You Wanna Go For a Ride, Neighbor?
Holy shit, this is awesome. This company called Wanderlust Media has rolled out NavTones, a service that programs celebrity voices directly into your car’s GPS navigator. One of the options is the disembodied and predictably manic voice of Dennis Hopper . (Seriously, click that goddamned link. It’s better than Christmas, your birthday and that episode of M*A*S*H where Hawkeye thinks a baby is a chicken.) This makes us wish we hadn’t crashed our car after getting drunk in Bob Villa’s hot tub that one summer.***
Apropos of absoSmurfly nothing, we recently came up with a fantastic idea for an invention. You know those ticket dispensers they have at the deli, the ones that let you know when it’s your turn to place your pimento loaf order or whatever? The idea is to have the same machines bolted to the two-seater tables in restaurants, only instead of numbers, there will be a different topic listed on each pull ticket. So you’re sitting there drawing a blank and your date is like playing with her mashed potatoes, and rather than rack your brains for something to say, you simply tear off the first ticket and viola!, you have yourself a conversation starter: “Say, Marjorie, what do you think about Wittgenstein’s theory of epistemology as it applies to language?” Or: “Hey, Jo Jo, do you think monkeys can ever be taught the basics of ventriloquism?” Or: “See here, Mordecai, I absolutely refute your contention that there is a secret race of Mustache People that live beneath the surface of the moon.”
Oh, fuck off.
***This is 100 percent true. Please note that Bob Villa was not actually around at the time. We would not get into a hot tub with the likes of Bob Villa. No, what happened was we sort of let ourselves into Bob Villa’s not-quite completed home on the island paradise of, um, let’s say Amity, because we knew there was a fully functioning Jacuzzi on the construction site and because we needed to find someplace to go with the nice Norwegian girl who picked us up after our bartending shift. That business about watching what you drink while you’re submerged in a hot tub is ANCIENT NAVAJO WISDOM, because Godfrey Jaysus, we could barely get it together to steal all the towels before we staggered out to our car the next morning. Everything was fine until the fire hydrant strolled out into the road, which caused the front wheel on the passenger side to be rudely and unceremoniously detached from the rest of the automobile. Luckily, we escaped detection by the police (who were probably still sleeping), thereby allowing our boon companion sufficient time to roll in with the wrecker. Anybody who wants to buy a 1981 BMW 320i with just 60,000 miles on it, go ask someone else because our car is now just an angry ghost that goes booooooooooooo at the bottom of some godforsaken Massachusetts scrapheap.