Finally, the cure to not being a sack of shit.
Imagine the person who designed the fry holder. This frustrated, greasy potato baron had been foiled time and again by attempts to travel to work while eating fries and finding himself shrieking in anger and dissatisfaction as a salty rain soils his crotch and fries get jammed under the brake pedal, causing him to run over a gaggle of nuns. Again. So annoyed was he by his inability to eat these fries that he actually sat down and probably sketched out a few potential design ideas before setting to work making a mock-up of one, and then he actually managed to convince another person to fund further design and development because they too had experienced this french fry madness. And no one, not this person's spouse or parents or friends, put a hand on his shoulder and said, "What the fuck are you thinking? What the fucking fuck?"
The fry holder is about 15 cents' worth of polymer despair, an ennui that transcends man as a species and floats above us all like a layer of Chinese smog, thick with disdain and stupidity, creeping into our homes through cracks and crevices as we sleep until we breathe it in and get ever so slightly dumber as a result until the day comes when the last person who remembers long division wakes up and just decides to put racing stripes on their underpants and run head first into a wall in what will be a concussion-inducing eulogy to common sense as we all become utterly, irreversibly fucktarded.
Hyper-Realistic Sex Dolls
We've all seen RealDolls, as the media became enamored of them when they discovered that dudes were paying at least $5,000 to put the hump on rubber ladies who look realistic in the way a Kardashian looks realistic, only without the inane banter. It's not that there's anything wrong with a sex doll in principle -- masturbation is a fine pastime, and there's a delightful industry out there to accommodate the myriad ways men and women might need to shake up their tweak-and-giggle stylings.
Wikipedia grossly tells us that sailors in the 17th century stitched ladies together out of old clothes to keep them company on long sea voyages, which basically means that old-timey sailors used to hump wadded-up T-shirts, which were probably pretty rough and bedecked with frills, as I assume all 17th century seawear was. It's unclear whether each sailor had his own haberdashed humpmunculus or if they just passed around the same crusty pair of stuffed pantaloons doused in cheap perfume, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that, for a time, a seafaring scarecrow was good enough to fuck, and now we have $5,000 futuristic latex women that look like plasticized corpses who have been caught forever at the cusp of asking what the hell you think you're doing with that bottle of lube in your hand.
For the same amount of money you spend on a realistic love doll, you could go out dozens upon dozens of times and actually meet real people, form relationships, have adventures, fall in love, converse, learn and grow as a human being, with other human beings. Or you could just hump your sweaty frame into a silicone wad of depravity, rutting your grubby little squirt shuttle against an orifice quality-inspected by the hands of a day laborer just a week before you got it in the mail and never even attempt to bond on any sort of level with another person. Or hell, maybe you do both -- point is, you spent $5,000 on a fake lady. Cut that shit out. Go out and be alive for a bit, man.