originally published September 20, 2013
I have always been an ardent embracer of technology. And technology, for the most part, has reciprocated the hug. I own a device the size of a cassette tape that not only stores thousands of songs, but also enables me to play games, tweet photos of Anthony Weiner’s genetalia to my friends, and receive hilarious texts from GrateJokez every day for the low, low price of only 99 cents per message (today’s entry: “What’s stucco? It’s what happens when you step in bubblegummo.”).
But this morning technology slipped a tiny little dagger of betrayal into my spinal juices. The magnificent article that was meant for today’s web-waves inexplicably disappeared from my USB flash drive, as did everything else on it. This is not the first time one of these storage sticks has executed the Make-Myself-Useless command, but it’s the first such incident to have cost me a well-crafted article.
So the fascinating subject of the Tanganyika laughter epidemic of 1962 will have to wait until I’m once again willing to do the extensive research and make a day-trip to Africa to interview the involved parties. Maybe later today when I’m prepping Day #630. But for now, I’m going to devise a few ways to torture the ever-loving fuck out of this USB stick.
Keep in mind I just want to scare this little bastard. I’m going to get ahold of 16 ½ stories of fishing line and tie it around his pudgy little forgetful frame and toss him out my office window. Then, just a few feet from the pavement (and I’m hoping that there are no exceptionally tall pedestrians on the sidewalk below), he will be spared his grizzly demise.
The chubby jerk is just a little too full-figured to squeeze between the bars on my high-powered fan. A few Jack Bauer-esque minutes with a file and I bet I can get him so close to those whirling blades it’ll make his memory return in a flash (pun regrettable, but intended). If that doesn’t work, I still have a number of evil machinations to machinate.
I’ll take him home tonight and toss him into the basket of my coffee maker along with a handful of ground beans. Then I’ll brew a pot of coffee with his essence, and give a cup of it to someone who is really backwards on women’s issues and minority rights. Then he’ll have to live with the knowledge that he’ll be fused intimately with the urethra of a complete jerk.
Waterboard that bitch!
Here at work we have a large paper-cutter that can easily swoop through a ream of cardstock with the push of a button. I don’t know how well it would split this USB stick, though since I’m more in a torturous mood than a murderous one, I’d have some fun lowering the blade just enough to scare him. I’m also confident that my boss would be totally okay with this use of company time, so don’t bother writing him an email. Please.
That’s right, I’ll make him sit through 2 Girls 1 Cup. And if he seems to enjoy it, well… well that wouldn’t be good. Maybe it’s a positive thing that our relationship is coming to an end. I just… can’t hang out with someone who digs that.
That narrow gap between the stairs… do you think I can get him to fall all the way to the bottom without bouncing off the side? Do you think I care? HA! This is already tremendously stress-relieving and I haven’t even chosen my method of torture yet.
I’ll make him re-enact the entirety of Casablanca over and over again for my amusement. And I won’t let him off the hook until he gets Peter Lorre’s accent exactly right.
I’m going online right now to calculate how much postage I’ll need to send him to a third world country where he will come face-to-face with thousands of starving children every day, any of whom would be happily willing to safely transport my articles from my work to my home. Maybe that will make him appreciate what he was giving up. No? No, probably not. This one’s a bad idea.
That’s right. I’m so serious about slicing his innards into a hundred irreparable pieces I’m getting out the paper shredder oil. I mean, who actually oils their paper shredder? People serious about torture, that’s who.
Next time I get one of those anonymous calls telling me I’ve won a trip somewhere just because I’m that lucky, he’ll have to listen to the sales pitch. I’d threaten to make him deal with the next set of zealotous God-pushers who come to my front door, but even I’m not that cruel.
I am willing to download Starship’s “We Built This City” and load it onto my iPod, just to put it on repeat and make him listen to it. Of course I’ll have to leave the room (and possibly the area code) while this is happening, but I’m pretty sure this will have the desired effect.
I’m going to reformat the thing and fill him with stacks of Word documents, all in Comic Sans font. He’ll be the laughing stock of the USB stick community, if such a thing exists.
I have no idea what is inside this container, but the medical advisory label on the back looks pretty daunting. As soon as I figure out where this USB stick’s eyes, skin, lungs and stomach are, he’ll be in for some serious temporary discomfort.
There, now I’ve cranked it up a notch. For the rest of eternity he will carry around the shame of having a filthy word written on him. I know, I could have picked something with a little more kick, but hey I’m improvising here.
Two words. You can tell I mean business.
Are you thirsty little USB drive? Sorry, only crappy Five Alive juice for you, dirtbag. Also, if I can track some down, I might let you enjoy some Diet Mr. Pibb. Nobody likes that shit.
Well, I guess I finally did it. Last thing I did was suggest that I drop the thing in front of a TV playing a marathon of Keeping Up With The Kardashians and when I turned my back, Mr. DinkWang went and finished the job himself. Time to go shopping for a replacement I guess.
1000 Albums, 1000 Dates 