The inventor called me to come by his laboratory (basement)—”I have created a boon for mankind! Come quickly.” Despite my apprehension (did he say boon—or something else?) I was intrigued, and at worst, there would be a toast. The Inventor believed in toasting his inventions—and though his inventions were often dubious, his wine cellar was not.
“I have invented the weed-eating bird. No longer will proud home owners fear a family of robins nesting, stealing the earthworms their lawns depend on, while dandelions, and clover run riot. No! Now the fabulous weed eating bird (yet to be named; perhaps a branding campaign?) will be welcomed from one end of the street to the other. Nay! Courted!! The lot of the lowly bird will be mightily raised—the bird house will be the most commodious of pet havens; the bird bath will be large, featuring various pools of hot and cold water; bird seed will be an unnecessary expense, and the bird seed manufacturers will go the way of the buggy whip oligarchs (unfortunate, but all capitalists will die by the buck anyway!)
“Consider this—once the bird has weeded your lawn faithfully, raised a brood of chicks that shall continue his or her highly sought after company—the silly blighter is so fat and incapable of flight that all you need do is walk up, pick it up by the feet, swing it around once or twice and—Bingo! The head pops off! Bio-engineering!! Incredible stuff!!!”
(I have never met a man who could make you hear the exclamation marks like The Inventor could. Nonetheless, after such a string, I sincerely hoped a toast would follow—in vain.)
Now, your lawn is beautiful and weed free at no personal effort—And Wait For It!!!! The best is yet to come !!!!!! The Weed Eating Bird (yet to be named, perhaps a sponsorship opportunity?) within 10 minutes of death—which is about as painless as death can be, though I might add, it is difficult to find those who can volunteer the exact sensation—the feathers fall off, the innards dissolve into onion and sage dressing, and salt and pepper appear naturally under the skin! In other words—you pop it into a nice 400 degree oven for about an hour, and presto dinner is ready!! Tastes Just Like Chicken!!! I thought of having the bones turn into licorice, but I’m not sure the world is ready for licorice chicken. What do you think?”
“You’re right—the world is not ready for licorice chicken.”
“No—the bird! is it a good idea?”
“I think it is fabulous, let me see it.”
“Well—it’s only an idea—and it is driving me to drink. Care to join me for a glass?”