The chair I utilize to sit in front of my PC and not write Blackjack's Corner articles partially broke the other day. The chair has served me through several presidential administrations, and while I can tell the ergonomic design is probably on the National Chiropractic Institute's most wanted list, I don't feel like giving it up, even though a new chair of similar design would probably run me about 25 bucks, not a bad price when you consider how much I spend just on cigarettes these days.

The exact nature of the chair's malfunction involves the seat. Many, many moons ago, the seat was attached to the base by four rather sturdy bolts. Back in 1992, one of the bolts became separated from the rest of the unit after I hurtled it across the room in a rather infantile, teenage act of catharsis, an act that I never, ever engage in anymore unless I'm attempting to stop smoking.

But three bolts turned out to be quite sufficient to hold my butt in place, and the chair continued to provide years of quality service until last Saturday, at which time a second bolt decided it wasn't interested in doing it's job anymore and opted to break in half while I was leaning over to pet my cat. Next thing I knew I was on the floor laying next to my cat who, showing instinctual compassion for his injured master, began chewing on my hair.

In any case, I am now the owner of a chair with a seat that enjoyed sending me reeling onto the floor anytime I lean 30 degrees to the right. The up side: Any time I fall asleep in front of my computer I am instantly alerted.

Joe Runner bought his first pistol back in 2040, a first generation Warhawk with pressed plastchrome finish, trigger guard embedded laser sight, and the words "With This Bullet I Thee Wed" on the barrel. The dealer explained that the pistol had been used in a domestic shooting, ended up in evidence, and was sold back to the market after the trial was over. Joe winced a bit at the details of the story, but bought the weapon anyway, figuring it would be a poetic contrast to the high social ideals he held so dear.

It is now 20 years later and Joe has knocked the barrel of his Warhawk out of alignment for the 47th time. Placing it on the counter of his local gunsmith, he awaits the bad news. He knows the weapon may be beyond fixing this time, inasmuch as the barrel is now bent a full 90 degrees off center. He never should have used it to pistol whip that cybered Policlub hitman.

The gunsmith (and the GM) give Joe the bad news. It needs a replacement barrel, but the barrel will never line up as well as the old (a perpetual +1 modifier for the weapon). The gunsmith explains that he just got a large shipment of brand new Warhawks and offers Joe a 25% discount on any one he wants. Joe ponders the offer for a moment, then shakes his head. "Just fix the one I've got", he requests.

Joe's stuck with a gun that will never shoot as well as a new one; I'm stuck with a chair that is a degenerate of its original form. Joe's gonna keep his gun; I'm gonna keep my chair. Why? I don't know. We just like what we got.