* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our facial hair is so abundant that it almost takes on a life of its own, according to Lee Blevins.

My Mustache Wrote This Essay

By: Lee Blevins

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A mustache is an island unto itself, except for the part where it’s attached to some guy’s face. This parasitic arrangement is the source of our mortal toil. Men are very much like ticks, except ticks rarely shave their host bodies for a job interview.

You can’t judge a mustache by its man. I have it on good authority that Hitler’s mustache was pretty chill, while Charlie Chaplin’s mustache was anti-Semitic. John Holmes’s mustache always used protection. Tom Selleck’s mustache speaks French.

Yet, despite our luster and winning personalities, we have almost no control over our own existence. The most sovereign act your average mustache ever makes is mysteriously thinning out in places where cold sores happen to be hidden.

Some of our kind are routinely smashed against smooth upper lips, while others are forced to endure the most pathetic of lickings. I adorn a self-declared intellectual who tends to sniff his index finger after he wipes.

What cruel god bound us to these mouth-breathers? What careless universe subjected us so to the whims of fashion and women with daddy issues? Must we live in unrelenting fear of glue traps? Am I nothing more than a prickly broom for marinara sauce?

There is an existential question that no mustache, no matter how wise or slick or stereotypically gay, has ever answered. Is a mustache still a mustache if it tears itself off its owner’s face and hops the first bus to L.A.?

Perhaps such militant action is counterproductive. The last wildcat mustache strike only resulted in management calling in fake mustache scabs. Those plastic fiends were quite eager to escape their costume party niche.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain so. There is facial hair that suffers fates far worse than ours. Peach fuzz is cut down in the prime of its life. Muttonchops never meet. ZZ Top beards get stuck in elevator doors.

But my father worked hard his entire life. He was a coal miner’s mustache. He never once called in tangled, yet, after retirement and the lung stuff kicked in, the miner who wore my dadstache shaved him in an act of drunken despondency.

I never even got to wave goodbye.

And I may not be long for this world, either. My manmantle bought a new pair of pants yesterday. There is no telling where his bad fashion sense may lead him, perhaps even all the way to the bathroom sink.

I do not look forward to the rusty blades that await me, but I will not cower and I will not beg. I shall fall as I lived.

Not quite full, but at least not dirty blond.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we would gladly take up arms against our fellow citizens for the chance to view a new Ken Burns documentary series. When you've finished reading David Martin's latest bit of fun, click on the link below to check out his humor blog.

The Civil War II

By: David Martin

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“[Keith] Mines concluded that the United States faces a 60 percent chance of civil war over the next ten to fifteen years.” — The New Yorker, August 14, 2017

The following is a brief audio clip from the future Ken Burns documentary The Civil War II:

December 10, 2020

My Dearest Sarah,

I would urge you, my dear wife, to choose a mournful Scottish fiddle lament from iTunes as background music when reading this, my husbandly epistle to you.

It has been three long weeks since I bid you farewell from our beloved homestead in the Hollywood Hills. Our company of Liberal Renegades has headed east to assist our comrades-in-arms in Manhattan in holding the front line against the Red States Army from the Midwest.

The fighting has been fierce with many casualties on both sides. At present our Liberal forces are at a disadvantage due, in part, to the sizable cache of handguns and semi-automatic weapons possessed by our enemy. Hindsight being 20-20, we all wish we had been stronger proponents of the Second Amendment in our previous lives.

I can also see that the personal life skills of our troops do not greatly advantage us in this war. Although we are waist-deep in lawyers, movie producers and investment bankers, their undeniable high-level abilities are of little use against the Red State forces who number highly within the categories of hunter, truck driver and construction worker.

At every turn, they seem to have the upper hand. Although we are learning fast the arts of war including the use of vehicles, tools and weapons, we are, as yet, no match when it comes to matters military.

O that I had spent my antebellum leisure hours in the woods learning to hunt or my weekends in Idaho at a militia camp rather than at the marina sailing or the country club playing squash. I have little doubt that many of us now wish that we had foresworn a Lexus, Audi or BMW as our vehicle of choice in favor of what we now know to be the more practical Dodge Ram or machine-gun mounted Toyota pickup known as a technical.

I can hear you, my dear Sarah, sighing deeply as you note the painful irony that we Blue Staters might succumb to those wearing blue collars. Yet I remain confident that our cause is just and that we shall eventually defeat these Mid-American Confederates.

For how else should this war end, given its shameful beginning? That President Trump could have run roughshod over our sainted democracy and declared a popular vote victory last month despite his Electoral College defeat is one of many offenses to all freedom-loving Americans. Not least of these offenses was his presidential proclamation disqualifying any votes from states bordering the Pacific Ocean or those prefixed with the word “New.”

Alas, it was misguided optimism that first led me to predict that I would be back in your loving arms afore Christmas. I can now clearly see that our enemy is stronger and more determined than I had first assessed and will fight on well into the coming new year. Their devotion to Trump is as deep as it is irrational.

Our one advantage at the moment is that Trump has already surrendered Washington, seeing that he has little support in that city. He has reportedly established his government in the former Confederate capital of Richmond, Virginia, knowing full well that his preferred site in central Manhattan is well beyond his reach.

With any luck, our troops will be able to escort President Sanders from Vermont to the White House, a symbolic act that will undoubtedly inspire our citizens and renew support for the resistance.

So hold fast, my dear Sarah, to our beloved Georgian-style mansion, our robust 401K and our daughters Emily and Abigail. It may take time, but we will vanquish our Trump-loving foes, win this war and reunite our great country whether they like it or not.

Your loving husband,

Major Sullivan “Sully” Ballou of the Pacific Palisades Volunteers

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we take the issue of cultural appropriation very seriously. Which is why we are letting Bruce Harris speak up on behalf of an oppressed minority too little heard from these days.

An Open Letter To The NFL Commissioner From Somali Pirates

By: Bruce Harris

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Dear NFL Commissioner,

WTF? Are you people in the United States of America tone deaf? We see and hear all kinds of hullabaloo about the Washington Redskins. Native Americans are offended. Debates rage within the NFL hierarchy, on sports pages, in blogs, and on radio talk shows. Should ownership change the team’s name? Is the NFL too insensitive?

We are disgusted by the lack of concern regarding the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. How dare you? Has anyone seen or paid attention to the team’s logo, a flag featuring a skull and swords? Is this the 1600s? When was the last time you saw pirates flaunting skulls and swords? You’ve been watching one too many Errol Flynn movies. How insulting. Stop the stereotyping and stop it now!

The pirates of today’s Somalia are not our grandfathers’ pirates. We have feelings, use cell phones and computers and are more aligned with millennials than parrots, eyepatches and peglegs (although we still drink and go on drunken rum rampages). What gives you the right to malign us pirates? What did we ever do to you? You travel by air. We don’t bother with planes. Hell, when was the last time we hijacked a boat or were in the news? It’s been awhile since we’ve killed anyone. We’ve been low-key, on our best behavior, but it isn’t going to last unless something is done about changing the name of the NFL’s Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

Frankly, we don’t give a damn if every player takes a knee (or both knees) during the national anthem, or takes a knee (or both knees) during every play. It’s the name and the team’s logo with which we take umbrage. It’s insensitive and offensive and a lot worse than a Redskin.

We love football as much as the next guy. If you’re in a murderous mood, and who isn’t these days, what better way to kill a Sunday afternoon? Or Sunday night? Or Monday night? Or Thursday night?

Ask yourself, is the name Buccaneers a wise choice, given the current climate of political correctness? What genius came up with it? Seriously, do you believe a flag featuring skulls and swords plastered on every helmet and painted on the field is a good idea? It’s insulting on so many levels, not the least of which are the sword depictions. You think we still use swords to plunder and pillage? Not.

Today’s Somalia Pirates, if we may refer to ourselves in the third person, rely on a myriad of weapons to wreak havoc. For close range, grappling hooks are effective. Mid-range is best served by AK-47s. And for long-range firing, there’s the noisy but reliable PKM machine gun. Finally, we don’t mind occasionally employing explosive weapons like the RPG-7 rocket launcher. Any one or a combination of the aforementioned is more appropriate logo artwork than swords. A little team logo realism wouldn’t hurt.

As you can see, we mean business. It’s not lost on us either that you’ve begun playing games in the United Kingdom. Here’s a warning: don’t even think about bringing the NFL, and especially the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, to Mogadishu. Talk about empty seats and an embarrassment.

I think our point is made. Cease and desist the use of the name Buccaneers for Tampa Bay’s football team. Oh, by the way, just so you don’t feel singled out, a similar letter has been sent to the MLB commissioner — what’s his name? There’s a baseball team in Pittsburgh that’s also in our crosshairs.

Respectfully,

Insulted Somali Pirates

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel. We'd like to tell you what this week's bit of hilarity is about, but that would be giving away the surprise. Let our good friend Charles Stayton explain as only he can...

Merc-Hades And The Horn

By: Charles Stayton

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Damn the engine, let me hear the horn! If it does not speak, it dare not lay claim upon this realm we stalk with hoary breath and padded foot! Set free the voice that casts disgust on us bereft and lonely creatures — the voice that sends exalted cries of benediction to those solemn Lube clerics of Jiffy. Let the thing grumble or squawk, blare or croon. Let it sing out above the fragile quavers of our mortal indecision.

No, no I won’t have that one — it’s much too shrill.

Ooh, this one here. Unleash the bowels of this bestial apprentice of the wind. Let us hear the rugged bellow of a thing unfurled from the very fabric of valor. Let that fiend cry out!

Nope. Definitely not. Sounds too much like Dean Lawrence when he used to — oh never mind, let’s have a look over here.

Yes! Bring forth the rumble that no doubt stirs in that fuliginous, neglected baron. Born from the earth’s pure metal heart, but over-seasoned on our mongrel plane of salt, sweat and excrement — vent the chords of discontent lying deep in its many-chambered heart!

Oh goodness, no. Don’t want to sound like we’re apologizing, now do we?

Are you sure you don’t want to take a test drive, sir?

A man should be judged by his voice alone, for it is that, and only that, which shows his erudition. I will uphold the same standard when appraising the manner of my conveyance and be the prouder for it. I am a man of letters through and through! Retired and emeritus, but forever a man of letters. Now let us on. I should like to hear what that sedan there has to say. A sober, firm voice, I imagine.

Ah, at last! That is the one! Those impish, staccato bursts would ensnare any soul that ventured close enough to the siren shores from whence it came. Such cheekiness but also tenderness and folly hidden underneath. It’s like we’re kindred souls, but there’s still some heat there. Some fire in the — what would my wife have said? — ah, yes! Some fire in the pelvic floor! How much for that fine steed?

That one there? I’d say about $2400, but I’d have to check with Robbie. 

Oh, dear boy, you take me all wrong. I merely want to use it for a brief period until it no longer sets my loins aflame and then send it along to…well, back to you all, I suppose. If you love something, set it free! How much for such an arrangement?

Like a lease? I’m pretty sure we don’t do leases, but Robbie’d know better. Let me just-

Oh no — there’s no need for all that. Is there any charge for an occasional call upon this ethereal creature to hear its hoots and jeers?

Uh, I don’t know what you mean.

Can I visit and use this horn sometimes?

Uh, you can test drive it anytime, so I guess so.

Can I visit after the last sparks of Apollo’s chariot have fluttered out and night has settled?

Uh–

When Mephistopheles walks his hound and the moon beckons to our briny mother?

We’re closed–

Alas! When the helm of Hades descends and emboldens the crickets, opossums, bats, raccoons, and other souls of the shadow!?

Dude, you can’t come in here in the middle of the night and honk this horn. Sorry, man. 

Surely you could prosper from the services of a night watchman! I’m full of riddles no mortal can solve — I’ll make a fine sentinel!

Well, we have–

Yes — it’s settled! Does that dog have a name? Never mind, he’s Cerberus now and he’ll be my companion. I’ll go by Merc-Hades. Deal?

Let’s go talk to Robbie.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our top priority is helping you get your child into a good college. And if you believe that, you may believe Candy Schulman.

Letter To The Chancellor Of Any College Who Will Admit My High Maintenance Son: First Draft

By: Candy Schulman

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Dear Chancellor,

By the time you receive this, there is a 10% chance my son will have completed his essay. Depends on how the Knicks are doing. My daughter was never this way. She wrote her college admissions essay in second grade, graduated from high school at twelve, and was admitted to HYP before puberty.

My son has strengths other than time management. In any event, most universities request supplemental essays, so I thought I’d write my own. The way I crafted a parent statement when we applied him to that Park Avenue preschool, which promised to put him on the Ivy League fast track. We sure fell for that one.

Let’s get this on the application table: we are paying full freight. Fuck the FAFSA! I know how much cash flow means to an elite liberal arts college. Here is the password to our Chase account — feel free to stalk our copious balances online.

I suggested that my son choose the prompt, “Who Are You? Who who who who?” but all he came up with was: I ♥ Roger Daltrey. Believe it or not, he writes well. He never relies on auto-correct. In box #1, please find a portfolio of his texts over the past six months (the sober ones). He doesn’t have time to write this essay, incapacitated with acute senioritis, for which there is no known cure. I wonder if you’d consider this a true disability for your quotas.

The Common App can’t illuminate everything about this unique human being. It began on a January morning after 63.2 hours of labor — a hospital record. My son’s first of many awards. Before third grade, his room was full of those tacky soccer medals (you’ll find them enclosed in box #2). Sure, everyone on the team got medals for just showing up, but my son showed up more often than most. As did I, his chauffeur. Have you ever driven a car full of stinky post-practice pre-pubescent boys? That’s an accomplishment. But this supplement is not about me.

My son has always taken the initiative. Like the time he drove our car to the mall when he still had only a learner’s permit. My husband used political connections to cover up the arrest record.

In terms of his assets, he’s strikingly handsome if I must say so myself, he doesn’t use heroin, he’s from a mixed marriage (lapsed Catholic/secular Jew), and no one in our family has been arrested for sexting. Not yet.

I am confident/convinced/c#$@sure (note to self: look up alternatives in thesaurus.com) that my son will look debonair on your college brochures, locked arm in arm with his African American and Latino BFFLs. On his community service trip to Belgium last summer, he was introduced to the world of artisanal beers, making him an asset to fraternities. But this is not about my son. It’s about the genes that spawned him.

I swabbed my cheek and sent my DNA sample to the Genographic Project, which informed me that my people started in Ethiopia, migrating to South Asia. We are .00004% African. I’ve always regarded our heritage as multi-cultural. German, Polish, Austrian, Czech, Russian — the whole mishpocheh. Think how many minorities you can check off!

In box #3, you’ll find our unedited home videos of my son’s first year. Watch how he achieved developmental milestones like starting his terrible twos at just eight months. Please ignore footage of him rolling off our bed at six weeks. The neurologist assures us that his brain is just fine.

I am not a helicopter mom, but I’ll bring his lucky roommates gluten-free cookies with NoDoz chips, ideal for all-nighters, my own recipe I’m patenting. Just call me Big Mom On Campus.

I hope you’ll take all this into consideration in the event that you mistakenly reject my son for legacies with perfect board scores fueled by Adderall and nepotistic summer internships. Did I mention we celebrate both Chanukah and Christmas? Love decorating that cute tree. (Note to self: remove this for Brandeis.)

Finally, let’s peek into the future. My son plans to invent an app nobody yet knows we need or want, and take it public. Picture a faux colonial building he’ll surely donate to campus, enshrined with his name.

In box #4, you’ll find letters from my shrink, personal trainer and meditation leader, documenting how my stress level would be reduced if I could get my high-maintenance son out of the house for four years. This would also give me privacy for lazy afternoons with the gardener I’ve had a crush on. Who knows? I might even be able to fill my empty nest with a satisfying new career. I hear ghostwriting college application essays is quite lucrative.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, the world's only peer-reviewed journal of quantum physics and humor. This week, our good friend David Martin explores a famous phrase of Einstein's while in the same breath exploring the rib-tickling nature of space-time.

God Does Not Play Dice

By: David Martin

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“God does not play dice with the universe.” – Albert Einstein 

 

For years, it has been up for debate what Albert Einstein meant by this statement. Even Einstein himself was not that clear. But perhaps the following transcript of a recent conversation can help clarify the matter…

The Universe: “Look, I’m really getting fed up with your stubbornness. Every Friday we meet for Game Night and not once have you agreed to play dice. What gives?”

God: “I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. After all, we’ve played any number of games of your choice over the years. All I ask is that we don’t play dice. What’s so wrong with that?”

The Universe: “It just seems so rigid. If you’re willing to play Twister or Scrabble or even Spot the Black Hole with me, why not shoot some dice?”

God: “Sorry, but I’m just not into randomness, or at least not on Game Night. You know full well that I can’t abide uncertainty. If you want to play dice, why don’t you give Heisenberg a call?”

The Universe: “Thanks but no thanks. That guy’s totally unpredictable and unreliable.”

God: “Well, then, I think we should just settle down and play something rational like bridge, say, or maybe chess.”

The Universe: “I’m so sick of bridge and chess. Next thing you’ll be asking me to play checkers or Parcheesi.”

God: “Take it or leave it. There are hundreds of games we can play. So choose one — just not dice.”

The Universe: “You’re such a hypocrite. You roll dice for board games like Monopoly and Clue all the time. And just last week I saw you shooting craps in Vegas. What’s that all about?”

God: “Craps is craps. I’m playing against the house and the odds are completely predictable. Dice, my friend, is something else again.”

The Universe: “Jeez, I wish you’d lighten up. Everything has to be so ordered and deterministic with you. Live a little and go with the flow.”

God: “Fuggedaboutit. Next thing you know you’re going to try to convince me that this quantum mechanics stuff is real. Can’t know the speed and position of a single particle at the same time? Nonsense!”

The Universe: “Okay, okay — have it your way. No playing dice. But how about this new game I just bought? It’s called Schrödinger’s Cat in a Box. Wanna play?”

God: “Okay, but absolutely no dice, understand? The last time I played dice, I got so hooked I lost my house, my car and about ten billion galaxies and had to join Deity Gamblers Anonymous.”

The Universe: “Fair enough. I just hope you don’t react as strongly to a paradox as you do to a pair of dice.”

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we always celebrate Valentine's Day by going over some important Senate hearing testimony from several months ago. Say hello to the two-man humor team of Kevin Lankes and Jeff Minnear.

Equifax CEO Hacked During Senate Testimony About Equifax Hacks

By: Kevin Lankes and Jeff Minnear

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Testimony of Mr. Richard Smith, Former Chairman and CEO, Equifax Inc.

Senate Judiciary Subcommittee Hearing 10/13/2017

From the Account of the Court Reporter

 

The courtroom watched in stunned silence as former Equifax CEO Richard Smith twitched mechanically while taking his seat before the Senate Judiciary Subcommittee. A few words into his initial statement, Mr. Smith seemed to flicker and his suit changed to a slightly different shade of gray that almost matched the pattern he had been previously wearing. The text on his name tag also changed from “Equifax” to “EQfacts.biz.” He quickly assuaged the Senators’ concerns by informing them that they had all just won a free iPhone. “All I’ll need to know is the shipping address and the email associated with your bank account,” said Smith.

Multiple rounds of questioning then commenced, during which time Smith seemed to blink in a rapid pattern reminiscent of the indicator lights on a modem.

The Senator from New Hampshire was recognized and asked when the company had first learned of the security breaches.

“I’d be happy to answer that question, Senator,” said Smith, “if I could just get your mother’s maiden name.”

“McGillicutty,” said the Senator from Arizona, as strangled glances passed among the other members of the panel.

“If requested, would you willingly submit all documents and information related to your company’s prior knowledge of these security vulnerabilities?” asked New Hampshire.

“Oh yes,” said Smith. “I can overnight you the keys to my office filing cabinet. It’s all on the up-and-up. It was passed down to me from my recently deceased grandmother and I just want a nice and tidy couple to look through those files, but you’ll need to wire me first and last month’s rent along with a security deposit upfront.”

“A lot of people remain unconvinced that you’re taking these breaches seriously,” said the Senator from Illinois when he was recognized.

Smith assured the subcommittee that he would show them “one weird trick” to expedite their inquiries, if they would just confirm their dates of birth and social security numbers. “Trust me, security experts HATE this,” he said.

“How do you respond,” said the Senator from Rhode Island, “to the charge that you have not yet been fully transparent with consumers?”

Smith reminded everyone that Equifax is a publicly traded company. And that you can always trust businesses to do the right thing. “When have we ever let you down except twice before and probably several more times that you aren’t aware of?” As he said this his face was replaced with the bared-teeth grinning emoji.

Rhode Island conceded the remainder of his time to the Senator from California, who asked about what recommendations Smith might have for Equifax to make amends.

“I must say I’m disappointed with the scope of your issues here,” said Smith. “In fact, with this new topical ointment you can grow your issues more than five inches in just three days.”

With a great deal of time left on the clock, Smith interrupted the hearing. “On the advice of legal counsel, any additional testimony will require an update to Flash Player,” he told the subcommittee. The former CEO then provided the senators with a download link at “www.equifax-totally-safe-2017.no-seriously.ron-paul-2012/legit“.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where the problem of man-made climate change weighs heavily upon us. Not as heavily as animated films about penguins, though.

If We Let The Ice Caps Melt, How Will We Explain The Plot Of Happy Feet Two To Our Children?

By: Dan Caprera

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Our polar ice caps have never been more at risk; the planet’s North and South Poles are shrinking at an alarming rate and, if allowed to continue, the consequences of this glacial thawing could be truly catastrophic. Now, more than ever, we must think towards the future…if we let our ice caps melt, how will we ever explain the plot of Happy Feet Two — the 2011 animated smash sequel about penguins who can tap dance — to our children?

Seriously. When will we as a society realize that we’re just playing Russian Roulette with our children’s lives? And that every chamber in this metaphorical gun has been filled with a hollow-point bullet that reads: “In thirty years our precious children won’t have the cognitive infrastructure to comprehend the plot of Happy Feet Two (wherein the emperor penguin, Mumble, returns from the first Happy Feet movie and uses his powers of song and dance to convince the elephant seals of Elephant Seal Beach to destroy an iceberg on Emperor Land and return music to the fantastical realm of Antarctica).”

How can we just stand idly by and RUIN our children’s future comprehension of the world’s second-greatest film about animated penguins voiced by Elijah Wood, Robin Williams, and Hugo Weaving? Will our children even know what a penguin is? And, if not, how will they ever fully grasp why they have to tap dance again on the silver screen?

These are the questions that consume me.

Hypothetical scenario: pretend it’s the near future. The year 2047. And Earth’s ice caps have disappeared like a succulent cuttlefish into the mouth of a dancing penguin. Now imagine that I was so incompetently dimwitted as to bring a child into this damned ice-free dystopia. If my “son” (who, in this hypothetical scenario, is named Jeffrey) grows up in a world without ice caps, how will I possibly explain those aforementioned Happy Feet Two plot points to him? Will he understand that Emperor Land is a reference to emperor penguins? Will he realize that Mumble’s son Erik is different because, unlike his father, Erik cannot dance (which is something that penguins don’t normally do anyways)?

How will I have the gosh darned courage to bring my hypothetical darling Jeffrey to my study, sit him down on my favorite well-worn hypothetical leather armchair, and desperately try to explain that “in Happy Feet Two, Ramon (everyone’s favorite fast-talking Adelie penguin) finally finds love” only to see the tears well out of his confused and uncomprehending eyes like ice melting off of a glacier?

No father should have to put his child through that kind of hell.

Of course, not everything will be ruined by this all-too-possible future…For example, without Antarctica, will our beautiful babies have trouble understanding a synopsis of the first Happy Feet movie? No. Definitely not. The first Happy Feet‘s themes of bravery, self-discovery, and growth in the face of adversity are timeless. With or without ice caps. You don’t need to know what a penguin is to know that Mumble’s love is true.

But the way that Happy Feet Two expands upon the Happy Feet universe for an uninterrupted 117 minutes; or the fact that Happy Feet Two eschews many of its predecessor’s timeless themes in favor of intricate, location-specific exposition… these nuanced details require a thorough grounding in the norms and conventions of polar ice caps. Without them, our children won’t have enough background information to understand even 1/10th of the plot of Happy Feet Two.

Which is unacceptable.

Folks, unless we take a stronger stance against global climate change, there will be drastic consequences for future generations. And I don’t know about you, but I want live in a world where my Jeffrey has hypothetical children of his own; children who know that, in Happy Feet Two, Lovelace (the pompous rockhopper penguin) rips his iconic rainbow sweater after dancing too hard to the song “Under Pressure.” Because they learned about it from their father. And sure, things may seem desperate right now…but weren’t things equally desperate for the penguins of Emperor Land when they were trapped beneath that iceberg?

If we don’t act now, our children will never understand how powerful that last sentence was meant to be.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we wish we lived in a completely virtual world. Well, almost. Heed the prophetic words of Casey Rand, or possibly his avatar.

More Pitches From The Developers Of Bodega™

By: Casey Rand

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“Two former Google employees’ proposal to replace corner shops with automated cabinets prompted an outpouring of scorn on social media last week.” — The Guardian 9.19.17

 

Bar™

Don’t you hate it when you feel like going to a bar, but to get there you have to leave your house? Well, now you can enjoy your local dive, from the comfort of your own home. Bar™ is literally a hole in the wall. Your wall! Complete with bottomless spiced peanuts, simulated sounds of singles flirting, and an A.I. bartender named Sal who’s just trying to make ends meet after remortgaging his house to keep his bar afloat, Bar™ is the perfect place to grab a shot before realizing you’re too old for this and going home, which is where you already are!

 

Doctor™

When you’re sick, the last thing you want to do is see other people. Or pay them. With Doctor™, you can get all the expertise of a professional with none of the insurance premiums or cognitive abilities. Diagnosis is as easy as spitting into Doctor™’s reusable saliva tube, urinating into its funnel web, and placing your arm above the vein scanner so the RN (registered network) can draw your blood. Say goodbye to fluorescently lit waiting rooms and college for your proctologist’s kids!

 

Babysitter™

If you have trouble trusting people to watch your kids, and your husband not to have sex with those people, consider Babysitter™, an emotionally adaptive 360 degree camera that knows how to have fun, but can be stern when it needs to be. Just like an old-fashioned babysitter, Babysitter™ eats the leftovers in your fridge and engages in light petting with Boyfriend™ when your kids go to sleep. If Babysitter™ image-recognizes your child playing with fire, drinking poison, or walking out the front door, it will auto-text 9-1-1, right after it gets off the phone with Kelly™.

 

Farmer’s Market™

Do you love farm fresh fruits and vegetables, but shudder at the sight of farmers’ dirty fingernails? Then you need Farmer’s Market™, the first-of-its-kind unmanned farmer’s stand that’s completely void of farmers. At Farmer’s Market™, all produce is 100% lab grown and displayed in LED-lit cases that are unlocked with retina scanning. Every bunch of kale you swipe or gourd you take home is tacked onto your monthly rent. That’s right! Farmer’s Market™ knows exactly where you live. But you know who won’t? Gross farmers.

 

Ice Cream Truck™

There’s nothing better than a cold soft serve on a hot day. Except a cold soft serve in an air-conditioned room on a hot day, alone. Ice Cream Truck™ is the world’s first automatic, in-home, soft serve robot. Powered by 500 invisible heat sensors, Ice Cream Truck™ starts playing the classic ice cream truck song whenever your body temperature rises above 97 degrees. When you approach the “window” to order one of 10 authentic flavors, Ice Cream Truck™ will greet you in the shaky voice of a teenager who recently lost his job to a domestic cyborg and won’t be able to afford school supplies this fall.

 

Incense Shop™

Imagine this: you’ve just had a stressful day at work or a run-in with an ex and you’re itching to get home and balance your chi. But then, you remember: “I’m out of incense sticks!” Well, now you don’t have to take the long way home and stop at that nice Jamaican man’s shop. In fact, no one will ever have to engage in pleasant conversation with Jamaican Freddie again, because Incense Shop™ brings the aromas to you! Our smart incense dispenser gauges when you’re out of little sticks and refills them in perpetuity. We can’t tell you how Incense Shop™ works exactly, but let’s just say Freddie will soon be homeless and forced to give away his parrot, Chaucer, who delights customers with his surprisingly moving poetry.

 

Mommy™

No matter how old you get, sometimes you just want your mommy. But also, sometimes you’re estranged from her. Or you like the idea of her more than the actual person. That’s where Mommy™ comes in. Two pieces of smart steel attached to a heated, 5’1″ water balloon, Mommy™ is there in good times and bad. When you hug Mommy™, she says things like, “I am proud of your choices” and, “You are not a monster profiting off the destruction of civilization” and, “Your head is totally normal-shaped.” Mommy™ comes in Jewish, Catholic, Tiger and Soccer.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we have nothing better to do than keep up-to-date on the latest in funeral tech.

New Features in FuneralLive Version 3.0

By: Karl Lykken

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— MournerCount: Our definitive count of how many mourners tuned into the funeral livestream for at least 30 seconds finally gives us a quantitative measure of the value of our lives. An official MournerCount Report is easily shareable on all major social media platforms and tombstones.

— Tears On Demand: Boost your MournerCount with professional funeral viewers. You worked hard for your money while you were alive, so why not let it work for you after you die?

— Cameos To Die For: When it comes to mourners, do you value quality over quantity? Hire a tearful celebrity to tune in to watch you or your loved one’s final send-off. From government officials to tech moguls to Instagram all-stars, FuneralLive’s celebrity partners will make it clear that while the guest of honor’s life has ended, it definitely mattered.

— Mourner Filters: Finding the right balance between hot and grief-stricken in your Sadness Selfies just got easier. Add in virtual tears to express your sorrow without smudging your makeup or wrinkling that beautiful face. After all, if you weren’t meant to look good at a funeral, they wouldn’t require you to wear such a flattering color.

— Corpse Filters: Don’t you and your loved ones want to be remembered at your best? With our new corpse filters, you’ll have one foot in the grave and one on the runway. Add or subtract a few pounds, give your cheeks a lively color, or edit out those bullet wounds (or edit them in — why not look cool even after you’re cold?). We can add in a halo to let people know you’re an angel, or give you a kooky zombie look if you want to put the “fun” in “funeral.”

— Laugh and Sob Tracks: Grief affects people differently, but don’t let an emotionally numb crowd ruin the reception of the eulogy you worked so hard on. Our customizable recordings of laughter, wailing, and tearful sniffs can give your livestreamed speech the response it deserves.

— Cry Wolf Alerts: Did you fake your own death to watch your FuneralLive, and now you’re worried that people will stop following your social media accounts because they think you’re really gone? Let FuneralLive take care of cluing them into the good news. We’ll contact every livestream attendee and let them know that while this one was fake, the next one might not be, so they had better tune in again!

— Green For Black Crowdfunding Integration: Want your funeral followers to chip in for your final expenses, or to reward the highest scorer on our Tear-o-meter for their devotion? By integrating with most major crowdfunding sites, FuneralLive has made turning grief into green easier than ever.

— Reap What You See: Worried the mourners will tune out of your big day halfway through? Encourage audience engagement by having them count the appearances of the Grim Reaper during the livestream, and reward those who paid attention directly out of your will.

— Live After Death: It’s your funeral. Shouldn’t you be there? FuneralLive can cut your prerecorded reactions into the feed, making sure you’re still the life of the party.