Did you know that with as little as $100 a month you can invest in an index-tracking mutual fund, which will give you much-needed diversification despite having only minimal assets? Or you could dollar-cost average that $100 into a low-cost exchange-traded fund. Or even better, why not shove it into a tax-advantaged account like an IRA (Roth or traditional). But without a doubt, the best investment you could put one hundred of your hard-earned dollars toward every month is to hand it to a lying, church-going, octogenarian hypocrite who will pocket it and give you nothing in return other than a patronizing smile and a lingering odor of human decay. Of course, first you have to figure out where you’re going to come up with that extra cash. Perhaps buying in bulk and less prepared items from the grocery store? Start clipping coupons and get yourself a change jar. If you’re lucky enough to get a raise (insert derisive laughter here), set aside the extra amount you earn in savings. Or perhaps you know a lying, church-going, octogenarian hypocrite who could be convinced to donate to your account if met with a ski mask and crowbar in a darkened parking lot. Let’s face it, clipping coupons takes way too much time.
Luka’s idea for a mood-detecting caller ID system is not without precedent. If science can help a girl show the world just how she feels about donuts and guys’ butts, anything is possible.
It’s Alive (1974) is tale of parental love and compassion. When you come right down to it, isn’t there one difficult child in every family? Patience and understanding is what’s needed for that misunderstood child to develop and flourish into the well-adjusted young person they’re destined to become. Or failing that, you can shoot them. Too harsh? Ask the cops to do it. The police will come out of the woodwork given the chance to shoot a child and he doesn’t even have to be black.
If the killer mutant baby from 1974’s It’s Alive could have talked and expressed himself, none of that high-calibre mayhem would’ve been necessary. Perhaps that’s why the very next year Teach A Child To Talk was put out to help parents communicate with their horrifically deformed, blood-thirsty offspring in ways that didn’t involve bullets.
“Junior? Please stop ripping at that nurse’s throat and sit down. I want you to tell me what’s upsetting you.”
“Geez Mom, I dinna mean ta hurt nobody. I jus’ wanna ‘spress my feelings of ennui and lack of faith in society’s ability to address its collective moral failin’s. Dat’s all.”
“You’re a good boy at heart, Marmaduke. You can finish your nurse now.”