So I’m watching this Rube Goldberg contraption. It’s the shizzle. It rifles through Newton’s wastebasket, looking for new Laws of Motion after the first three aren’t enough to get the job done. It uses hydraulics, and electromotive force, and combustion, and every darn thing they can lay their hands on in the modern snouthouse. If it’s available at the mall, it’s integrated into the action. The hammer blow to turn on the power strip and start the fan is inspired.
Then, after 6 full minutes of glorious time wasting, you introduce some sort of porcine progeny, a water balloon, and what sounds to my ear like an off-camera F-bomb, followed by a mumbled punchline that spoils the joke.
Here’s to you, Mr.Theresnowayi’mgoingoutsideinslippersandatoqueandshovelingthedrivewaythefootballgameisonandijustgotmysnuggiearrangedjustso.
See, this guy gets it. You buy radio-controlled toys for your kids at Christmastime, and let them play with them for several minutes. Then they get bored and go back to playing Clash of Clans on their smartphones. Bwahahaha. Now it’s your turn. …
I’m not sure what I was expecting. When you call something a Rube Slowberg machine, you’ve entered a world of new expectations. Exactly how slow will it be? Will I be alive by the time it finishes? Will any of my grandchildren live to see how it actually ends? Will the inevitable heat-death of the universe interfere with the Rube Slowberg machine, or is that part of it?