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#317 :: Noisy Raygun Keychain

December 21, 2004

The rock begat the hammer, the hammer begat the axe, the axe begat the spear, and the spear begat the arrow. The wheel evolved into the cart, which became the train and now we sit in vast, paralyzed fleets of wheeled, vinyl-padded coffins with the AC cranked, depleting the ozone at two miles an hour like everyone else jammed around us, on great concrete paths that were supposed to whisk us from A to B at 90. And the lowly transistor – capable in its evolution of regulating crippled hearts, guiding men to the moon and coating the planet with a mesh of seething information that bridges cultures, geography and language – somehow mutated into this nasty little device.

If the toy industry is a human body, this thing is an infected appendix, a worthless piece of junk, irritating and inconsequential, something that should be destroyed and eradicated from the face of the planet before the children of the world become infected, worthless, irritating and inconsequential themselves.

Okay, okay. I’m exaggerating. But I’m a dad, and my nerves thin to a pulpy smear whenever the kids are playing with this thing, because it’s shiny, useless, and does nothing much more than flash and make this horrible noise. I keep trying to “lose” it behind the sofa, at the bottom of the clothes hamper, in the trunk of the car, and it keeps … coming … back.

It is a cool color, though.

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