Earlier this afternoon, I discovered I was an expert. Apparently, with Helium's blessing, I can claim expertise on anything and everything. So I do. I am now a poet laureate, parenting guru, humor aficionado, master of suspense, and resident authority on robot turtle embryos. Which is why I'd like to compose a whimsical poem about the mystery of birthing a cyborg reptile. It can't be that difficult. I'm a genius, right?

Symbiotic turtle cyborg
I see future's demise in your limpid pools
From one womb to another shell
Quartz erodes into sand beneath your ticklish toes

Did the world need such a guru? Do I fill a need? Wikipedia offers no one else in the field of automated turtle poetry. This could be because I'm not properly researching the subject matter. It's quite possible a query on automated turtle poetry would only provide options on creating turtle poetry automatically. Syntax is paramount. Sales tax is 9.25% in Tennessee.

Why is it so crucial for Helium to provide so many experts? Isn't ignorance bliss? Why shouldn't the converse also be true? Logically, wouldn't wisdom be a burden? What does logic have to do with any of this? How many consecutive questions can I list in one paragraph before the running gag expires? One more? No?

I find it most disappointing that my field of expertise will be rated - most likely by neophytes in the field of robotics. Even if they're well-versed in theory and practice of electronics, how many of them have spent countless August hours playing with Bunson burners and Matchbox cars? Who among the masses (besides me) carved their imaginary girlfriend's initials into a juice box during seventh grade lunch? I don't recall any other prodigies sitting at the cafeteria table. All I remember is the laughing faces as fruit punch spilled into my lap. However, those and other experiences allow me to pose this question: who's laughing now? They also let me suspect this answer: not you. You're confused. You have a problem understanding where I'm going. Good. That's the first step.

Your problem is my problem. I need to clearly communicate how and why this article deals with needs. Satire: Need is the niche I selected. By stating it outright inside the article, does it thereby promote my chances that it relates to Satire: Need? I don't think so.

What's my point? Refrigerator poetry earned significant riches for its creator. Think of it as a game wherein you follow an aimless train of thought until you arrive at a terminal. Make sure to check your baggage tags carefully to avoid opening an embarrassing collection of Danny DeVito bobbleheads. When you finally crack open the correct suitcase, arrange your socks by color in alphabetical order, starting with blue. (Should you encounter any misfortunate black socks, separate them and place one in each dryer at your closest all-night Laundromat.) After you complete this bafflingly trivial excursion, ask yourself why people contemplate their navels, how that affects your personal salvation, and how close to the minimum 600 words I am. Eighty-nine to go. Less now.

I'll restate: what's my point? How can I reach any conclusion besides the easiest? There isn't a point. Websites don't create geniuses. Any claim to the contrary is downright silly. I should know. I am, after all, the resident expert.

May you rest comfortably in your own nooks and crannies, may your writings make more sense than mine, and may the remaining Satire articles have something to do with satire.

What now? I suppose there's nothing left to do except return to my underground Silicon Valley aquarium and tend to my children.

Learn more about this author, Jim Becker.
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