Throwing Poo

An elementary school teacher and her class are on a field trip to a local research lab to marvel at the wonders of modern science:

“Look, children.  See the cute little monkey with its new robotic arms?  Look at how he peels his banana.  Monkeys like bananas, don’t they?  Yes, William, even monkeys with robotic arms.  No, Bobby, his arm will never rust.  It’s made of titanium.  In fact, his robotic arms will last his whole life and longer, and they’re super strong.  Oh look, kids! The monkey wants to give the scientist a great big hug to say thanks for his new robotic arms.   How cute!  Wait, what’s that trickling out of the scientist’s eyes…dear God, no!  Run!  Run, children! Run for your lives!!!”

And so begins the end of the world as we know it with the headline in last week’s New York Times, “Monkeys Control a Robot Arm With Their Thoughts.”

Have we learned nothing?  Apparently these arrogant scientists were too busy with their fancy book-learnin’ and self-experimentation (you know what I’m talking about) to learn the epic Hollywood lessons of the 70’s and 80’s. 

So let me spell it out for those pencil-necked sons-of bitches.

You don’t teach monkeys to act like humans, you don’t build artificially-intelligent supercomputers that have access to the Pentagon’s weapons systems, and you don’t buy your daughter a bunny rabbit and then screw some crazy broad when your wife is out of town!  Period!  End of discussion!

(Also, don’t have a toga party when you’re on double-secret probation, don’t forget to attach the electrodes to the Barbie doll when trying to re-create another perfect woman to impress your so-called bra-headed friends, and don’t drink an experimental weight-loss formula unless you want to spend the rest of your film career “acting” in a fat suit.)

Talk about the perfect storm of catastrophic scenarios.  Seriously, why didn’t these idiot scientists just attach chainsaws to the monkeys’ robotic arms, dip them in Ebola and call it a day?

And what about me?  Between mowing the grass and plucking the wild hairs out of my ears, who has time to stockpile food, weapons and cerebrally-uploadable martial arts software?  I mean, I understand the seriousness of the impending apocalypse and all, but it just doesn’t fit into my busy schedule right now. 

We have only one option that I can see; one hope that we no longer deserve. 

Save us, Tom Cruise.  Forgive us, and save us with your magical Scientology powers.  We’re sorry we made so much fun.