You'll find this guy on his couch, sporting an ironic t-shirt with a delivery-food stain of some kind. He "commuted" minutes earlier by rolling out of bed and over to his laptop in his shoebox-sized Brooklyn (Williamsburg) apartment littered with empty Redbull cans. He came to Gizmodo 9 months ago after deciding that "traditional media" wasn't edgy enough (read: required pants and didn't like it when he powered down walls of TVs). He only puts on pants in order to put electronics down them, and he gets very upset if you mess with his Star Wars legos. He genuinely believes that the hot PR girl is into him and not just trying to get a post. He overuses the word "fail."

OK, so I might commute from my bed to my desk, sure. And yeah, I order a lot of delivery. But I live in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, not Williamsburg! And PR girls love me because I'm charming! Go ahead, ask any of them! Also, I don't wear glasses. Fail, Best Buy. Major fail.

Update: It looks like he pulled the post for some reason. Here's a screencap so you know I didn't make this all up:

Update 2: Looks like his post is back up with a new ass-covering intro. We knew you were a good sport, Barry. [Barry Judge]

At first I remember loving the idea. Those PJs were unassuming, but warm. Comforting. The itchy brown fabric was completely tolerable because it offered me spacesuit-like cocoon protection against those cold New England winters.

The gloriously padded feet sported rubber bottoms that provided me with just the right amount of grip for taking hairpin turns at the bottom of the foyer stairs and into the family room. Indeed, where socks would have sent me tumbling into the family's ancient grandfather clock near the front door, these pajamas caught firmly, and allowed me to perform running maneuvers around the house that were the envy of my less fortunate and less pajama-fied best friends. I trusted that clothing absolutely and completely. In hindsight, such naivety was probably my downfall.

You see, I was young. The contraption on the front of these pajamas was alien to me. The zipper. I didn't "get" it or how it managed to take two separate pieces of fabric and join them together. So, my mom had to help me get dressed.

At first, the arrangement was uneventful. Mom would hold up the pajamas with the feet like a NASA technician, and I would jump into them, eager to get it all over with so I could bolt down the stairs and orbit around the house at close to 10 mph. But before that, I would have to turn 180 degrees so mom could lock me in by pulling up the zipper. This is how things went for the first few months of winter. Jump in, turn, zip up, run away. Safe and sound.

But then one day, as I vaulted into those welcoming PJs with the feet, something was different. Perhaps mom had a bad day at the office. Or maybe it was the fact that it gets dark at 4 p.m. in Massachusetts during the winter, and she was depressed. I have no idea. Whatever it was, it had distracted mom to the point where she wasn't taking into account all the variables in the task she was about to perform.

Son in PJs yet? Check.
Turn to face me? Check.
Grasp zipper? Check.
Execute zipper pull? Go for launch.

Missing in that checklist, of course, was any mention of my penis or its location at the time.

Now, before we get to the part that sends roughly 60% of Gizmodo's audience into a pathetic fetal position, a brief aside. Many of you might think calling a mere zipper a "machine" is as big a stretch as any, but to that I say you've definitely never experienced what I, Ben Stiller's character in There's Something About Mary, or millions of other unfortunate men have experienced throughout history since the invention of the blasted zipper. Or you're lying about having a penis.

Whatever your story is, I deliver this aside about "the machines" because, believe me, I'd take a run in with a T-600—flayed skin and personality disorder and all—over another run-in with that zipper any day of the week. Those teeth. That unforgiving gnashing sound as the mechanism slowly grated its way northward toward my junk. The muffled, organic yank the zipper made as it bit into my flesh. The Pinch. The—

Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I seem to have fallen out of my chair.

Anyway, to this day, some 20+ years later, I still subconsciously think of this story when I put on a pair of jeans, or do up a pair of slacks. Button flies are a godsend, in my opinion, and I was forever a changed man after that day. A little more tentative; a little more cautious. Especially with you know what.

Everything works fine now, I assure you, but those feeted pajamas went into the garbage that day so fast the plastic bag melted against the can. My mood at the time was the antithesis of that final scene from Terminator 2. Whereas John Connor wept, my relief at seeing that damned invention heading into oblivion was palpable.

The big bag of ice felt pretty damn good too.

Machines Behaving Deadly: A week exploring the sometimes difficult relationship between man and technology.

The good news is that most of those found to be defective were older models—42, specifically, out of 50 found duds. But the majority of tasers in service in Canada and elsewhere likely have a few miles on them (I've seen the Wire, I know how police budgets work!), so this is still not good news.

The study is related to an ongoing investigation of the death of a man at a Vancouver airport in 2007, who was tased 5 times by police. Which has to be a rough way to go. So if you're in a situation where a tasing seems likely, make sure you check the model number in the cop's hand before you get hit with the juice! Yikes I say!

Last year, a different Canadian study found that one-third of those tased need medical attention afterwards. Coincidence? [Edmonton Journal via Fark, photo by Hermanturnip/Flickr]

They're back thanks to the unfortunately named Jarts In Your Heart web site, which sells the banned items thanks to a little bit of legal gymnastics. You see, since lawn darts (or "Jarts" as they're known here) transform so easily from an innocent backyard game into deadly weapon depending on who's holding them, Jarts In Your Heart has to sell the plastic fins and metal tips separately. Sad.

Jarts in the Heart isn't bitter about the game's fate in the slightest, of course:

"These Jarts are NOT toys. They should be kept out of reach from children. They should be treated as you would a bow and arrow. These have and will puncture a person. If you have the IQ of a monkey please don't buy lawn darts. I will not sell to anyone under 18. I do not have many sets left so when they're gone they're gone [...] Jarts in Your Heart will not be held liable for any death or injury caused by these Jarts. By purchasing from Jarts in your heart you agree to these terms. Again, I can not stress this enough. If you're an idiot just don't buy Jarts, stick to playing Horseshoes, Baggo or that ladder ball game."

The total package is $65. The snarky, snotty product description above is free. Let's be safe out there. [Jarts In Your Heart via CrunchGear]

Amazingly enough, these DIYers fitted the sex toy right over the blade. Yup...it was still attached. And no, this didn't happen in Germany. It happened in Maryland where the woman was medevaced to Prince George's County Hospital. The good news is that the woman has been released from the hospital and is recovering at home from her injuries. Let that be a lesson to you—HGTV is a good place to pick up ideas for the bedroom, but not for the bedroom. You know what I'm saying? [NBCNY]

Even the rendered photos of this fireplace show fictional living spaces where this fireplace is disguised with plants and boxes. The Lounge Fire folks are seriously not hiding the fact that they'd like this invention to join the office floor trapdoor as items most likely to be found in a mastermind's secret castle.

Still, if you're the kind of host who enjoys giving your guests a lasting impression, this $1,621 fireplace comes in a variety of woods, metals and other materials. The third degree burns are, obviously, completely free of charge. [Sendhen via Born Rich]

[Break via Jalopnik]

Been playing with the BB Storm. Shockingly bad. I mean embarrassingly awful. Such a disappointment. Rushed out unfinished. What a pity.

Yes, I blame n'works more than RIM. Problems are terrible lag: inaccurate t'screen, awful, slow and fiddly text input. I SO wanted to like it.

Plus the GPS maps won't work - issue with BIS connections. I see from forums postings this is widespread in the UK. iPhone killer? Ha!

Apparently, his views are so respected among gadget lovers in the Perfidious Albion that BBC's dot.life Rory Cellan-Jones thinks he may crush Vodafone's Storm marketing efforts on his own. Stephen has a different view, but agrees he may have an influence and reiterates his "throw it out the window" review of the Storm.

Crumbs Rory! Do I have the power to kill a gadget? Of course, like all pusillanimous people I enjoy the idea that I could make a gadget - but break one?

If I really thought my influence was that great it might make me a little wary of being quite so definite and it would probably force me to be more specific about all the features/pricing/services, as a responsible tech journalist should be. As it is, I hope people know I am no more than an enthusiastic, passionate amateur (I'm including the French sense of the word amateur - lover). It gives me no pleasure to be negative about the BB Storm and I know that many people have been looking forward to receipt of theirs and were very disheartened to hear my loud disappointment. But, honestly: play with the Storm for two days as I have and you will admire my patience at not throwing it out of the window... I do like the Bold though. Could live with that. But to return to your point. The net should make us all equal in our influence. Okay - more equal.

Having only played with a Storm for a few seconds at the office, I don't have a solid verdict like him, Matt or Pogue (who also hates it). But my gut feeling is that if I had to use that clickety-clack touchscreen for two days, I would have not thrown it out the window. I would have crushed it with a hammer, then dip the remains in a sulphuric acid bucket, set it on fire. And then throw it out the window into the Hudson river. [BBD dot.life]

Rage Wireless Guitars Used with Popular Video Gaming System Recalled Due to Chemical Burn Risk

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, in cooperation with the firm named below, today announced a voluntary recall of the following consumer product. Consumers should stop using recalled products immediately unless otherwise instructed.

Name of Product: Rage Wireless Guitars

Units: About 57,000

Manufacturer/Distributor: Performance Designed Products LLC, of Sherman Oaks, Calif.

Hazard: A circuit board defect can cause AA batteries used in the guitar to leak if the batteries are installed incorrectly, posing a risk of chemical burns to consumers.

Incidents/Injuries: Performance Designed Products has received one report of a burn to a consumer.

Description: The Rage Wireless Guitar controller is designed to be used on the Nintendo Wii system. The guitar is blue or white and is 31 inches long. The guitar contains battery-operated LED-lighted fret buttons that go up the neck of the guitar.

Sold at: Mass merchandisers and specialty retailers nationwide from June 2008 through September 2008 for between $40 and $60.

Manufactured in: China

Remedy: Consumers should stop using the wireless guitar game controllers immediately and return them to the place where purchased for a full refund. Do not contact or return the product to Nintendo.

Consumer Contact: For additional information, contact Performance Designed Products at (800) 331-3844 between 7 a.m. and 9 p.m. CT Monday through Friday, or visit the firm’s Web site at www.pdp.com

[CPSC via Wired Gadget Lab]

See? Everything is completely normal within the Japanese beauty industry. Both products are priced below $10 and require a mere three minutes a day for full effectiveness. [Trends in Japan]

Here, the initial chutes that position the craft for the main chutes' test (so, not a part of the final system) failed shortly after being dropped from a C-17 cargo plane at 25,000 feet. As you can see, it all goes downhill from there, terminating in "a landing that severely damaged the test mock-up." Well said, NASA—I'm guessing any test dummies inside for pressure measurements had to be scraped off the desert floor with a knife. [NASA - Thanks Travis!]

[CollegeHumor]

Shockingly, his pulse rate went up a lot. That's about all the science they had the budget for, apparently, as they spent all the rest of their money on the hilarious ball-on-ball CGI animation and showing the poor idiot taking the shot about 25 times from different angles. This is reality TV at its best, folks: trying to justify intentionally nailing a guy in the balls with science and then forgetting to, you know, do anything scientific. [Glumbert]

According to the Deputy DA in Portland, Ryan Wittman had made comments to witnesses saying he wanted his child "to be tough." When first questioned, the dad's genius response was to say that the two of them had been "playing peekaboo." Hmm, that'll be the special version of kilovolt peekaboo we've never heard of, then.

The 100,000-volt weapon Wittman used is, apparently, more powerful than police tasers. Wittman's excuse for the incidents? Arguments with his wife. It took just 20 minutes for the court to decide that Wittman should be sent down for four years. [CNN]

Here's the Dream Lover 2000 remote control unit, letting you give the guy a warning, or you can go ahead with the shocks to keep that schlong where it belongs. You can even decide if it makes an annoying beeping noise or not, adding to the overall unpleasantness. But geez, this thing must hurt. [Dream Lover 2000]