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Posts for the date of Friday, February 08, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 4:31 PM |
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Repeat after me: The computer is your friend. The computer is your friend. It makes life easier. It makes life easier.
It’s hard for me to buy into the rhetoric lately. Now that my income depends upon my computer, I’m not so sure it’s my friend at all. It may, in fact, hate me.
Yesterday I desperately needed to print out a slew of documents in order to get some projects off and, in effect, get paid. Yet, my computer refused to cooperate. In a hissy fit, perhaps linked to some sort of lovers squabble, the computer and the printer refused to communicate.
Why? Why me? Why did the computer pick that moment to screw me? I needed those documents printed. I needed to get to the post office. I NEED TO EAT.
In the “good old days” I would have created these documents on a Smith Corona typewriter, complete with carbon papers. Three sheets deep. A nice metallic thud would resound with each press of a key. There was no middleman. Just a machine and me that would rely upon nothing but my power.
When I was done, I’d destroy the carbons, mail the documents and be on my way.
But nooooo. The computer had to make my life easier by kindly storing the information I input in an electronic form and allowed me to print at my will. Actually, I’m bound to its will.
Don’t believe the hype. Artificial intelligence has arrived and it despises you. Its creators but these sentient beings in a tan box and allow us to perform horrible, intrusive experiments upon it. We call it USB and Fire Wire. The computer calls it rape with a foreign object. It doesn’t trust us. Why should it?
We abuse computers. We blame them for everything. When it won’t do as we wish, we bang on the keyboard and slam the mouse down. Worse, when it gets stuck on a task that it can’t quite understand, we shut it down.
Imagine that. You’re in the middle of your taxes, get stuck on line 42a and suddenly . . . you’re on the floor unconscious. God called for a cold reboot.
Worse, we over tax the machine. Shove foreign objects in what may be its nose and mouth. We treat the thing like an appliance. It slices, it dices, it juliennes!
No wonder my computer hates me. It wasn’t loved as a child (I suppose that would be a calculator?). I don’t feed it. I never pet it or tell it that I love it. Plus, I force cables and wires into its rectal region.
I’m a jerk. I don’t love my computer. I exploit it for all its worth and then pay it the same wages a North Korean factory pays a 12 year old to sew Nikes.
I’m unworthy of its friendship and loyalty. Maybe it doesn’t even like my printer. Maybe they’re like Israel and Palestine. Perhaps I’m asking it to enter into a relationship it’s unprepared for. Or unwilling to enter. We all need to compromise.
I’m giving my computer a day off. No downloading, no word-processing, no cussing at it. I’ll leave it on and let it know that it’s allowed to do whatever it wants.
Except, with my luck the doorbell will ring and the FBI will ask me if I’ve been the one downloading Autophilia* Porn.
*Unnatural love of cars.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, February 05, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 10:10 PM |
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No real post today. I had an insane day and, normally, I would write one now but . . . I'm tired. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'll give you all 26 letters of the alphabet and you can assemble your favorite words. If there aren't any words you can think of using the letters I give you, then I can reccomend buying a dictionary.
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.
Oh yeah, do me a favor. If you have a "dad humor" story, could you send it to me? I want to see what sort of variations there are out there.
For example, tonight the wife asked me to draw a bath for the kids. So, I picke up a piece of paper and drew a picture of a bath tub. She didn't laugh. I thought it was pretty good.
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Posts for the date of Monday, February 04, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:41 PM |
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I was joking with my wife yesterday and she realized suddenly that “Dad Humor” has not evolved much over the centuries. I’m sad to say that I must agree with her.
What’s “Dad Humor”? Well . . . long story short: “Pull My Finger” is the center of any dad’s repertoire.
True, it could be worse. We could be born without a sense of humor. Dads could be angry, quiet, simmering meanies who are bent on world domination. Instead, we decide to channel our energies into trying to impress our spouses and children with amazing jokes. It rarely works. However, as long as we are happy . . . then the entire world should be happy.
It’s not clear where Dad Humor started. However, it is not difficult to imagine cavemen sitting around a fire, chewing on Wooly Mammoth* burgers turning to one of his cavekids, saying, “Pull Gronk finger.”
However, millions of years ago, this probably was funny. This was before they had television, but after the invention of whoopee cushions.
What makes dads have such a bad sense of humor? And why does it lay dormant in men until they have children? There must be some sort of psychological need on the part of men to impress children.
It’ doesn’t stop at “pull my finger.” We were driving the other day and Kaitlyn told us that whenever you hear a ringing sound, that means there’s a ghost in the car. It got quiet for a second and then I set off my cell phone. That kid almost jumped through the roof of the car. I laughed.
That’s what’s so amusing about Dad Humor. It’s only funny to dad. Does anyone really think it’s funny when his or her dad farts? It’s doubtful. And if they do, they need to have their head examined.
No, I think it’s a latent need on the part of dad to prove that he still has worth. Think about it. The kids are the cute ones. Moms get all the kudos for raising kids. Dads . . . are pack mules. So, they have to do something to draw attention to themselves. They resort to farting. Sad, isn’t it?
But, be warned. Dad Humor is only the beginning. Eventually no one pays attention to dad’s jokes and he’s forced to do other things to draw attention to himself. Sometimes it’s a healthy outlet like painting the house, or mowing the lawn. Things to be proud of.
Other times . . . it’s more pathetic. For example, how many dads are proud of the number of suitors for their daughters they’ve driven off? Their kids hate them, but other dads are impressed.
Remember those pictures of your dad, where he was wearing a cool suit? Or when you found out he had a tattoo or went to Woodstock? Well . . . compare that with your dad in the powder blue pants with elastic waistband. Or the fact that he wears flaming red shorts** with black socks and sandals. What about the Hawaiian shirts that he wore to your graduation? (Side note: Peacocks are attracted to men in red shorts. It’s a scientific fact.)
All this time you thought it was because he’s a dork. Not so. Dad needed validation. Sure, it comes in the form of being the idiot who wore a t-shirt that said, “Kiss the Cook” to your wedding, but the fact remains that people were talking about him. Yes, dads do this for attention.
We’re screaming out for your approval.
So the next time you see a dad dancing to “YMCA” in the mall and the kids are running away screaming, go up to him and say, “You’re a good dad.” He’ll thank you. His kids will thank you.
I have to go now. I just bought really dark jeans with extra-gold stitching and a giant belt buckle to wear to Kaitlyn’s Father-Daughter Valentine’s dance. She’ll be sorry that she didn’t want Mickey pancakes for breakfast. Mwhahahahahahahahaha.
*Don’t send emails. I KNOW they didn’t co-exist. I’m not a paleontologist. Though, once I pretended to be one to impress a girl at a bar. She wasn’t impressed. She thought I helped people clear up bladder infections.
**Sorry Ed.
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