Still a bit drowsy from his night's sleep, Howie stepped out of his front door, slid down the railing of the handicapped access ramp which was there for no discernable purpose, and stepped into his SUV. When I say stepped into, I am very much oversimplifying. Since the eight supersized tires put the door of the car about three feet in the air, the word 'stepped' in this context emcompasses the process of pushing one of the thousands of small, convenient buttons on his keychain to unfurl the stepladder, ascending the aforementioned ladder, entering the sixteen character keyword on the pad by the door handle, opening the door and finally stepping in. Howie inserted the key and turned, which not only turned on the engine and began sputtering ridiculous amounts of emissions into the already-brown sky, but also switched on the onboard computer and lattee machine. As the machinary prepared him his usual, it told him where he should be going that day, exactly what would be the best way to do so, and reminded him that we are currently on the mauve alert for terrorist attacks. This level was somewhere between very high and certain death for all, and had been moved up that morning after the secretary of state tripped on an inconveniently placed M&M in the doorway of his office. The cleaning lady was currently in a holding facility awaiting her trial.

A crunch was heard as Howie backed out of the driveway over his already- smashed mailbox and into the street, where he practically brushed the curb on both sides. The computer cordially reminded him not to back over his mailbox a sixty-seventh time tomorrow, but Howie had trained himself long ago to block out that friendly yet nagging voice. The sound of Beethoven's ninth symphony translated into a series of wholly agrivating beeps filled the cab, and Howie began rummaging around in one of his bags. Finally he produced the culprit cell phone, and put it to his ear.

"Yello?"

"Johnsen, you're twenty-eight seconds late for work!"

"I know sir, my shaving took a half second longer because the machine was calibrating. It won't happen again."

"It better not. . ."

As Howie's boss continued into a speech about responsibility, another of Howie's phones sounded, and he answered it. Holding a phone to each ear and his coffee between his knees, he good-naturedly brushed off the salesman and smashed into the curb a few times. Of course, the curb didn't even register with him, with the smooth ride of this particular SUV even an obstacle course could feel like a peaceful country road. If such a thing existed.

By the time Howie reached his office, he was talking on three phones and balancing a breakfast of hot cakes on his right knee. He barely noticed he was going in through the wrong side of the entrance gate, and didn't feel a thing as he ran over the Severe Tire Damage sign and the spikes that the sign cautioned him about. They didn't even put a scratch in his numerous tires.

Still carrying on several phone conversations, Howie descended from his mammoth vehicle and into the building. Once in his cubicles he discarded all seven of his cellular phones in a corner and flipped on the tiny TV concealed under his desk. More casual reports of millions of deaths from our bombs, followed by commercials for things we simply cannot live without. Another average day creeps slowly by.