I’ve recently delved into the wonderful world of Doctor Who. I’ve been resisting this for a while, because I find that time travel is usually a wonderful excuse for stupid deus ex machina. But they seem to be doing fine. And then like any stable adult-child, I bought a sonic screwdriver for my own to play with.
If you’re not a Doctor Who fan, all you need to know is that the sonic screwdriver is his hand sized device that opens things and diagnoses things and tracks things. It works entirely the way I think technological devices should work. They never even seem to explain what goes on, and I don’t care.
I bought my very own sonic screwdriver with the express purpose of pointing it at people’s crotches and making the ‘wowowowowowowow’ noise. This is a fantastic thing and will never grow old.
Many thanks to the cast of 100 Years of Lizards for letting me objectify their crotches. Check out what’s going on at Sexy Tales Comedy.
But the fun doesn’t even there, no sir. There is endless fun to be had with automatically opening things, like train doors. The mingled looks of pity and fear you’ll get from the rush hour public is totally worth the rush of power you’ll feel from owning a fully functioning screwdriver.
Furthermore, it makes the standard, pedestrian, frankly boring tasks of the day so much fun! Just think about that click the kettle makes when its boiled. Point your sonic screwdriver at it, and you’ll feel like a wizard! Sorry, space wizard.
LACK OF STARS:
Bridget has this whole theory that the sonic screwdrivers are accurate representations of each Doctor’s penis. This has made my awesome fun into something perverted and weird. It’s also given rise to the idea of the vagina being similar to a Tardis. It’s bigger on the inside, when use it to travel to wonderful places, and it’s always better to bring a sexy companion with you.
So, the night after I wrote this post, I went to my friend Lachie’s house, because my other friend Jimmy is back from Chile! This is wonderful, but means nothing to this story except flavour. We are standing out in the cold wind, telling tales of adventures ‘Do you live in the Chilean version of Wollongong?’ When we hear a rustling in the tree above us. Someone asks if it is the house cat, or perhaps a possum. Because I’m a jerk and the novelty hasn’t worn off, I point my Sonic Screwdriver up into the tree in order to “verify” what it is. The green light hits the possum, at exactly the same time its stream of pungent urine hits my face. Worst. Timelord. Ever.