Part of me knows if I eat one of those peppers and record the result, many a laugh will be had at my discomfort. Human suffering is genuinely amusing when it's the sort of suffering someone brings on themselves and is mostly cartoonish in nature. Wouldn't you like to see me eat an outrageously hot pepper and then writhe in agony? Of course you would. But I have trepidation. Not for the first round of pain; that's to be expected, as my insides knot in fiery torment and panic-sweats blind me while I blubber like a guppy desperate to find a puddle. No, it's what's coming a few hours down the road.

Ingram Publishing/Ingram Publishing/Getty Images
In lieu of bathroom reading material, bring along a priest
to read you your last rites.

It's 2016 -- we have scientists working on things like space elevators and cloning individual human organs and performing face transplants, and yet no one has managed to find a way to eliminate the fire squirts? There's a whole cottage industry out there for spicy foods and sauces; people love seeing how much they can tolerate, but none of us enjoy the devastating aftermath of literal asshole burning. Is there no pill that a human can take to help absorb the capsaicin they've consumed? No medicine we can take a spoonful of to ensure that the hot sauce we're only supposed to open with welder's gloves will ease on out, like soft ice cream from Dairy Queen?

I'm convinced NASA could figure this out if they tried; it's just that our priorities are in the wrong place these days. Mars missions to save Matt Damon? Come on.

The idea behind the Fleshlight was a good one: Let's improve wanking. You can't be down on that. But why a flashlight? Is fucking a flashlight normal somewhere? I certainly hope not. This is like making camouflage out of a repeating burger pattern, on the off chance you need to hide out in a McDonald's dumpster.

Basically, I'm saying the Fleshlight adds a needless dimension to your wankery. Why not strip away the illumination and just put that rubbery, texturized inside on a glove? Then you just have a masturbation glove that, for all anyone cares, looks like a rubber glove. If anyone asks, it's for gardening or some B.S., but you and I will know the only crops you'll be tending are wang root and squirt apples. By the way, "squirt apple" is officially my 1,000th euphemism on Cracked, and the shittiest one I've ever made. I'm getting a gold pen from management!

Sarcasm was likely the first victim of the Internet, and every day it rises anew and gets slaughtered by people who lose it somewhere in those pipes that Twitter lives in, like humorless Morlocks. Now, really sweet, quality satire should have that crisp delightfulness that goes over some people's heads, so every other smug shit who got it can curl their lip just so as they enjoy their brandy with a titter of laughter since they're in on the joke. But that's like Swift-quality satire, and no one but The Onion does that anymore. Everyday sarcasm needs a hero. It needs a font.

Microsoft
But not Wingdings. Wingdings are already the font of assholes.

Far too often in online conversation, you're enjoying a little informal correspondence, maybe saying things like "brb" and "dtf" to your friends and co-workers and, out of the blue, someone says, "Go fuck yourself." And in their mind, it was a hilariously good-natured ribbing, said with a laugh. But on your end, it was an unbidden attack that you have no intentions of forgiving and, in fact, will be the catalyst for a lifelong war waged by a single side against an ignorant and ill-prepared army that will be destroyed utterly thanks to its lack of understanding. You will ruin every relationship, job, and even the furniture of that person for the rest of their natural lives, constantly unzipping their couch cushions and literally shitting inside of them when you're left alone in the room, such that your one-time friend never understands where that terrible smell is coming from, all for the want of a sarcasm font.

Baloncici/iStock/Getty Images
Oh, you're sad I ruined your grave and skull-fucked your corpse?
Should've been nicer that one day.

Of course, implementing such a thing now will be difficult. If back when typewriters were invented, some German lexicographer was all, "This is called Comic Sans; use it only when you're being a dick to someone," we'd all know Comic Sans was a joke when we saw it today. But changing people's opinions now and getting them on board will be hard -- whatever font you choose instantly becomes Esperanto. You can say it's universal all you like; it doesn't mean anyone is ever going to use it. Still, it's worth a try. For the good of us all!

That said, I don't even fucking like coffee. Can't my shitty Keurig make something I want? I can't drink hot chocolate every day; I'm not a Wonka. If this thing can brew up to 100 types of coffee for me, surely you can make me a machine that can produce a passable mojito or Tom Collins. I put the mix in, it adds wizardry, and 30 seconds later I'm getting blitzed. I would pay $300 to put that machine on my counter and fill the side tub with vodka once a week.

Gizmodo
You can do this already, actually, provided you can afford an attorney
after you're charged with arson.

This could seriously work -- you market little packets filled with bitters and grenadine, I fill my machine with booze and pop a packet in, it scans the label to see what drink I want, and boom. It barely needs to be fancier than a current Keurig. I'd appreciate some ice and stirring capabilities, but honestly, they've had machines that can do that for decades -- this is pretty much a no-brainer. If Tom Cruise could convincingly mix drinks in the 1980s, I have no doubt a counter-top machine from Europe could do the same in the present.

Do you remember the first time you saw The Clapper? That got made fun of in its day, but the first time you saw it, I know you thought it was a good idea. So did millions of other people. I know this because the damn thing still exists. People buy them all the time, because we like the idea of simply having mastery over our technology. I want to clap like a lazy Sultan and have light and cool air brought to me. I shall gesture and the machines will do my bidding, lest Master become salty with them and kick them into the Pit of Despair with the waffle iron and the Wii. I shall incline my head, and the Fleshlight shall giveth me pleasure just so.

Joseph Enterprises
The sound of one hand clapping is so damn sexy.

In reality, we have remote controls. I have a remote for my TV, my Blu-ray, my stereo, my air conditioner, my massage chair, my Xbox, and then a drawer with about six more in it, and I don't even know what they do. One remote I have is just a single big button. What the hell is it for? I can't imagine. And I shouldn't have to. My brain shouldn't be wrestling over which remote operates what, and even those semi-useful remotes that operate a handful of machines in my home are still not where I want them to be. We need a Siri for the home, a pleasantly voiced robotic interface that just relies on voice commands. But we'll give it a less-shitty name than Siri. In fact, when you first get it, you can just customize the name. I'll call mine Hugo. "Hugo, turn on the TV to channel 929; I fancy some softcore pornography just now." And Hugo will do as commanded. "Hugo, turn the air conditioner down two degrees, for this softcore pornography has made me lusty and hot indeed." And Hugo will do so. "Hugo, be a good chap and lower the volume to 13, lest the neighbors hear the characters in this softcore pornography moaning about humping pumpkins!" And as good as his word, Hugo will do it.

Vasile Cotovanu / Wiki Commons
"Hugo, ready my toilet. I wish to write that pepper article."

I guarantee we have the technology right now for a central hub, voice-activated remote-control system. Don't tell me we don't. I want it to make my damn Keurig Tom Collins while it puts on Netflix for me and dims the lights. I want it, and I deserve it, and so do you. This isn't Battlestar Galactica-level stuff. This is probably less R&D-intensive than that poop-cooler pill I wanted in the beginning of this article.

If I wanted to strain credulity, I'd have Hugo doing Google searches for me and ordering pizza online, and even that should be possible. You can send a hashtag to Domino's on Twitter and get pizza, for God's sake -- this should be 2012-level stuff I'm asking for. Basically, what I want is a system that ensures everything in your house works so you never have to, and we'll all slowly decay into Hutts, laughing from our uncomfortable-looking concrete bed slab, while a little critter with a beak eats frogs near our tail. That's the life.

Learn how the Vatican came up with the Big Bang Theory (not the TV show, the other thing) in 5 Awesome Things Invented By The Last People You'd Expect, and you'll agree that "particulus" has to be part of our vocabulary after you read 6 Words That Need To Be Invented.

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