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Impliment

I purchase yet another technical marvel for my home, and am astounded by its myriad functions, which I soon find I am unable to live without. I utilise the device nearly every night, and always retire to bed more amazed than I was before. The running costs are extraordinary, but it is a small price to pay for such a useful contraption. I invite people over to witness it in action, and they all agree with me that it is indeed an incredible tool, symbolic of the modern age. We sit and gaze at it with respectful awe and, when I finally switch it off, we feel remarkably depressed and yet also intangibly enlightened. Soon all of my friends own one, and I am frustrated to learn that they are all superior models, what with technology advancing at the rate it does. For my part the contrivance has rendered me broke and impotent, and one evening I learn on the news that the product is to be recalled due to mysterious radioactive discharge and its generous contribution towards global warming. The very next morning, two men in black biohazard suits come to my house and take it away. I am given a full refund, which goes only a small distance towards my chemotherapy bills. Reports of three-armed babies fill the newspapers, and the military is called in to work out a feasible way to dispose of the device. The general consensus is that they should all be loaded into a rocket ship, which will be shot into the sun to explode spectacularly. However the United Nations buckles under the pressure of environmental protests, and in the end the dangerous stockpile is buried deep underground at an undisclosed location. From my hospital bed I have a view of the park, and my wife smiles down sadly at me as, for the last time, I nurse my three-armed infant, gurgling with delight.


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