How Many Implants Would You Like With That?



    For Star Trek fans, like myself, the villainous Borg (a race of soul sucking Bio/Bots that travel the universes trying to find people to “assimilate”) were about as nasty as it got. When the Borg come to town, they grab you, shoot you full of gicky technology, and hook you up to “the collective.” A lot of times, you wound up with a bunch of ugly attachments—like a blender for an arm, or a flashlight for an eyeball. Their motto, “Resistance is futile.”



    Resistance has been futile. My family went over to the Borg before they even invaded our home planet. My husband has an implant in his ear that he calls a “Bluetooth,” all the kids have hand held arm extensions that text, call, remind, sing and entertain, and the grandchildren are practicing long range planet scanning, as we speak. Sending my husband to purchase two cans of French’s Original French Fried Onions provided all the evidence I needed to start an underground resistance movement against the Borg (Brothers Organized against Real Geekery—Sisters Welcome.)

   

    “I need two cans of those French fried onion thingys. If you can’t find them ask an official Wal-Mart person.”

   

    “You bet,” he said, and off he went.



    He called me from behind a stack of Red Bull on his cellphone-hand’s free—Bluetooth—ear doodad/implant.



    He whispered, “Where are they?”



    “Who?”



    “The fried up onion thingys.” I heard the sounds of human life in the background.



    “Where are you hiding out? And does it look like you’re talking to yourself?” I needed him to get his bearings, quickly.



    “Behind a stack of Red Bull. And yes, I am hands free.”



    I sighed and said, “Okay, listen very carefully, walk to the green beans. French fried onions should be near the green beans. Think green bean casserole. Look on the top shelf above the green beans.”



    He hung up.



    He called back. “They’re not there.”



    “What? Not by the green beans, but they’re always there! Well, I don’t know. Hey, how about you try asking an official living person that actually works there; maybe there’s a French fried onion shortage or something.”



    He hung up.



    He called back.



    He said, “I still can’t find them.” He hung up.



    He called back. He said, “I found them.”



    “Great! Now get out of there before you’re spotted.”



    “Roger, and out.” He hung up.

 

    When he got home, he was required to attend a debriefing. “Where did you finally find the French fried onions?”



    “By the green beans.”



    Confused, I shook my head.



    He said, “Not on the top shelf over the green beans. They were on the bottom shelf under the green beans.”



    Since that tragic day, I have become painfully aware of the dozens and dozens of men standing in front of jars and cans on their cell phones at the grocery store whispering, “Do you want the pimento stuffed olives or the all natural olives grown by Venetian nuns?”



    I’m sad for the good old days when men didn’t call home to find out on what aisle “they” were hiding the buffalo herd.



Linda (Hands On) Zern