Why do you Hate, Hate, Hate your Family?

I have a big weakness, I love books and read all the damn time. I could be watching informative television programs like Adult Swim, Divorce Court, or Orpah, but Hell to the naw, I gotta read.

Since I prefer nonfiction over the Harlequin romances, my choices are generally more limited than the Orpah Book Club reading morons. Anyhoo, this past week when flying up to flatlander country, I purchased The Google Story for my inflight reading pleasure. Dang, if you want to read something to make you realize exactly how ordinary, dumb, and unimaginative you are, crack open that one.

Brief synopsis: two PHD guys at Stanford decided to put down the Dungeons and Dragons twenty-sided die long enough to practically mint a country's GDP. And you are not as smart as those guys. Neither am I, even though I am vastly superior to you in my seemingly unlimited knowledge. Well, seemingly unlimited until I read that damn book.

Anyhoo, anyhoo, I read that book and started looking at all the stuff that Google offers and lo and behold, I realized that us normal folks do not love our families. How did I arrive at that conclusion?

We do not own explosion proof refrigerators. Because we do not care if our families just blow the Hell up.

From THIS Google Product Search. *Click it to get the big one!*

Can someone please tell me why I need to be cowering in the corner, worrying exactly when my damn refrigerator is going to blow up? And exactly how do I go about finding someone that will do nothing except go get me stuff from the refrigerator? The refrigerator that is apparently just itching to blow up the minute that I remove a Caffeine-Free Diet Coke from it.

A very interesting book and story, but we are stupid and poor. So at least we have that going for us.

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