he invention has been creating a buzz around the world before it was even revealed. Its inventors and investors guaranteed it would be the next big thing. And it’s finally revealed—the Segway HT, or Human Transporter, and it will forever change the world. Especially America, where Americans are barely walking on their own feet or engaging in any natural cardio exercise at all. The Segway HT promises to reduce American voluntary movement by up to 100%.

The Segway was invented by Dean Kamen, and its being hailed as the world’s first dynamic self-balancing human transporter.

In a recent commune poll, when asked about the major problems facing their lives, most Americans responded, in popular order: Terrorism, natural biological illnesses such as cancer and AIDS, lack of income and jobs with high mobility, medical insurance skyrocketing, the uncertain global economy, and random slasher murders. “Walking� received less than 1% of the poll, outranked by waking up nude outdoors and alien invasions.

Through a technology coined Dynamic Stabilization by the Segway LLC company, gyroscopes and tilt sensors calculate the device user’s center of gravity 100 times every second, adjusting accordingly and creating a sense of balance that makes the Segway safer to use than, say, a skateboard or surfboard with wheels. The device is also constructed to sustain the weight of fat people, who will likely be the first major market of the product outside of industry.

The Segway HT is now available for corporate and industrial usage in plants and offices, and will likely make its way to the general consumer by 2002, though those who use the product are expected to be subject to severe ridicule until the Segway HT implants itself in the consciousness of all America.

Once available, the Segway HT will retail for approximately $8,000. In contrast, even most expensive brands of shoes retail for less than $100.

If the device becomes a mainstay of American culture, for use beyond just yuppies and trendy pricks, scientists predict a drop in pollution, an average weight gain of over 80 lbs. per person, and the blood of Americans to contain about 40% butter.

oung musician and published author Jewel surprised few Friday when she revealed she's battled with pretension all her life.

"It's not something you want to admit, even to yourself," Jewel said in her calm, waterfall-like voice at a press conference Friday. "Your soul is kind, gentle, and without acclaim, and then tiny threads of a black spider wrap you up in pretension. It is a disease of the fiercest… uh… pony."Friends and confidants knew for years, yet kept her secret because they thought Jewel could handle it.

"The next thing I knew," said Bill Barber, a session player and friend, "she was on VH-1 against a white background reading snippets of poetry like she's a supermodel Maya Angelou. That's when I knew she had no control of the problem."

Even then, all were reluctant to speak up for fear of damaging her career or their own. An attempt at an intervention in March of 2000 disintegrated into a hootenanny and Native American bonfire ritual, and several members walked out nearly as pretentious as the one they came to help.

"Pretension is sometimes hereditary, but more often results from years of unearned attention festering, cultivating itself into the bacteria egous extremis," stated Dr. Simone Callow, Professor of Pretentious Studies at Columbia University. "Often through no fault of their own a victim can start out a perfectly healthy human being, and then before you know it they're taking themselves so seriously they're publishing their own autobiography, or accepting awards for ridiculously minimal accomplishments."

Pretension, though often confined to those with higher-income households without geographic boundary, is unfairly distributed throughout Hollywood and the New York art scene.

"There's no telling how many have it in Hollywood," Dr. Callow said. "When you pay people millions of dollars for doing virtually nothing, it makes for a breeding ground for pretension."

Jewel herself, recently releasing the new album This Way, has halted tour plans to check into the Martha Stewart Clinic For Pretension in Connecticut in hopes of treating her condition.

"A dark spot has begun to wander across my heart," she said with stilted, distant voice. "Until I corner this blemish, collect it in my cupped hands and whistle it away to the wind, I cannot share my gift with the world."

"Great Burping Furbies!" screamed the Dane wearing the hat of flames. Whoozat? Whazis? Time takes a moment to shave it's kneecaps. Everything slows, like molasses out a chipmunk's nose. You remember the time you were on the Ferris Wheel at the fair, and your great grandma barfed sawdust over the side, and when the wind kicked up it looked like a swarm of whiteflies chasing a fat little boy through the Midway. Good Gremlin Gonads, what am I thinking this for? Now? I need medical punctuation! An apostrophe! An apostle! Someone take me to Sea World, and don't spare the pistons!

No no no, them teeter-totters won't get you to the hospital today. Them's union totters. Jimmeny Jumpropes! Look at the headlamps on that brunette! Wait. I smell burning man-hair. Am I still on fire? Great Tidy Wipers, I am! Shitbells and Josephine! Somebody get me a Handiwipe and a Shasta! I'm too young to provide heat for cooking and recreation!

You remember the time you saw a donkey catch on fire at a propane-tank-throwing contest when you were just a boy. Good Lord Wencelas, was that donkey meat stringy. You never forgot the look on that donkey's face when he looked at you, all on-fire and the like, and recited word for word a report you gave in the third grade from a book about asparagus.

Suddenly you regret using the fire extinguisher to frost those giant mini-wheats you made in the garage. You consider buying an off-season airline ticket to Bort, a small town in Manitoba that surely has snow by this time of the year. But remember what happened the last time you tried to buy a ticket while on fire? You might as well try ordering ranch dressing on your applesauce. Damn damn damn.

You finally understand all them paintins with the meltin' clocks and horseheads and whatnot. No wonder them giraffes was on fire, they must've been trying to hook up a paintball gun to a lawnmower, too! Clever goddamn giraffes! Damn if it isn't hot in here.

Right about then you scream somethin' in Spanish and dive headfirst into the picklin' tank, but turns out them cucumbers is more flammables than they look on the radio, cause the whole damn contraption goes up like a ricepaper hut on Arson Day. Sweet Stammering Dandies! Nedder's having lunch with Joan of Arc!

Now most usual times you're on fire, you have some revelations about the meanings of life or how to cut them lawn with a helicopter but there's rarely enough time to put but two of those to use before some well-meaning passer-by douses you with a garden-hose (or, if you wander into a football stadium, them huge buckets of Gatorade) and you have to start her all over again. Damn-jabney. Sometimes there aren't enough hours in a day.

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