Not me, but another Borg Implantee in the waiting room.
(She was reading "US News & World Report")
PizzaQ -- what does this image have to do with U.S. Senator and presidential candidate Barack Obama? Don't hold back or exercise dignity or restraint, I want the smarmiest, sleaziest, tawdriest answer possible. Don't worry about Sen. Obama's feelings, the sleazy parts have nothing to do with him. (3 slices of square pizza with mushrooms and hot peppers.)
Publicke Notice
Please forgive Vleeptron's recent tardiness regarding on-going PizzaQs and other matters.
Earlier this week I realized that Resistance Was Futile, and I Prepared to Be Assimilated. I was subsumed into the Borg Collective, and my formerly all-natural organic body now sports a spiffy new electromechanical Borg Implant of synthetic plastic and metal, with an Energizer (bunny) battery.
The transition from being All-Organic to being Partly Robotic has not been as easy and smooth a transition as I might have hoped for. I am a somewhat anxiety-prone high-strung fellow, and this first week of My Life As a Cyborg has been a Shrieking 4-Alarm Nightmare.
In fact, unlike your Aunt Mathilda, I now have all sorts of little Beep-Beep Alarms going off inside me -- rather like a recent-model automobile with a car alarm that freaks every time a teenage boy gets within 2 meters of it. I also now have a Dead Man's Throttle -- the fucking thing Beep-Beep-Beep-Beeps incessantly if I have failed to press any buttons on it for longer than a pre-set number of hours. Like, if I somehow (heavy drugs) managed to sleep longer than its program permits me to sleep.
Meanwhile -- yes, Mike, you win the Eyeballs Pizza! The Eyeballs are at Williams College!!!
But more about that later. Today I must remove my Borg Impant, re-install my Borg Implant, and then Communicate with the Collective -- by driving to the Copy Store and sending a ##!!*%%% Fax to my new Masters. I hate Faxes and can't even get my free Fax software to work. But my new Masters hate e-mail and demand Faxes. They win. I lose. Resistance is Futile.
Beep. (That wasn't your cell phone or your iPod or your new iPhone. That was me.)
No Pizza, but Guess My Borg Implant. I suppose it's sort of interesting. If you're not the poor schmuck who has to plug it into your anterior lateral descending wazoo.
