I want a pair of wired granny panties that come with earbuds to track my pulse, hormones, fluids and temperature. The earbuds would whisper messages like…
Imagine grocery shopping on your hands and knees, walking home, and making dinner on your kitchen floor. My knees hurt just thinking about it.
I know I should fear an algorithm that doesn’t know the difference between rugs and shoes, but I’m addicted to eye candy.
If Einstein needed Botox to get a job, the Allies might have lost WW2, My Favorite Martian wouldn’t have been in prime time, and Dick Tracy would have been talking into his necktie instead of his wristwatch.
If we don’t get a grip on our trash problem we’ll be living like medieval peasants again. Fatbergs are coming after us like low budget sci-fi monsters.
Fairies broke into my bedroom while I was sleeping and inflated my waistline. That’s the only explanation I can think of for the thickening around my middle.