I don't know when the laminating got out of hand.

I got the laminating machine a few days back, to laminate some signs for a trade show. It's pleasing. You put things in there and they come out indelibly shrink-wrapped in tight, thick, clear plastic, preserving them for future generations as surely as a bug in amber.

The first things to go in were the signs. Before lamination, these were just little colored slips of paper, folded back onto themselves to become two-sided. After lamination, they were credit card-like. I even scratched one on my beard stubble, like in that old razor commercial, and I'm pleased to report that it made that satisfying "skkkkrkkk!" sound we all know and love, bringing to mind visions of out of control rollercoasters smashing through mountains of "Foamy" Shave.

Then a few business cards. You just push the lamination envelope into the machine a little, and it's sucked through like your car through a car wash.

Some memos soon followed. My library card. Plush toys. The K section of the phone book. 47 Gummi Bears.

My socks may not be as comfortable now, but I am now assured they will never, ever need darning.

I put my hair through the laminator soon after. I couldn't get it back out, but that is really of small importance.

I think it was about then that I put the first of the lunch meat in. Imagine it, salami preserved pristine, never to rot. All varieties of pressed meat, held forever in laminated limbo. I would stave off entropy and laugh in the face of decay. Hear me, decomposers! You shall not have my turkey bologna!

There are those who have called my methods unsound, but they've never felt the rush of raw power you feel when you've got that plastic envelope in your hand. The temptation to play God is pretty strong my friends, pretty strong.