with what could best be described as, yet again, another oh so typical, fairly unbalanced, coda to this ever late-breaking development.

"In other words," said Dr. Shmazalong Patel, Professor Emeritus of Computational Biology at the Franklin, Massachusetts Academy For Human Growth Technology and Applied Pizza Kitchen Sciences, during a well attended post-study Q & A session, following a big order of pies going out to, yet another, Dean College summertime class reunion being held at the Pinzon Motor Lodge in nearby Woonsocket, Rhode Island, "what we've got here is failure to…..oh, damn, I dropped it again, what I had written down, what I wanted to say, so nice, and so……well, not exactly, or even semi-entirely eloquent, but, you know, more seriously, to the point, with that point, of course, being that, with any, as expected, future prolonged usage of the iPad, especially as currently designed, what with the, you know, finger like it does, always moving this way, then that way, left, right, up, down, every which a way, all around, whatever, because it's……..well, it's still just a finger, and, as such, usually only this one, the first one, sometimes the second, maybe the third, but usually, by and large, only the first, the traditional pointer, because that's just how it is, for now, and, from here on, I suppose, getting even that much more …….well, is-ier, as, of course, the days pass and the rest of our hopefully pleasant evenings wear on, and on, and on, until, well, until it runs out of its "is", if you will, and consequently reaches a unyielding point of not-so-sudden-no-return where by which, because most of us by then won't have exactly had a reason, or been either required, or forced somehow into ever using it, the thumb, that is, it…….the thumb, will cease to be anything but what it has by then become, or, to put it more plainly, a more or less, unnecessary appendage, that will eventually somehow only succumb to the severely limited pressure of its by then only decorative status, to which its only course of action is to either evolve accordingly into something of an even lesser noticeable presence, a small, hook-like nub, perhaps. Or, worse case scenario, drop off completely, at which point, it would, if not then, well, soon enough, I suppose, become just that much more of a nourishing food selection for whatever amphibious creatures will, by then, be in full competition with us for whatever available food scraps would otherwise be available for both, our immediate, and, as these things tend to slide, our future adaptability, as well. Or, so, at least, would some of the findings, still under review, appear to so far indicate."

"But, on the bright side," Patel continued, prior to putting in motion an order for two large Pepperoni with Green Pepper pies for a local victorious Little League team, "I recently did get to read "The New England Journal Of Medicine," a recent edition of "Filmfare," and nearly half of "Interpreter of Maladies" by Jhumpa Lahiri, plus, was able to play numerous uninterrupted rounds of CastleCraft, Cogs HD, Civilization Revolution, Touchgrind HD, and We Rule for iPad, while I was being prepped for a non-elective procedure, so there's still at least something worthwhile to be achieved whenever the iPad is within an arms reach. And, considering I wasn't exactly upright at the time, what can I say? Until an extra-plus-size person, preferably a woman, begins to belt out some Rossini, or, as I would choose to request, a little Mahler, with some Schubert on the side, may I suggest that the best one can hope to do, considering the alternative, is to take what you get, or are, at best, willing to still hold on to, while you try to then hopefully just do the best you can do until, or before, you can't anymore. Or, you know, begin to get really sick and tired of trying to pick pretty much everything up before you trip over it again, and finally give up and decide then to just stay down, or go slipping away into your next time-out-of-line phase, and, like for the rest of your new and improved forever, get rewashed back out to sea. Then again, a second opinion could spin all this in another direction, so……...you never know. At least none of us will. And, oh sure, maybe it's early yet, now, but as long as the clocks keep running, they'll only get you there on time, eventually, so…….yeah, so…..there. Rhymes with beware. The rest of the math is for you to add up, and, of course, divide and unconquer, if need be."

"Thanks," said highly inventive Apple CEO, Steve Jobs, apparently still in line waiting for his meatball grinder order, "I only hope you don't mind if I don't pick up where you left off."

Or, as it so clearly states on the sign above the till: Warren sez, "Enjoy the sandwich!"

Although, apparently, that's only as long as you still got something that might qualify as a grip there, besides, of course, the one responsible for lighting any end-of-come-what-may-day martini shot. And/or, then some.

Oh well. We'll always have Paris, if not what hopefully will somehow someday still remain of the poor, beleaguered Gulf of Mexico.

Future final home for anyone, with (most def) room for all.

In still other words, nice work if you can regret it. Ah, yeah…….just try.


The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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