"Cyborg Theory"

Still, I was caught unawares at my brother-in-law’s house the other day. We were discussing the usual array of sporting news. Then he turned serious.

“You saw the Terminator movies, right?” he asked.

“Sure. First two were good; last one sucked.”

“Right.” He nodded and looked absently in the distance. “What if it’s real?”

I smiled and looked at him closely. “What if what is real? Cyborgs?” He stayed serious. “You, uh, pulling my leg?”

“I mean it: what if there are Cyborgs? And what if they are already taking over the world?”

“You been to Wal-Mart lately?” I asked.

He looked hurt. “What the hell does that have to do it?”

I didn’t tell him I thought he may have picked up the National Enquirer while waiting to buy some beer and was now spewing the lunatic contents back to me. I didn’t want to offend him, so instead I said: “They’ve got a sale on mowers.”

“You out of your mind? I’m talking about the destruction of the human race and you’re telling me about a lawnmower sale?” I wondered who in fact was out of his mind.

“Sorry.”

He sighed. “Jesus, man.” He seemed to have lost his track of thought, then resumed: “So, yeah, anyway, I’m serious--what if Schwarzenegger really is a Cyborg?”

“You mean he’s fooled us all along, and we’ve been watching a Cyborg playing a Cyborg?”

“Precisely,” my brother-in-law said.

“Right.” I wondered, now how does this work: do you dial 911 when someone goes berserk, or is there another emergency number for just such times?

“Think about it: you’ve seen him campaign, right? He’s got thatbperpetually frozen smile on his face all the time. Is that natural?”

He had a point. Still. “He’s Austrian,” I said. “Those guys have amazing discipline and quirky habits. Think of Hitler and his crazy moustache.”

“Forget about Hitler. Listen--I went to Vienna last summer,” he said. “Remember?” He had taken my sister there for a wedding anniversary. “And I’ve never seen any Viennese smiling like that.”

“Well…” I said.

“And Bush? You see the way he smiles? It’s not a smile, man, it’s a frozen smirk.”

“You mean…”

“Yeah, and Cheney? The man always looks the same, always, like a wax figure.”

“Yeah, but is that enough to think these guys are Cyborgs?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but listen, I’ve got a journalist buddy in Washington, you know what he told me? One day they were grilling Bush about not finding Osama or Saddam, and he said, those guys aren’t the enemy. Of course, everyone was surprised to hear that. So, he continued, no, friends, the enemy is John Connor.”

“John Connor?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yeah. Man, I think we’re late. They’ve taken over already. All these laws to destroy the environment, kill the poor, it’s just subtle Cyborg strategy. Why kill everyone violently, when you can do it with the peoples’ assistance? See what I mean?”

“Holy shit.” I repeated. “So…now what do we do?”

“We’ve got to find John Connor, man, that’s our only hope. Schwarzenegger can’t be President, but so what, we already have a Cyborg there. We’ve got to find Connor, any way we can.”

That’s how things stand: we are frantically searching for John Conner, the elusive savior. And for you, readers, if you know his whereabouts, please, urge him to come out of hiding. It is time to save the day. My only fear is: what if he is in the same cave with Osama, Saddam and Elvis? Listening to Elvis’ velvety crooning, there’s no way he’s ever gonna come out. In which case, friends, we are doomed.