Buy One Story For The Price Of Eight, Receive The Next Seven Absolutely Free!

Michael Crichton, who tragically passed away before his brainy vision of a technological Utopia where mankind finally abandons its flamboyantly irresponsible disregard for the correct placement of the “H” in his last name became a reality, sold over 200 million books worldwide, inspired at least a baker’s dozen movies, some of which he directed, and accurately predicted the arrival of virtual reality, cell phones you could actually hold with one hand, and those waterproof subconscious wish-granting AI Assistant Balls Google released last year, which are actually drones that record videos of you having sex which they then sell to the Japanese latex sex doll consortium so that, obviously, they can manufacture sex dolls they know you’ll buy.

But with the exception of Airframe, which is a lukewarm corporate bureaucracy legal procedural, I think I could easily slide into home before the ball even gets sewn together if I proposed that all of Michael Crichton’s other novels are slight re-workings of the same lightning-paced love letter to the eccentric collection of thoroughly vetted, obnoxiously intelligent specialists, experts, or scientists who are plucked from the comfort and predictability of everyday life by an even smarter, even more eccentric “Rich Ol’ Crazy Uncle Asshole” archetype, and whisked away via Navy vessel, helicopter, or private jet with the promise of fame and/or fortune to the drop-dead middle of an exotic, underwater, or otherwise uninhabitable corner of some steaming, desolate nowhere that houses any configuration of Rich Ol’ Crazy Uncle Asshole’s nebulous, experimental park, laboratory, or factory setup, which undergoes a phoned-in evaluation from our eccentric specialists just a split second before shit gets predictably ugly and must be repaired, neutralized, or destroyed before the monsters, robots, or monsterbots run out of secondary characters to eat, infect, or eat, and start picking off the central cast and make their way to town. But luckily for humanity, the dumb idiots who got suckered into going there in the first place have fuck all to do except solve the mystery because, guess what! The weather and/or transportation agreement turned sour shortly after their arrival, and they couldn’t leave if they tried!

Well, OK, yes, Travels wasn’t like that, and yeah, OK, Disclosure was an evil, evil, misogynistic conspiracy theorist’s obscene, lunatic rant which shamelessly suggested that women could even be capable of entertaining the idea of sexually harassing men, lying, cheating, and generally not being completely fucking infallible and perfect in every single goddam way, and sure, yes, The Great Train Robbery wasn’t like what I said, but wasn’t it really just like that actually? And ER? And Twister? And Airframe? And Disclosure?

But of course, as we all know, the most fascinating thing about Michael Crichton wasn’t his boundless imagination and ability to spin a good yarn, it was the fact that he condemned mankind’s reckless abuse of technology with every breath he took, but, that’s right, he was a climate denier! Right, sure, Mike, it’s dinosaurs we need to worry about, not global warming. Also, probably a Scientologist? Who knows.