Are you a collector with very special tastes? Then you must experience The Replica Crown Jewels of Great Britain and the seven foot tall statues of Buckingham Palace Guards. All completely accurate in weight, size and detail. They simply must be seen to be appreciated. Imagine your home graced with Jewels of Kings. Master’s Art—Have several in your home and you will be the envy of your friends.

“Wow!” They would exclaim, “how did you happen to acquire the queen’s crown jewels?!”

“Actually, they’re sophisticated reproductions,” I’d explain. I’d then cite Master’s Art promotional material. “These are the World’s Greatest Works By the Greatest Masters Replicated by the world’s finest re-creators: ArtaGraph.”

Later, as we sipped Rainier Ale in a setting of wealth and prestige, I’d point to the oil paintings on the wall, and casually mention that these, too, are Master’s Art products. And, if my friends were worthy of such knowledge, I’d explain the secret I learned from Master’s Art propaganda.

First, we’d like to explain what our paintings are, more importantly, what are [sic] paintings are not. They are NOT prints, textured prints, or lithographs. These are NOT canvas oil replicas copied from photographs with brushstrokes thrown in at random. They are NOT some unknown artist rendition of a masters’ work on canvas or paper.

These are, in fact, oils on canvas done by machine. Yes, by machine. Only a machine would replicate the original artists’ work with total accuracy. Machines, unlike artists, have no ego to feed.

I love Master’s Art, where “The majesty of the past meets the technology of today.”

It’s all true!

It took me a while to figure out why the orphaned word was there, but once I understood its role in providing consistency and redundancy, I liked the practice.

I wonder why everyone doesn’t design their books that way?

I wonder if that’s what the proprietors of the Hong-Kee Noodle House in Redwood City had in mind? I’m sure there’s a more charitable explanation of the name, but I’d like to think that the owners are successfully insulting the whiteys who eat there.

Some day I may eat at the Hong-Kee Noodle House in Redwood City, California. Or, I may not.

Until tonight.

I met a woman at a party who repairs copy machines. She told me that “it’s a well-known fact within the industry” that some two-thirds of copy machine failures are attributed to people trying to make two-dimensional copies of their genitalia. I then asked her why laser printers are so reliable.

“I guess it’s because no one sits on them,” she replied.

“Why so glum, chum?” I asked. “Is everything all right?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said blankly, “I really just don’t know.”

“May I ask what’s the matter?” I inquired. “You would appear to be doing quite well.”

“Well, I suppose I would appear to be doing well,” Patrick replied softly. “It’s just that I seem to have achieved someone else’s dream, and that I seem to be living someone else’s wonderful life.”

I didn’t know what to say.

The man sat upright in his chair; he exhibited annoyingly perfect posture. He was, of course, eating a burrito. Each time he pulled off a bit more aluminum foil to expose more of his lunch, he neatly stacked the wrappings on the corner of his plate. The man ate alone at a table for two. He spent most of his meal meditating on a solitary, black bean on the other side of the table. I doubt the bean escaped from his burrito; I suspect a previous diner left it there.

I was struck by the man’s shiny, dress shoes. I spend most of my time in taquerias staring at the floor, and I rarely see a clean pair of shoes. For some reason, the man’s suit pants didn’t appear to be finished. The bottom of each pant leg seemed to be a cuff under construction.

I’d never seen a man in a suit and tie eat a burrito; I may never see such a sight again. I finished my burrito and left.

Jones suggests that our comfortable way of life is insulating us from evolutionary forces. Modern medicine, ample food, and good hygiene mean that just about everyone lives long enough to reproduce, regardless of the relative superiority of their genes.

Some scientists agree with Jones, other scientists pooh-pooh his theory. That’s science!

I don’t care, since I’m not going to produce any offspring, more highly evolved or not. I must admit, however, that unless I’m looking at cute art chicks, it’s rather depressing to think that the people around me represent the pinnacle of human evolution.

I did a rudimentary amount of semantic research, then asked the Internet for a rough word count. The result:

Catsup: ~46,200
Ketchup: ~272,000
Catchup: ~130,000