Back in the day, when Women’s Liberation was just beginning to bite, a popular T-shirt bore the motto “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Now, on its face, implementation of this idea would have negative implications for human reproduction. However, advocates of this principle were wont to cite the phenomenon of parthenogenesis, through which the females of some species could induce their own pregnancy sans a male partner.

But Science trumps Social Revolution. Scientists from the Land of the Rising Sun and Divine Wind (kamikaze to you), led by Katsuhiko Hayashi of Osaka University, have created mouse embryos without using female eggs. Instead, they used tail scraping from two boy mice. Employing CRISPR, CAT-9, and most likely invocations of The Evil One, they converted the scrapings into pluripotent stem cells, and thence into 630 mouse embryos which they implanted into lady mice. Seven (7) of these embryos developed into happy, healthy little vermin. Well, a success rate of 1% is not overly impressive, but great oaks from little acorns grow.

Now, to some extent, this seems like cheating. But in order to get females entirely out of the picture, we don’t even need to wait for the denizens of the country that created sushi and the Walkman to produce an artificial womb. Jun Wu of the University of Texas has already developed a bio-reactor which has successfully supported early mouse embryo development.

So we can now update the old slogan to read “Men need women, and women need men, like a fish needs a bicycle.” While this slogan will even further suppress underwater bicycle sales, it is highly unlikely to crash the economy.

So we have now figured out how to eliminate both men and women from the process of reproduction. And you thought AI was dangerous! HAH!

Terminator, eat your heart out!

Rejoice, Dear Reader! You no longer need worry about the lack of adequate power storage interfering with the transition to renewable, completely unreliable energy. A team of brilliant scientists from the land of spaghetti and other health foods have created the first edible rechargeable battery. Yes, really. I, the Happy Pessimist, would never lie to you. Just look up the scientific paper “An Edible Chargeable Battery” in the March edition of the refereed journal “Advanced Materials” https://doi.org/10.1002/adma.202211400. (N.B. When I began to write the current missive, spell check corrected “refereed” to “refried.” Perhaps I should have accepted the emendation.)
No longer do we need to wait for Elon Musk to fill the Arizona desert with gigantic installations of conventional batteries filled with toxic chemicals. We can simply shove a cable into our personal orifice of choice, and connect the other end to our EV. Think of it! No more searching for non-existent recharging stations!
It gets better! The article also informs us that “Edible electronic devices will have major implications for gastrointestinal tract monitoring, therapeutics, as well as rapid food quality monitoring.” I particularly like the “food quality monitoring.” Instead of waiting for your mother, wife, other significant other, physician, or other obnoxious party to chide you for going off your diet, the monitoring device will automatically induce you to barf. No more pizza for you, Tubby!
Enjoy the red pill.

It is I, your interlocuter, The Happy Pessimist, returning after an extended period of silence. There has been a reason for my prolonged absence. The world is sufficiently out of control that I have been unable to identify anything more outrageous than the ordinary news. So, today, I wax poetic.
All musical comedies are the same. An unbelievably stupid young dolt moons after a raving beauty, and croons a revolting ballad memorializing his confusion. One of my favorites is from “Call Me Madam,” lyrics and music by Irving Berlin. The hit song from this satire on the diplomatic service is “You’re Just in Love.” It is a duet between the innocent young idiot protagonist and the jaded, corrupt older lady Ambassador. As Irving Berlin wrote it:

You’re Just In Love (Irving Berlin)

Dolt:

I hear singing and there’s no one there.

I smell blossoms and the trees are bare.

All day long I seem to walk on air.

I wonder why. I wonder why.

I keep tossing in my sleep at night.

And, what’s more, I’ve lost my appetite.

Stars that used to twinkle in the skies now twinkle in my eyes.

I wonder why.

Ambassador:

You don’t need analyzin’

It is not so surprisin’

That you feel very strange but nice.

Your heart goes pitter-patter.

I know just what’s the matter

Because I’ve been there once or twice.

Put your head on my shoulder.

You need someone who’s older.

A rubdown with a velvet glove.

There is nothing you can take

To relieve that pleasant ache.

You’re not sick, you’re just in love.

Pathetic.

Now, assume with me for a moment that, instead of begging the Ambassador for advice, the Dolt poured out his heart to a Board-Certified neurosurgeon. Then the response would undoubtedly be:

Neurologist:

It is more than just a rumor.

You have got a great big tumor.,

Which is quickly eating up your brain.

You have a lousy future.

Your future needs a suture.

You are circling all around the drain.

Put your body on the table

(As long as you’re still able),

While I tell you all about your head.

There is nothing we can do

To preserve the life of you.

Pretty soon you’ll just be dead.

Better, no?

We all know that the Starship Enterprise, like all spaceships, zips between the stars using a space warp. You know, it bends space so that here and there are brought very close together, so that the absolute speed limit of the speed of light doesn’t cause any problem.

There is one difficulty with this approach. The recent detection of gravitational waves has shown that space is really, really stiff. You need to annihilate two neutron stars to bend space a distance equal to one one-thousandth of the diameter of a proton. Captain Kirk would need to load a mass hundreds of times larger than the mass of the Sun to move his ship 0.00000000000000001 feet. (As an aside, I should mention that the Enterprise is powered by “dilithium.” Lithium contains 3 protons, so dilithium (“di” means “two”) contains two lithium atoms per dilithium atom. Unless you are a democratic socialist who believes that basic arithmetic is an oppressive tool of white supremacy, two times three is six. Unless you are a democratic socialist who took a course in gender studies instead of chemistry, you would notice that an atom with six protons is called carbon. Carbon is the primary ingredient of coal. Apparently, the Enterprise, like a nineteenth century steam locomotive, runs on coal.)

So, space warps are out. But does that mean that we are tethered to the solar system? Fear not! It turns out that there is another way to reach the stars. To the consternation of physicists (like me), the path to going boldly where no weasel has gone before was foreshadowed by Star Wars (the Force) and the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (the Infinite Impossibility Drive).

The secret is hidden in the bowels of quantum theory.

Fact 1: since you are obviously literate and well educated (you follow Fun with Doom), you have heard of quantum entanglement. If you zig one member of a pair of entangled objects, the other member zags IMMEDIATELY. And I do mean immediately. Recent experiments by Chinese physicists have managed to entangle two atoms that are 1500 miles apart. And some Italian physicists have measured how long it takes for the second atom to zag after you zig Number One. If you divide the distance between the two atoms by this time (that gives you the speed), you find that this speed is at least ten million times the speed of light. Take that Einstein!

Fact 2: we learn from quantum field theory (an area in which I pursued research before finding honest employment) that the vacuum is not empty! The vacuum is filled with “virtual pairs” of particles and antiparticles which wink in and out of existence in trillionths of a second (which proves that you can get away with anything if you do it fast enough).

Let us now combine these two facts. To zip across the known universe, we need merely entangle the Enterprise with one of the virtual particles, then entangle this virtual particle with a nearby virtual particle, and so on. Shoveling a little more coal in the furnace, we depart on our intergalactic adventure!

My Nobel Prize awaits.

Hello again, Dear Reader, I return after an extended absence. Some of this absence I spent on the Upper Amazon (I’m not kidding), but I return refreshed and ready once again to bring you tidings of Doom. The latest sign of the apocalypse is being brought to us by the legislatures of New York and Virginia, both of which have either passed (New York) or recently considered (Virginia) abortion statutes which contemplate abortions performed so late that the kid is already born, if its existence threatens the mental health of the mother. (I must admit that New York has an ant-partial birth abortion law, but how long do you think that will hold up in the current climate?)

Now this brings up an interesting question: how old does the little monster have to be before you are no longer permitted to croak it?

Let’s face it; at some point, everybody wants to kill one or more of their children. How many times have you yourself said to one of your little darlings “I’m going to kill you if you ever do that again!” By the time the kid is two years old, it has figured out that this is not true, which explains the Terrible Twos. The fact that you also know that this is untrue is based on two fundamental facts. One, you of course love your progeny, who represent both your genetic immortality and your future bragging rights. But two, you are fully aware that bumping the kid off will earn you either the right to room with Bubba the Sex Maniac for the next forty-five years or, in more progressive states, the right to an unpleasant electrocution.

Now, let us assume for the moment that fact two is eliminated. What possible ages might one select for the cutoff of infanticide rights?

Kids tend to poop in their pants until they are about three, which is revolting, so we have potential cutoff number one.

Kids often pee in their beds until they are about eight, which is also revolting, so we have potential cutoff number two.

Kids hit puberty at around thirteen, which makes them ricochet off the walls, so we have potential cutoff number three.

Kids get driver’s licenses at around sixteen, so we have potential cutoff number four (no explanation needed).

Finally, kids head off to college at around eighteen, which is insanely expensive even if they go to Okefenokee County Institute for Medieval Gender Studies, so we have potential cutoff number five.

I could go on, but you get my drift.

But why should your rights be restricted to your children. Aren’t there lots of other relatives who drive you nuts? For example, your wife and your brother-in-law? Kill ‘em both!

And how about folks who are not related to you, but also drive you up the wall? How about your boss (that jerk)? How about the guy in the next cubicle whose cell phone uses the Song of the Volga Boatmen as its ringtone?

And why restrict things to people you actually know? That great philosopher Ogden Nash once created the deathless poem “I think, therefore I am. But what bothers me are all the people who don’t think, but are anyway.” What about rap musicians (sic), heavy metal practitioners, artists who draw with dilute solutions of excrement? As the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland would say, “off with their heads!”

Cutoffs? We don’t need no stinking cutoffs. We just need to issue completely unrestricted hunting licenses which permit us to shoot whomever we want to, at any time, in any place, for any damn reason we please. To prevent mass shootings, we must impose a bag limit, say one per day. Vast fun. But if I were you, I’d stay out of New York and Virginia.