Over yonder in the baked-bean eating, geeklish-speaking wilderness of MIT, somebody has invented a machine that makes dishes on demand. Basically, you put acrylic discs into said machine, tell it to make you, say, ten soup bowls, ten plates, and thirty cups -- you three-kinds of wino you -- and the machine then molds each plastic disc into the requested shape. Then after your snooty meal, somewhat soused but full of adjectives like "full-bodied," "bold," and "for the love of god, it's just fermented fruit juice," you run your dishes through the dishwasher, put them back into the machine, and then using some long-awaited Jetsons magic, the dishes are pressed back into acrylic discs, ready to be used again and again.

Now that, ardent fans, is a truly terrific future-type invention. Why, it even beats out cars which run on ethanol instead of petroleum -- because unlike the latter, I can actually imagine a plastic dish-maker being used one day. After all, there are no lobbying fatcats rubbing their greedy, dish-covered, Hummer-creating hands behind the acrylic dish-making industry. Yet.

Dun-dun-duuuuuun.

Get up, emo children! I am officially tired of living!

Unfortunately, living is the only thing we've ever figured out how to do around here.

(Are there any emo children still around? It's been a long time since I've spotted one. Then again, there is a decided lack of hipster in my vicarious daily existence nowadays, so their continued getting-up is really anybody's angst-looking, printy-shirt-wearing guess.)

      'Comrade Bezdomny,' said the face solemnly, 'calm down! You're upset by the death of our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich ... We all realise how you feel. You need rest. You'll be taken home to bed in a moment and then you can relax and forget all about it.'
      'Don't you realise,' Ivan interrupted, scowling, 'that we've got to catch the professor? And all you can do is come creeping up to me talking all this rubbish! Cretin!'
      'Excuse me. Comrade Bezdomny!' replied the face, blushing, retreating and already wishing it had never let itself get involved in this affair.
      'No, I don't care who you are -- I won't excuse you,' said Ivan Nikolayich with quiet hatred. A spasm distorted his face, he rapidly switched the candle from his right to his left hand, swung his arm and punched the sympathetic face on the ear.
      Several people reached the same conclusion at once and hurled themselves at Ivan. The candle went out, the horn-rims fell off the face
      pmuhuttpuju stmupsmuou junu huouitpt sdjksdfsdfsdlgkj sdflkjsdf lksdjfsdfsdf

And that, comrades, concludes The Best Spam Ever. One almost has to offer a grudging amount of respect to such a spam, not only because it sought to draw us in with novel-esque drama and the ever-popular Randomly Pounded-In Letters That Make No Sense, but also because one just knows it was pilfered from a famous Russian novel somewhere. Ah, but which novel? And just how could Ivan punch a face on the ear? And where, exactly, does this falsely literate spam tie-in with male enhancement pills and viral videos and the unending multitude of its spammy brethren? The world, and cynical sanity, and my inbox, may never know.

Today there came a sudden cat. Said cat perched itself on the hood of my freshly-parked car and blinked into the windshield, squeaking indifferently, "Miaww?" Being a sucker for Most Things Fluffy, I was promptly reduced to a cooing puddle of sap. It was a very messy affair.

Endless Hallmarkisms would have you believe that there are cat people and dog people, and never the twain shall meet. While they do have their differences, I see little reason why homo canis and feline sapiens cannot get along. A true-blue fluffy sap would never isolate themselves to one particular species. (They'd miss out on hedgehogs, for example, although hogs of the hedge are really less fluffy than quilly.) I have a preference for cats, of course, since they are mysterious creatures who inspire poetry and song and children's stories, and they purr, and they have a lovable curmudgeonity which makes wooing them into a good mood all the more fun. But neither would I sneer at a cute little corgi or any other slobbery do-gooder of the dog kingdom. True, cats smell less and prefer to cultivate their own catbrains. Dogs have good hearts, but they simply crave more attention than my lifestyle can afford -- or, judging by the plethora of mutant mini-dogs around these days, more than my purse can afford. Yes, let us take a moment to pity the purse dogs: dogs carried around in purses. If I had a purse dog, I'd have to call it No Dignity. "No Dignity, stop getting lost in my new red shoes!" Also, "No Dignity, don't you dare slip through the cracks in the ornate tile flooring!" And finally, of course, "No Dignity, stay away from those car-leaping cats! They'll eat you for breakfast!"