manunderstress.com

It is with great sadness that I report that my George Foreman (aka. “grilla”) has finally passed away. It has served me well over these past 5 or so years that I have owned it, doling out the salmon or occasional burgs with quickness and ease. Oh, and the sandwiches. I always would forget to make sandwiches with it, and they were so good, panini pressed style. It worked like a champ, well into it’s golden years, even after it lost bun warmer functionality.

And honestly, now that my once sleek, sexy and stylish Honda Civic, has paid it’s historical dues (oh the stories it could tell…), becoming a dingy, clunky, transmission-challenged husk of a former supermodel in the process, I feel as if I need to commemorate this aging, passing and renewing of technologies. For there is no denying our own technological mortality. Like these gadgets, will will reach a physical end, sooner, or later. The doctor said I have high cholesterol. I looked at him like you look at someone that tells you your shoes suck. I was oddly, insulted. What did he mean high cholesterol? Is he saying I’m old? But there’s no denying the entropy of physiology. And in a strange way, the death of “grilla” is a mini-death to help me prepare for my own. Thanks, little buddy.

Now as I contemplate purchasing a new George Foreman, perhaps the one with built-in burger chef intelligence, and a new ride, something with clairvoyant brakes and noetic suspension, I usher in a new mini-era of immortality, the second coming of me.