MDI 73: Microwave-safe suit

The US has a new "less lethal" weapon at its disposal for dispersing crowds. It's a microwave on a truck. Swept slowly over a crowd, "the sheriff," as it's affectionately called, gently roasts demonstrators, causing their contact lenses to adhere to their corneas, causing their eyeglasses to severely burn the temples and bridge of the nose, causing 3rd degree burns wherever jewelry is found, and best of all, causing a stampede -- basically all without killing anybody, although the stampede, well, you can always blame that on the crowd. They're told to disperse, not run away. So the trampled are plausible collateral.

Originally developed for Iraqi crowd control, the sheriff, it occurs to us, would be equally effective for American crowd control, or for simple day-to-day control of its citizenry, should the need arise -- although the threat alone would likely be sufficient.

And now, because the US is also working on a portable model which can be carried by one man, effectively making him a super persona non grata wherever he goes, it begins to occur to us that these weapons could be a very very bad thing in the wrong hands, and the wrong hands are the only hands that would use such a weapon.

The question is how can we protect ourselves? We'd like to go to the demonstrations but the sheriff will be there. We'd like to go to the ball game, but what about the rogue wavers? Should we stay home?

My grandmother used to carry in her purse a rain bonnet that folded up to the size of a pack of gum. She opened it once and it sprang out like an accordion. Something like that is what is needed, only bigger than a bonnet -- it's a bonnet for the whole body -- and of course it's made out of some space-age material that protects against microwaves.

Don't look at me like that. I'm not a scientist. I'm just an idea man. Obviously microwave safe materials exist, we use them all the time. All I'm saying is one that's flexible. Then they can wave us all they want. We'll just wave back. Until they start shooting us.

I don't know what the defense is against the sheriff, but if you look at the truck, it appears that the beam is bouncing off a metal plate. If that's true, and microwaves can be deflected, that could mean a shield could bounce the microwaves right back at the sheriff, and of course anybody in between who happened to have not had the foresight to bring a microwave bonnet in their purse or back pocket.

Ray guns. Can you fight ray guns with ray guns? I wonder if it's wise. Here's to a less lethal future.

Also published in Apologist CW Fisher.

MDI 74: Handheld one-handed hand clapper

Tired of clapping at graduations and political events? Hands raw from too much ovating? Get the handheld one-handed hand clapper, which lacks only a prototype and financing, and you'll wonder why nobody came up with it sooner. I see it as a simple device that makes a clapping sound when it's waved back and forth. Another MDI.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

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MDI 75: Faux fronts

Geneva, Illinois is a well-preserved river town with darling old homes that have plaques, so it came as a surprise when my hand gently rapped against a brick wall and I discovered by its hollow knock it was foam, not brick, but foam. Utterly fake in fact, phony as can be. And it's ubiquitous. Those mansions? Foam. They weigh nothing. Fancy archways, foam festoons, faux Roma, Olive Garden everywhere. Durable, cheap, lightweight, capable of assuming any form, foam could be the answer to affordable housing for seniors. It's fully insulated by nature, quiet and odor-absorbing, plus it's the perfect housing for tornado alleys and earthquake faults.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 76: Baby bundlers

People that think doctors are so smart are encouraged to look back a few years when they were sticking their fingers in President McKinley's bullet hole and making new holes as they went; when they used to chop off a man's leg with farm implements or any old thing available without even wiping it off first, and no anaethetics nor none of that hand washin' hocus neither--just hot water and towels, and the water's for coffee. No doubt today's doctors run cleaner, but they've been so abused by the pain relievers they meant to give the patient that they've become sharper than humanly possible, which leaves them intensely focused on subjects they can't recall--well, you try coming off Provigil without Vicodin, and/or vice versa. Anyway. Preemies. Used to be the ittybitties were placed in a vast, transparent chamber to be comforted by wires and tubes and soothed with bright light, isolated from human contact, nuzzled through latex, starved of their mothers, absent her heartbeat. Doctors, perhaps trained so well they couldn't see the obvious, struggled to discover why preemies had such a high failure to thrive, never putting it together that all infants, especially premature infants (one would think) have strong desire to return to their womb, having recently been evicted and not knowing yet that time heals about everything, but it takes time, centuries in the case of Western doctors. Infants, to everyone's enormous surprise, like to be held tightly. The clue came not from watching or listening to preemies thriving failures, but by observing the kangaroo, which births its baby early, then pops it in the to-go pouch. From that they came up with a strap device and began a revolution that's been commonplace in all ancient and present civilizations except those of Anglo-Saxon origin, not to be saxist. So bundle them babies? Couldn't hoit. Okay, it could, taken too far, it could, all right.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 77: Window baby barriers

Imagine this: it really happened. Woman comes in, all shook up, she runs a hotel, night manager. Gets a phone call. Baby fell out of a second floor window, right through the screen. Second floor. Baby's fine. Horrible thing--common too, I bet. How many children fall out of windows like this every single day? Here's the product: I made it up: I'm calling it Baby Don't Fall. I was going to call it No, No, Baby, Oh My God No Don't Fall, but it felt long. Just $19.95 for three Baby Don't Fall brand products, the design of which could go in a few different directions: a) foam blocks that fit snugly into the window requiring no tools to install, provided you have the correct window type, otherwise you'll need a contractor and a retrofit and a grant to pay for it once this thing gets out of class action and makes its way through the Supreme Court, buster, or b) an electrified design that produces in the child a tingling, warming sensation--make that warning sensation--although warming's appropriate too. These are just ideas.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 78: Pandemic defense system

This may sound crazy but I'm all panicked out on the whole bird flu thing. The front part of my body is all calloused from running smack into trees. This must have been their plan all along at the World Health Organization. Who but the WHO could scream "We're all gonna DIE!!" so loud and so often, only to be ignored utterly, time after time? Those poor boys crying wolf, taking us for sheep. Bah, we say, but! Sheep we are and shall be when the wolf's at the door! Since we know the spread will rise geometrically through airports, why not make a vaccine in misted form that gently fogs the automated walkways that connect terminals? Fumigation would insure everybody gets dosed, and quick, thereby stopping the epidemic before it hits the vertical exponential curve.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 79: Disposable keypad

Most adults understand that disease bearing microorganisms come out of their own butt. Those who didn't know this, do now. It is failure to wash after wiping that puts a little piece of us on everything we touch. Lightswitches, door handles and telephones are all likely places to form a teeming metropolis of microbes like dangerous E. coli, and every tiny, turd-shaped coli yearns to return to the bowel from which it was born. Now imagine your keypad. Or don't. Just look at it--and know that inside those dark ruts and cracks lurks you--the very worst of you you have to offer. Is it riddable, this stuff? Yes, says the Chicago Sun-Times. Put your keypad in the dishwasher as the lowest heat, delicate cycle, and let it air dry for a few days. A few days. Sun-Times must be low on news. Maybe they had backups. It's not important. They reported it works. But I say it couldn't have worked, because they didn't use the bleach--if they'd a used the bleach, then it would have worked, but it would have ruined the keypad, which was filthy anyway and should have been thrown out a long time ago anyway--along with every last disease infested sponge in the city, which is basically every sponge that's ever been used once. Can an industry be born of pure paranoia? Sure! It's time to think disposable keypads-- KleenPadz! Flat, easy to keep clean, it's a fullsized touchpad, ridged in the right places for easy navigation and sure footing; of course it's wireless, and cheap, and built to last no more than two weeks, at which point it's upgraded which kills any older versions, but! you'll say: "Look Ma! No more E. coli!" KleenPadz! Why wipe ever again?


Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 80: Moveable nipples

Do your nipples point the wrong way? Are they looking down instead of up? Are they staring at your elbows? Do you have trouble achieving erections? Now there's a cheaper alternative to breast enhancement surgery. Nippits, a product I just made up, comes with a padded bra to hide the actual nipple, plus two Nippits brand artificial nipples with velcrotype stays. This allows an older woman to place her nipples several inches higher than they actually are, perfectly recreating the timeless illusion of bouyancy she and so many others enjoyed in her youth. Got small breasts? Try our magnum nipples! Higher than a half inch tall atop an extra two inches of engorged aereola. Perky midsize models and Sprawlin Mama's also available. Millions of women will soon be saying: Gravity's not the boss of me. Nippits.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 81: Personal Flysuit

California falls into the ocean. what do you do? what do you do? Quick, got to be quick--you're already dead, see that? Dead. Because why? Because you didn't work the plan, because you didn't have a plan. Don't feel bad. Nobody else has one either. Fortunately nobody talks about the San Andreas Fault anymore, so it's not an issue, until it happens. But what if you could take an ultralite aircraft and make it wearable, like clothing, only you wear it all the time. Oh, they'll laugh at you, at first, but when you press a button on your belt and you suddenly have a wingspan of 22 feet, they'll back off, but they'll probably still laugh at you, because, face it, people are cruel. But will they laugh on that day when the earth turns to sea, will they laugh as they watch you rise above the moiling catastrophe, sailing east to the shores of New Denver, disappearing to a dot? At this point, who cares if they're laughing at you? They're dead. Damn it. You could have saved millions of people by designing, building and training the first generation of personal flyers in snap-a-wing flysuits with wingspans so enormous they can rise on a sneeze, a slight push of the knees: step off a curb, you're off. Then when the left coast finally tumbles down, Californians, like crows, will rise to become one gigantic black cloud, swarming with people screaming at each other to get out of their way. And, if the wind's right, this terrible cloud will make its way east. East, to new lands, to settle, repopulate, fool around, live a little. And then, when they're suddenly invaded by the Rockie Islands, then they'll be glad I came up with this. They'll say, "Honey? Where's the Snap-a-Wing?"

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica

MDI 82: Silent motorcycle

I know a guy, completely deaf, got the loudest Harley ever heard. Every piston stroke is a shotgun blast. But it's the only thing he can hear, so everybody's real supportive, plus he's large. As for the rest of the folks who like their bikes loud, I've always wondered how it's possible to be so publicly obnoxious and so obviously oblivious to what's going on between their legs. Is it arrogance on purpose? Or are they lost in the thrill of a whole-body sonic-vibrational realignment? Me, I want a silent bike, no sound made whatsoever. Can't hear me coming or going, and only barely between. When I go by I go fa, that's my sound: fa. Just me and the wind. The wind which is too loud, way too loud the faster you go, which is why the earplugs. Me, on my motorcycle, going fa.

Originally published in CW Fisher's Paragraphica.