Windows XP: Fight the Future
the commune's Omar Bricks dulls the cutting edge 

Monday, Feb 18, 2002
Recently the nerd squad was here at the commune offices, updating all of our computers with Windows XP. Except of course for Rok Finger's computer, which still runs on typewriter ribbons, midnight oil and elbow grease. And believe me, you can smell that thing from down the hall.

I've had it about up to my marble-sack with all of these Windows variations. Windows 3.1, Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows Xtra Tasty Crispy, Windows for the Teenage Soul... enough is enough. Just when I get used to the quirks and massive failures of one version of Windows and start to find them endearing, they come out with another version. It's like finding a stranger in your bed. Or waking up naked in your neighbor's bed, something along those lines. Imagine something you don't like, and then transfer that feeling to what I think of a new version of Windows. You got it? Cool. Let's continue.

Most folks I know liked Windows 98 about as much as I like lawn clippings in a salad bar, or whatever, you know. But I came to like it over the years. I enjoyed countless half-days at work thanks to my computer seizing up from trying to run two instances of calculator at once, or that time I tried to open an image of Estella Warren in Notepad. Also, a word to the wise: Playing your computer keyboard like Schroeder from Peanuts can be fun, sometimes even A LOT OF FUN, but be prepared for problems like prematurely sent emails and system messages like "I FUCK YOU UP, WHITE BOY!". You've been warned.

But as always, my acceptance of the old Windows system was a sure as shit sign that the next version wasn't more than two weeks away. And this time they decided to go straight for the Gen-X crowd with a dangerous-sounding name and a design scheme that's like Candyland on crack. I'm no marketing expert, but I think they may have aimed a little young this time. I had a program crash the other day and I swear to God some little Teletubby popped up to tell me it wasn't my fault and he still loves me. I mean, yeah, it's cool to know, but it made me worried that I might have a radon leak in my office.

Of course, this was all after I got the goddamned package open, they sealed that thing like it contains nuclear secrets. All I can say about that is thank God I keep an electric turkey knife in my desk drawer.

As if that wasn't bad enough, then we start hearing about this programming boner from our buddies over at Microsoft where any yobknob with a dial-up connection can remotely seize control of our computers and give them an annoying attitude like in that "Short Circuit" movie. And sure enough, not long after that announcement the nerd squad finds gigabytes of mixed-race pornography on my hard drive, the obvious product of some sick hackmeister getting off on packing my computer with disturbing contraband.

What's next? Some added deluxe functionality where the hard drive bursts into flames just in case it contained any incriminating information about your illegitimate daughter in Laos? I know they're trying to cold-boot us into the space age and whatnot, bringing about an age where our computers will interact with our appliances and watch SNL for us so we can just hear about the good parts, but what if my refrigerator's an idiot and accidentally deletes all of those dirty haikus I downloaded? I'm not even sure that temperature dial even works, I don't know if it's ready to get online and order pimento olives for me.

And hasn't anybody noticed that in all of those futuristic movies, everything sucks? Sure, you might have a robot that polishes your shoes, but then they're harvesting your daughter's eggs to breed the perfect killing machine. Screw that noise. I mean, have you seen Runaway? That whole movie sucked. I don't want anything to do with any of it. Give me an old-fashioned typewriter that doesn't have emotional problems. Actually, cut out the middleman and give me an old-fashioned secretary that doesn't have emotional problems. Then she can deal with the typewriter when all the keys jam together after a particularly inspired Schroeder impression. Bricks out.