Martha Stewart has taken over the world. I am the last of a desperate band of holdouts who staunchly refuse to bow before batter and bialy. My raid team has been flanked and surrounded while assaulting her cake-shaped mega-palace; we’re now in chains, on our knees, and surrounded by goons that swear allegiance to her various lieutenants—Paula Deen, Giada, and the Barefoot Contessa. One of them—a balding, no-jawed, bespectacled beanpole who you only have to look at to know that he never got dates in high school—holds a butter knife to my throat. “The great Kent Wayne,” he sneers. “Always on about giant robots and squat racks. Well guess what, traitor? In Martha’s world, THERE ARE NO SQUAT RACKS!” He pushes the butter knife against my carotid artery, sending a nasty, compressed jolt of pain shooting through me. I shimmy my hips, and my eReader drops out of my pocket, open to Echo. Magic flash. Windows shatter inward as legions of ninjas burst into the atrium. They’re led by a denim-shirted (no sleeves, of course) Chuck Norris, who’s one-handing an M60 as he rappels in. I’ve never seen yuppie cooking enthusiasts this vicious: They procure various rifles and sub-machine guns, baring their teeth in hateful snarls as they unload on my rescuers. In the end they never had a chance, though: HG TV watchers vs ninjas and the greatest eighties action star of all time? Come on.