Just when you thought the future was futile, that art was in decay, that our children would never taste pineapple, that the American road trip would be limp-wristedly hybridized by little silver turds getting 55 to the gallon, that fois gras would become some kind of exotic verbiage meaning "fool's gold"....the light dims, the sweat beads, and you remember: 

RAMBIS.

And everything is all good.