Department Lemur - the rag-tag fugitive fleet of webmistresses, Pop Tart-fueled malcontents and content defilers The Passenger calls friends - is in a state of transition. We've been forced to move our base of operations from its secret warehouse location to an Arcosanti-sized compound somewhere in the Nevada desert, within driving distance of the Krispy Kreme 'cause that's what makes us happy. I must be brief: as I write this, workers are installing the pneumatic tubes and interdepartmental monorail, and Carl Cox is gonna kick it within minutes in the Marcel Levy Lounge. Say, why don't you make the most of the extra time you'll save reading this shtuff by subscribing to Postcards From Paradise, the Passenger's weekly no-newsletter, and begin enjoying the Big Fun and bonus jivebombs it offers? "Fortune Cookie Fortune of the Week!" "Live Life!" "Picks from a Bygone Era!" It all starts when you sign up below. My pneumatic tube whirrs to life. And I write...

100 Trillion Haiku is colloquially named; this "random haiku generator" is capable of eschewing 7.62e+39 different haiku, or "one poem every 15 seconds, (for) 36,270,916,500,128,400,000,000,000,000 millennia." Ah, what hath JavaScript wrought? It's a fun page, with options up the yin-yang -- chief among them a script that will mail a favorite random haiku to a friend, and a "floating haiku" window that will cough up a new set of 17 syllables every 30 seconds, indefinitely, indefinitely. Sample verse of the moment: "Rusty chimeric /shapeless devil exploring / parasites roaming." Okay, so maybe they're not very good haiku, but some of them are. Think of this page as you think of Texas weather: if you don't like it, just wait a few minutes. O cool haiku page, / make much joy in my black soul / and span office time.
 

Las Vegas is probably not what Larry Karper, creator of the Dim Sum Shrine, would call "a great dim sum town." After all, our Chinatown runs maybe one-and-a-half city blocks, and the only place I've found that serves dim sum on a regular basis is the Plum Tree Inn. (I'm certain there are more establishments that serve dim sum in my neck of the woods - anyone want to tell me where those places are?) If you still don't know what I'm talking about, stop reading this column right now and hit Karper's page, where the Chinese specialty is explained in mouth-watering detail. I probably don't need to tell you that this site will create in you a near-insatiable craving that can only be sated with dumplings, so try to visit before lunch.
 

Webb Page Confidential is the palatial home of one Dewey Webb - pop culture aficionado, columnist for the Phoenix New Times and (in the Passenger's estimation) this week's Most Dangerous Man in America. With his reviews of "aesthetically challenged" videos (featured this week -- "Chatterbox," which is just your basic singing vagina story), collection of dubious products (direct from Taiwan: "Fart Bomb") and photos of what he politely calls "second-tier celebs" (the stunt double for Babe the Pig), Webb is supplying just what this nation needs at this apocalyptic juncture - pure, uncut kitsch. If Big Media isn't afraid of him now, they will be soon enough: as soon as they see his triumphant win on Crosswits, the very fabric of mass media will fold like heated polyester. It's a delicious page, kids - go see it.
 

They do their job, but what thanks do they get? You dart around them on your unsteady way to the espresso maker, the microwave, the blender - and through the depths of your ignorance, the toaster has worked silently, steadfastly, heating what you loosely call bagels. One of the unsung heroes of the machine age, the toaster finally gets its due at the Toaster Museum Foundation Homepage, a fitting monument to the prince of the kitchen. The proof of greatness is all around: the provocative toaster-inspired artworks, the earnest and truthful vintage toaster advertisements, the toys and accessories inspired by the appliance. And a web museum is just step one: the creators of the page are working toward the goal of opening a live toaster museum. Just imagine a life with chewy bagels, soft white bread and cold Pop Tarts and you'll have the (wheat) germ of an appreciation that this page will heat into a full-blown toaster jones.

We may lose contact for a moment, while they send a test subject through the tube. It's not dangerous, but man, is it ever distracting. The screams ... nah, we won't go there. Don't forget to subscribe below. Ciao!