Perhaps you’re familiar with the tale of Willy Pickton, the Port Coquitlam pig farmer who picked up and murdered several dozen women from Vancouver’s Downtown EastSide. Perhaps you’ll even recall that I went for coffee with the fellow once and lived to tell the tale.
After he’d killed his victims, he took souvenir parts and the rest he put through the wood chipper, alternately feeding the product to his pigs or packaging it with ground pork and sending it to market as sausage meat. A friend of mine made a quarter of a million dollars from the pork marketing board, who hired him to get the price back up (it had fallen by half).
According to the Japanese sommelier robot, we don’t taste like chicken. We taste like bacon. Or prosciutto.
Well as everyone knows, all journalists are hams.
…when some smart aleck reporter placed his hand in the robot’s omnivorous clanking jaw, he was identified as bacon. A cameraman then tried and was identified as prosciutto.
Absolutely horrifying. Like cows, once robots taste blood, their hunger for human flesh can never be satiated. Japanese unveil robot wine steward [South Coast Today]
Naturally, you’ll want to pay attention to your choice of booze. Feeling feline? Go with gin. Working on a piece about the high life? See if you can’t round up a crystal Champagne flute and magnum of Cristal, or at least a couple of straws and a jug of Cribari. Working on a murder tale? Well then, what’s their poison? Kimveer Gill had Jack Daniels for breakfast his last day on Earth; Christian Brando had three Negronis and then shot his sister’s lover; Robert Frisbee drank something like seven French 75’s and a bottle of wine before bludgeoning the poor, foolish little old lady who paid for his cocktails.
Whichever one of you came here through a search for “why michael j. fox pleasures his fans,” you need to talk to me, baby.
raincoaster 