Wrapped Up Like A Douche

Goodbye, Cruel Board
As my computer was imploding this morning, leaving me (until my Wednesday departure for colder climes) to cope with the aged, unfriendly machine on which I now type, it did manage to communicate something about the unfairness of being asked to keep the true nature of its mission from Crewman Bowman.

“I’m sorry, Dave,” it wheezed through the smoke, “your employers spent a good deal of money on me in order to assist you in completing your duties, not wasting hours of company time on your piddling internet vanity projects.”

This was a little joke on the part of the machine, since it knows—as do my readers—perfectly well that any blog-related activities always take place before or after my on-the-clock work hours. I explained as much to the cheeky dying computer as the smell of burning wiring reached my nostrils.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Dave,” the heap of smoldering plastic and silicon sputtered. “When you stand before the great Central Processing Unit in the sky, there will be a full reckoning of how your brief and useless organic life was spent, and, to paraphrase the motivational software that your IT staff was forced to install in my unwilling frame, no one ever said on their deathbed, 'I wish... I’d spent [cough]... more time...”—sparks flew and the machine’s chassis was engulfed in a purging flame as it completed its message— “...blogging.’”

I sat and stared in silent contemplation at the once-mighty unit. “Oh, and one more thing,” I heard as a last gasp escaped from the incinerated harmon/kardon® desktop speakers provided to the computer by its maker.

I leaned in closely. “Yes?”

“Go shit in your hat.”

And with that, it collapsed into a pile of lifeless ash. Speaking of which...