December, 2006 Edition

by Ms. Duh
Contributing Columnist

I'm back.

I know, I know, I was back before.

So what? I'm back again.

Story? What story? Didn't she blow up in a giant fiery refinery accident? Oh, yeah. She didn't. Well, lets just say she's having anonymous hot monkey love in an elevator with Kiefer Sutherland and the story will restart in a couple weeks.

It's all about me now.

I've decided that the hermit life wasn't for me, and although being an anti-social recluse had its perks, internet connectivity and pizza delivery wasn't amongst them. To think, they wanted 40 bucks to deliver a pizza to my spider hole in Iraq. And don't get me started on the wifi. Sometimes I couldn't even get dial up speeds in my foxhole. Every so often my roommate would hog the laptop to log time in the I-Heart-Britney-Spears chat room, but that ended when one day, a bunch of marines came to take him away. Serves him right. Anyway he stank like rotten goat cheese, so it was good riddance to him.

Oh, and then the student loan people found me. They are better than the CIA. They offered me either a chance to pay them back with interest or a new career breaking big rocks into little rocks, so I thought about it and reluctantly, decided to rejoin society. This included getting one of those job things, becoming a productive member and upstanding citizen. I'm excited about that. Whupdee do.

And I have to admit to caving in to the the begging and pleading, the offers of money, fame and fortune, the torturous tear filled phone calls from the captain of The Mothership at all hours of the night to come back and write. After he named his first born after me and FedExed me a monitor box filled with chocolates and hard drives, I decided to put finger to keyboard once again. I do hate to see men cry. Well. Okay, I don't. But I was getting bored and thought I had a few more columns in me. Plus, I think I have a fan. He sent me an email. Wanted to sell me Cialis, but at a steal of a price. Who else but a fan would include me on a heck of a deal as that?

And lately, I've had a yearning. I yearn way in the deepest part of my girly parts. Urges that spring forth, especially after being buried in a Mesopotamian latrine, all alone, save for a smelly goat man. Young geek girl urges.. You must know what I'm talking about, if your sysadmin has had that the nerdly-birds-and-bees-talk with you. I am at that age now, where I run hot and cold for big, hard, ware. I mean, big hardware. Blush. That came out all wrong.

Yes. I need a new Mac. Nay, I verily hunger from the depths of my soul to possess a new Mac. I've decided that, to hell with food, I want a new Mac. A shiny new Mac Pro that smells of new plastic and has a heart of intel. Even with a heart of evil, I must get me some good Mac lovin'. To feel the hard drives pulse and the fans whistle again. Ahhhh. How I've missed it.

Right now, I'm limping along on 17 SEs interconnected into a giant super-cluster, so you can imagine the things I've promised Santa I'll do if I can get a new Mac. The dirty, dirty things I've promised the fat man, the top ten list from hell:

• I've decided to be nice to people. Ones I know, ones I don't know, the retards who make my Big Macs, the lady who wants me to "fix her AOL so she can watch Matlock videos", strange rangers off the street, those lunkheads at the bank, and those cerebrally challenged monkey boys at CompUSA. I promise not to smack people in the back of the head for the shear joy of it, or rub my butt on coworkers' keyboards, or email the local op-ed page, calling for implementation of a severe eugenics program that entails feeding the feebleminded to large pigs.

• I promise that I won't throw panties up on the stage during Stevenotes at Macworld, and if I do, they'll actually be my own.

• I will stop bittorrenting episodes of Columbo, because its the right thing to do, and not because NBC has written me, threatening to send me to jail until we have flying cars and genetically engineered dogs that know kung fu. Not that I bittorrented on purpose. I didn't know it was wrong. Nope. Now that I know it is BAD, I will never ever do it again. Never. You can TRUST me.

• I will write more for The Mothership. Even if it means churning out reams and reams of prosaic, pointless filler fluff that goes on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, just to fill up another two or three paragraphs.

• I will put an antivirus program on the computer. Really. I won't fearlessly tread where angels fear to surf because I think my Mac is invincible to virii and malware. I won't be the most clueless dolt on the earth and believe that a Mac is safe and secure when in reality, unprotected Macs are just as vulnerable to bad juju as the PC. For I know, that the first time I think I am impenetrable, that will be when a giant, four foot, purple boogie man will pop out of the DVD drive and eat my head.

• I promise not to set all the home pages to peoples' browsers to Crazy Apple Rumors.

• I will not roll my eyes at the ipod, ipodders, ipod speakers, ipod carrying cases, ipod boomboxes, ipod car adapters, ipod fm tuners, ipod socks, ipod sportwrap armbands, ipod shields, ipod film slip covers, ipod satellite dishes, ipod tinfoil hats, ipod coffee cup warmers, ipod headbands, ipod heart monitors, ipod iphones, etc., ad nauseam.

• I promise to keep watching "24" in hopes of an all naked Kiefer theme episode.

• I promise that if I promise the throng that is my devoted audience that next time I write a top ten list of stuff, I will actually write ten things instead of petering out at number 8.



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