Selling my Seoul

“I can’t believe this place has finger print ID scanners to unlock the doors but no elevators.” The guy at the front door of the dorm had a point; technically we get into our group housing the same way that James Bond enters MI5 but I still have to huff my groceries up five flights of stairs.

Technological priorities seem a bit skewed here. A cell phone isn’t a cell phone unless you can watch TV on it and the panel in along side the toilets here don’t do anything other than make noise (which makes it like a harmonica for bowel movements), but I’m not supposed to flush my toilet paper. I saw the same toilet paper rule in a semi repair shop in Wyoming, but when the Tiny—the ex-con working on my car—had finished half a liter of peach schnapps before nine AM on a Thursday I figured that the plumbing was thumped together with the same craft and skill as Tiny used to make toilet wine while in the box.

Hence I worry a little bit about the fact that I sold my retinas to Seoul science community for about $11.50 or about one non-supersized extra value meal per eye. Technically I just sold images of my irises; still I’m not without case to worry. They always told me that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and wearing contact lenses then staring at the sun might cook your soul like an ant. Based on what movies have taught me, the human iris is more individual than a finger print and can be used to make super-cyborgs with a human lust for murder. Right now the harmonica-toilet people are constructing ERIK 2.0 with a kung fu action grip and, for some reason, a penchant for break dancing. Also, if it is a Korean robot, I’ll start dressing like an out of work superhero (e.g. wearing my underwear on the outside of soiled sweatpants). Any day now I expect to wake up handcuffed to an office chair surrounded my scientists and military personnel. Or at least with a chip in my brain than can command me to kill.

If you see me break-dancing back in the US, ask me to pet a kitten. If a tiny kitty doesn’t immediately melt my heart, shoot me in the face with a shotgun. You should take the kitty out of my death grip first though; because if you don’t cry when a faceless robot crushes a kitten I don’t know who to call the real heartless killing machine.