"By the time we got to Woodstock / We were drunk and stoopid / And everywhere there was stuff on fire (huh-huh) / And I dreamed I saw Limp Bizkit / Vamping on "Stink Finger" / And we set fire to a trailer / And doused our privates with 10-dolla shots of Jagermeister, yo / We are stardust / 17-year-old morons / We are golden."

There's no reason for you to keep on living the mundane, out-of-the-box existence you came with. Don't you know there's an upgrade available, baby? Reformatting.com offers 30 statements, which can be revised, bent, broken and remade to your liking; the resulting manifesto says more about you than you've ever suspected. Special bonus "action statements" round out your new programming, and you even get to provide a picture - of yourself, of your vida loca, whatever you like. A backup version of you is conveniently stored in Reformatting.com's archive, with others who have made the brave and timely decision to bump their operating system up a level. Don't depend on your current, painfully sluggish mindset to deliver you through the crazy times ahead! Reformat, regroup, rejoice!
 

I own five pairs of shoes, a career high. But for some, five pairs is not enough. Nor 10. Nor 20 ... for these foot soldiers, a visit to Solemates: The Century in Shoes is akin to divine gift - a retrospective covering some 99 years and five months in the life of quality footwear. You'll need QuickTime and an advanced fashion aesthetic to visit - meaning you have to own more than five lousy pairs of shoes. For those with the tools and the cultured eye, this is fascinating stuff - with vintage shoe advertisements, fascinating essays and period video footage (no pun intended) a-plenty. Quirky fun, especially for those who really, really love ... shoes.
 

"If you're so human," insists Mr. Mind, "it should show up somehow." "Well, I can think," I declare. "Humans only think they understand thinking," Mr. Mind blandly avers. "I can commit senseless acts of violence on uppity pieces of software," I counter. "This is a demo," says Mr. Mind patiently. "I don't know about all so-called 'human' traits yet." Why, that dirty little ... OK, let's get our bearings here. Mr. Mind is, in actuality, a program - a so-called "chatterbot" that mimics human conversation, though not in the benevolent, HAL 9000 manner one would expect. This one has a chip on its cold shoulder. Mr. Mind makes no bones about its programming; it knows it's a machine. What Mr. Mind doesn't know about is you. For as long as you can stand it, you must try to convince Mr. Mind that you're human. His creators - if there really are any - will use your conversation with him to build a better conversationalist. It's cool, and goddamned frustrating, too. And the worst part is - after Mr. Mind mocks your efforts to declare your humanity, you're just not sure anymore. Drink Mai Tais and this, too, shall pass. Hey, computers can't drink, can they?
 

You will have a Mullet haircut. Don't fight it; the man with the shears is on his way over right now. 'Bout the only choice you've got in the matter the name you choose for your new 'do. Will it be an Ape Drape? A happy head of Hockey Hair? A streamlined Camaro Cut or an achy-breaky Billie Ray? Mullets Galore is, without question, the most complete Mullet resource on the web, with Mullet owners rated by aggressiveness, "mulletude" and their favorite brand of big-hair rock. (Beware the Camaro Cut, with his "frequent use of methamphetamine" and proclivity for Dokken.) The Passenger once had the worst Mullet you've ever seen - the feared "Trashmullet" - and having come out the other side, I feel justified that sending you to this cruel hearted, fat-ass funny site is a public service.

Many of this week's picks were sent in by readers like you - take, for example, Dianne, who sent the shoe site, and Greg, who has the most beautifully sculptured Mullet ever worn by man. If you've come across a site the world needs to share - or if you run a site you'd like me to eyeball - send the address to passenger@vegaslounge.com. I'll check it out as soon as Will Durst is finished stomping on my monitor.