Tuesday is stuff-the-oldthink-papers-into-the-memory-hole day! Get rid of those pesky outdated predictions of increased chocorations with the new Home History Incinerator! Actually, it looks more like some alien device set up for mind control.

Hideously unflattering as that outfit may have been, many a husband may have tapped it with a thick fingernail and asked the wife why she couldn't wear something like this around the house. To which he might be told she wondered why he couldn't get a job that paid enough to get a heater-washer like this. Then he'd get mad because she knew how things were down at the plant. Promotions were scarce and they always went to veterans. Was it his fault he had bad eyes? Was it? They have to hold that against a man his whole life, just because he flunked his induction? And I suppose you think I'm less of a man because I didn't go. Well, I may need glasses but I can see fine enough, and I see how you look at me some times. Oh, I see alright.

Then the next day the strange device appears in their house, and it seems to talk to them; the doors open by themselves, and it says things, but it says things in your head. Every day she puts clothes into it, and every day a shirt, some pants, some socks - they're all the same yellow. Everyone on the block seems to be wearing the same yellow. All the color drains out of the world except for that yellow. You think you should care, and in a way you remember when you did, but she's wearing that outfit, and that seems enough. Are the kids wearing yellow too?

Do you have kids? You seem to remember kids. Then you don't.