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har!

offa mimi smartypants:
"TiVo should have an "IRONY" button so when you felt like recording, say, "World's Wildest Police Videos" (which I have renamed "Crippling Injuries Of The Poor"), because it's kind of fun to watch high-speed wipeouts with a six-pack of Tecate on a Tuesday night, you could push the IRONY button to let TiVo know not to add that to your profile, you don't really mean it."

"America would be a better place if everyone dressed and acted like Prince. (The Purple One. The Artist. Whatever.) Maybe not forever and ever, because that could get tiring (not to mention hot in the summertime with all the gloves and velvet and such), but it would be so great if the entire country participated in Dress And Behave Like Prince Week. I would very much like it if, instead of sitting on his duff and speaking dryly into a microphone, Alan Greenspan made his semi-annual monetary policy reports while dry-humping a purple guitar. The male members of Congress could wear identical white pimp suits and do a big dance number in the background. The female members of Congress could wear white lycra bodysuits and some sort of sex-kitten faux-militaristic garb, like PVC captain's hats. It would add so much to the day if you went to the dry cleaner and said, "Can you do something about this stain on my raspberry beret? I think it's salad dressing, don't ask me how it got there," and your dry cleaning lady and her friend were dancing all lesbotronically and playing single notes on a Casio keyboard. And who hasn't wanted, during a boring meeting, to throw a translucent black veil over his or her head and start crawling like a demonically possessed boa constrictor across the polished boardroom table? 'Sir, I move that this is what it sounds like when doves cry!'"

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“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he