I just saw the story where research scientists, who no doubt have spent years gathering various esteemed degrees in school, spent several months gorging lab rats on wine and the mouse equivalent of deliciously fattening food. They found mice that were interminably drunk wre much better off, as if that's something new.

This does not bring up the questionable use of research time by scientists (well, it does, but I don’t feel like addressing it at this point). But it certainly makes one think about lab mice and the luck of the draw.

Imagine the conversations that take place on any day inside the mice-only break room at Science Inc.:

“Whoa, what are all those tubes sticking out of your head?”

“I’ve got conscious neurotransmitter probes today.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not the worst part. They’re probing my pain centers.”

“Oh, ouch. Chet, what are you working on?”

“Cancer. Lungs, pancreas, liver. Dissection is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Sorry, man. Hey, you mind if get that get-well card back? Bobby has something that may be curable.”

“No problem.”

“Hey Chuck, you doing anything?”

“Huh, wha’? Me? Oh, you bet. Eating and drinking and eating and drinking. I am so sloshed right now there are, like, five of you. It totally sucks, dude.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Most of us are terminal and you’re whining about gluttony?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was this close to the test of how much sex will kill you.”