"Steve Austin, astronaut. A man barely alive. Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."
- Oscar Goldman
I'm having my own personal six million dollar man day, as I'm in dire need of rebuilding.
(Fortunately, we have the technology.)
Up first, I'll enter a glowing blue box which shoot me with UVB rays for fifteen minutes while Huey Lewis plays quietly in the background. Next, a trained professional will lighten the dark parts of my hair and darken the light bits and then shape it into an updated version of what Farrah Fawcett's 'do looked like when she was married to Steve Austin himself, all while I thumb through outdated copies of People magazine.
Then I move to a different place where technicians will point lasers at me, killing follicles on contact because I am someday going to try out for the show Survivor and I'm not going to be that asshole running around picking coconuts and fixing shelter roofs while showing 20 million viewers my simian armpits.
(If you have high-def TV, you'll thank me for having made the effort.)
(Another selling point for bringing me on the show is I won't already look as though I'm starving once I get there, so at no point will you take morbid fascination in counting every knob in my spine and each rib.)
(And why, why, why Burnett & Co. do you keep casting anorexics? What were you all thinking when you chose that Courtney girl for the China season? She started off at 90 pounds. 39 days of rice, grubs, and contaminated groundwater did her no favors.)
(Although maybe since she was already anorexic, her hair growth was retarded? I recall being horrified that her femur was smaller than my forearm, but at no point did I find myself willing the crew to smuggle her a Lady Bic. In which case, I reiterate that I'd be the perfect pick because I won't be all stubble-y.)
(Seriously, though, Mark Burnett, do you really want these little actress/models to die on your islands? Because someone is going to kick off soon, I promise you.)
Um, where was I?
Oh, yes. Finally, a doctor will take a series of tiny needles and plunge them into my head, injecting me with poison. Not so much that I'll croak, but enough to quiet those muscles and keep me from frowning for the next 3-4 months in which case everyone will remark, "Hey, you're in an uncharacteristically good mood," for I won't have my face set in its usual scowl. But the joke will be on them for I am always moderately cranky! Ha, ha!
And that's my day. Which... fine. Maybe I won't be the six million dollar man as I'm not actually becoming bionic. Also, I'm pretty much not going to be stronger or faster and the idea of better is fairly subjective.
But I will be smoother, browner, and slightly less hirsute.
So I'll settle for being the six hundred dollar man.
