5 New Products That Prove Humanity Is Doomed.

“Food starch” is a catchall term for any kind of starch. Corn starch, tapioca starch, hobo starch. Has the word “starch” lost meaning for you yet? I just had to Google it. In a nutshell, American Shreds, and their nefarious international cousins like Italian Shreds, are edible Play-Doh tidbits flavored like cheese, emblazoned with the warning that they are not designed to melt, so please don’t expect to make a ghetto pizza with them. They’re just going to sit there, repugnant little rubbery tubers in yellow or white, mocking your inability to afford real cheese, which doesn’t actually cost that much more if you buy it as a brick and grate it yourself.

Even vegan cheese melts; they designed it that way because it’s really the only redeeming feature cheese has. It’s a major part of the cheese-eating experience. These insincere shreds of deception don’t do anything, and their existence is literally as a placeholder, a mock-up to trick someone (clearly not the person eating them) into believing that actual cheese making and consumption has occurred. To what end? Who benefits from American Shreds? This is the food equivalent of the Matrix. Why is it happening? This lie only makes everything infinitely more complicated for all involved. It has exactly none of the benefits of real cheese — there’s no calcium, it doesn’t melt, there’s no way it doesn’t taste like an old-timey muscle man’s back after a strenuous day of lifting those big, round dumbbells — and I would wager a tidy sum that you can shit these things out completely unadulterated, because if the power of a microwave oven can’t deform them, what chance do your bowels have?

I understand that the world is awash with lazy people. If I could have tricked the people at Helping Hands into giving me a helper monkey that could have typed this article for me while I dictated it from the tub, I would have. Also, when you finish this article, go to that site — it’s so awesome, you don’t even know. But laziness should never be the reason you shit yourself to death. If a doctor has to call your time of death and then scribble “shat toaster chicken until his insides became his outsides” on your chart, you fucked up. Eat a Hot Pocket if you hate yourself. Microwave a slice of bologna on a piece of white bread and weep all night while you eat the slimy thing, alone as you so obviously are, but then wake up tomorrow and try again, because you didn’t eat fucking toaster chicken.

The need for convenience, or rather the perceived need for it, has pushed a lot of innovations that most of us don’t really need at all. Wanting to take matters into your own hands has led to the DIY sex toy boom, home tattooing, home bikini waxing, and other destructive foolishness that will leave you alone to writhe in agony because you chose to do something at home that someone else obviously should have done for you.

You can buy a home kit for only $27 at Walmart with an additional lab fee to process your results. So basically, the cost of being a Maury guest and not bothering to space out shots on goal from multiple dudes is about $150. Also, the box says, in an italic script, “for alleged father, mother, and child.” That’s the most haunting line you’ll read on any single product in a Walmart pharmacy section.

We live in a world where it’s now necessary, on some level, or at least more convenient, for people to go out and pick up Cheetos while confirming the genetic identity of their child. This says nothing positive about our culture whatsoever.

The fry holder does exactly what it says it does — it holds your fries. You go through a drive-thru, a high school student who is just learning what hate really means hands you a greasy, salty cardboard pocket full of fried potato sticks, you put that pocket in your fry holder, and voila, no more messy incidents of improperly held fries flying around the cabin of your automobile, maybe impregnating your passengers or flying sharp-side first into their ears and making them sound-blind.

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.

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.