The mere whisper of "Dyson" conjures up three powerful entities: Freeman Dyson, brilliant eccentric physicist; Yale's Stanley Milgram and his faux "Dyson pain machine;" and "while vacuuming his home, James Dyson became frustrated with the lousy suction of his vacuum cleaner." Our decade-old Hoover was a lousy loud hunk of junk. Given an SOP 20%-off coupon at Bed, Bath, and Beyond, we got a Dyson. Would cyclonic hydrodynamics (possibly reversed in Australia and New Zealand) tell fibs?

The Dyson DC07 box had a built-in carrying handle and a blatantly displayed bar code that BB&B tolerated minority checkers could not locate. Sweet. We got it home and inserted the first of seven included instructional DvD's into our home entertainment center. Does your tolerated minority cleaning lady speak Pashto, Tagalog, Gaelic, Sanskrit, Amharic, !Xhosa, Linear-B, Uighur, or Eyak? DvD #1 has them covered:

"Plug it in, push the yellow button, and vacuum."

Some assembly was required. Everything snaps together only one way. Brilliantly so. It were as though UK engineer James Dyson never went near an American public school. A whole box filled with disassociated parts assembled into an exercise in outworlder projective geometry. It sighed and then compacted to violate the laws of God and man. It was more than ready - it was eager. It was hungry.

A Dyson vacuum cleaner power cord looks like a baby's arm holding an apple. Do not be fooled! Socket juice merely energizes ambient temperature superconducting windings that contain the proton beam fusor. The thing is nuclear. Plug it in, tap the switch. It sounded like the access hatch to Hell madly spinning off and then... and then... it went eerily whistling quiet as our bellybuttons popped inside-out. A Dyson has the suction of a black hole. Our cats screamed and went running with their claws digging into the carpet. They barely escaped.

A Dyson is AWESOME. My sweetie ran it over a Persian rug and the colors brightened. She then hit the living room wall-to wall. Tinkerbelle fell from the air as her levitating butt dust was remotely devoured. Stains disappeared, their molecular moorings being woefully insufficient to resist Ragnarok. The Dyson's crud canister instantly filled. The Hoover apparently missed some stuff, as did Stanley Steemer.

Changing a vacuum cleaner bag is awful. Emptying a Dyson is engineering. Its crud canister (dare we say "module"?) detaches as a sealed unit with a click. Walk over to the City of Irvine "you don't own this, we do" personal recycle bin ("no vacuum cleaner sweepings"). Click the module's "Screw You" button. One moment it was all compacted cat hair and shed human skin cells, the next moment the module was empty and the recycle barrel was manifestly unpleasant. We are not really certain how the contents got out. We are really certain we really do not want to know lest our eyeballs explode or brains petrify. Or Homeland Severity appear shouting "Freedom is Compliance!"

It has attachments. Dyson attachments snap on and off like Neo arming for the Matrix. Nothing is loose, nothing spalls off. It looks... it looks bloody aerodynamic when fully arrayed. It looks ravenous, evil, and enemies' butts kicked military tight back in the days when Marines were given medals for lethality, not courts martial.

A Dyson is the closest thing to a death beam the common man will ever wield short of flying a D77H-TCI Pelican and removing Pacoima. I expanded to Alex in A Clockwork Orange or Leatherface in A Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A Dyson is giddy power irresponsibly bestowed and capriciously deployed. A Dyson is a techno-woodie aborning. Concave and convex it works either sex and sure is a breeze to get clean.

My single regret is that somebody special has not embarked upon some modest re-engineering. DOOM! was nicely reworked to substitute Hitlery Ramrod Clinton as the pink monsters (a chainsaw is appropriate counterpoint). The street always finds new uses for things. A YouTube video featuring clothing progressively torn away by dueling Dysons is long overdue. Chicken speed plucking?

I despise advertising. I am offended as a scientist and as a functional human being by advertising's cheap propagandistic swill and smarmy chattels. Nobody in his right mind would FANTAsize a trio of South American street whores pulling the tabs on cans of effervescent treacle colored with favela ditch drainage. There is an exception. When James Dyson next appears in the glass teat we are going to give him a big wet smooch.

Our Hoover is in the recycle bin. Perhaps one day its substance will be remanufactured into shrouds and coffin hinges and be given a proper burial. Its reappearance as bedpans and hazardous material wipes would be even better. Either way, don't expect them to work.

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