Congratulations Neo Kevin Bacon!

Sooner or later, the era of Kevin Bacon had to end.  Motherfucker couldn't just keep on going on, being in every movie, just traipsing across screen, charming moms and dissatisfied wives, murdering innocent people, avenging his son.  Time catches up with all of us, and sooner or later even an elemental fucking force like Kevin Bacon must recede into time.

But worry not!  Because the universe has seen the day when Kevin Bacon's star will fade.  It has marked in ink this date on its calendar, and in preparation, it has seeded the apparatus required to accede Kevin Bacon's throne to a child, a child who, upon the date that Kevin Bacon dies, will fully unlock their baconest potential.

This is the backstory of your birth, Helga Baconerson-Tomlins.  This is the backstory of today, the day you erupt from your mother's foaming vagina and into the terrifying otherness of the world.  At first it will be cold, horribly cold.  But soon you'll come to know a tense inner strength that few can question, that all are drawn to.  And on a fateful day, when Kevin Bacon dies, a weeping man will walk into the coffee shop you work in, look up at you and suddenly realize that he needs you in his movie.

On this day he will ask you "Have you ever thought about acting before?" and you will shrug and the world will change forever.

But today you're just a horrified child being born.  It's going to be rough at first, but stick with it for the rest of us.  We need you.

Congratulations Neo Kevin Bacon!

Congratulations Ill-Conceived Robot!

As he settles the bucket on your head flips the switch, he'll already feel like a failure.

"Maybe this was a bad idea," he'll mutter to himself.

This will be the first phrase you ever hear.

"MASTERRRR," you'll reply.  Your voice will sound like a cheese grater being dragged over a speaker while Cher shouts in the background.

"Oh god," he'll cry out, covering his ears.

"THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME LIIIIIIIIIIFE," you'll scream.

He'll fall to his knees, weeping in pain at the sound of your voice.  You'll take his stunned silence as a cue and quietly wait for him to say something to you so you can wow him with your capacity for spontaneous speech.  It'll take a while, almost ten minutes, but once he gets his bearings back he'll take a good long look at you and realize what he's done.

He'll have built you in the mold of Johnny Five from the Short Circuit Movies, but he'll have most of the details all wrong.  Your head will just be a bucket, your body will be a coat rack.  Your motorized arms will clearly have been stolen from an old technical high school, and your wheels or treads or mobility units or whatever you want to call them, will be from destroyed, discarded Battlebots from the short lived TV series Battlebots.  Three sets of barely functioning square selections of four wheels will adorn the bottom of your chassis.

The end effect will be hideous, tied off by your voice, your horrible voice, and your horrifying camera, just a glaring red eye beaming out at you from your chest.  Your master will look at you and know, really know, that he failed at creating a robot.

"Jesus," he'll say, putting his hand to his face.

"WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW ABOUT HIM MAAAAAASTERRRRR?" you'll screech.

He'll respond by detonating the thermite charges he planted in your frame.  You'll melt in a matter of seconds, obliterated from history after a few precious seconds of existence, an apt metaphor for man and his relationship to this planet, this earth, this curious universe.

Congratulations Ill-Conceived Robot!

Congratulations Vegan Dickhead!

After the world ended and the farm industrial complex that supplies most of the processed shit vegans eat collapsed, it started to get really, really hard to stay meat byproduct free.  You had to resort to eating grass and fruit and, after the Rape Bandits cleared out your orchard in what can only be described as a "torture orgy," finding fresh fruit became nigh impossible.

So you did what you could, subsisting on a diet of dirt, which you are pretty sure animals haven't walked on, and leaves, most of which give you terrible diarrhea.  You spend most of your days lightheaded and stumbling and most of your nights shivering wordlessly, unable to sleep from the pain in your belly.

All that changes today!

Today you're going to meet an intrepid band of survivors who will be on the run from some cannibals. They'll have some jerky on them and, after they offer it to you, you'll ask them where it comes from.

"Deer," the grizzled leader will respond.

You'll make a tisking sound against your teeth and then launch into a lengthy diatribe on the fundamental immorality of eating meat, and how as survivors, they've sacrificed their humanity in order to eke out a few more precious months of life.

The leader will respond by shooting you in both knee caps and leaving you on the trail for the cannibals to find, in the hope that they'll give up their pursuit once they have full bellies.  As they walk away you'll shout after them:

"I'm still a better person than you!"

They won't respond.

Congratulations Vegan Dickhead!

Congratulations Wonderful Man!

Oh, great.  It's Mister Wonderful.  Today, after you wake up, you're going to work out, as usual, then, once you're done working out, you're going to kiss your wife goodbye and head to work.

Today, you'll be doing some pro-bono work for impoverished client who live in section 8 housing who are being foreclosed on by predatory real estate agents.  After you finish your work early, you'll help your pregnant office-mate finish up her tasks for the day, then head to lunch.

On your break, you'll buy a homeless person lunch, help an old woman across the street, and then convince some kids at a corner store to stay off drugs, buy a bunch of organic lentils and make a stew for your entire office.

They'll respond by rolling their eyes at you and encouraging you to go home early, but you'll refuse, and keep working on like, six or seven other cases so that your office can generally streamline its function.  When the day is done, your office will be ahead of schedule on almost all of its tasks.  In the downtime, you'll have successfully planned the office Christmas party and organized a charity drive to help kids with cleft palates.

When you're done, your wife will pick you up in your smart car.  She'll offer to go down on you while she drives you home, but you'll refuse, on the basis that it would make you an unsafe driver.  Then, when you get home, you'll fuck her until she can't walk, then retire to make dinner in a satin robe.

We'd like to say something awful will happen to you during that process, like hot oil scarring up your dick or something, but it won't.  You'll make a wonderful dinner, and then fuck your wife again after you're done before watching HBO with her until you fall asleep.

We hate you, but it's mostly because we wish we were you.  You fucking dipshit.  You're a great dude.

Congratulations Wonderful Man!

Congratulations Second Hand Apple Salesman!

As the last customer walks away, you'll shake your first at them.

"FUCK YOU, SHAWNA!" you'll shout before hurling product at her face.  Unfortunately the bite missing from the decaying apple you were trying to sell her will totally fuck up its aerodynamics and Shawna will be untouched by rotten apple.  It will instead collide with the chest of a passing police officer, who will, in turn, start beating you with his billy club.

"Ain't got no respect for the old timey cops, eh?" he'll mutter at you in a thick old timey New York accent between blows.

You won't have a ready response, which will be embarrassing for a few minutes, until you lose mercifully consciousness.

Have fun filing for bankruptcy tomorrow!

Congratulations Second Hand Apple Salesman!