Box-Traveling Moron Somehow News

hipping clerk Charles McKinley mailed himself from New York to Dallas in a shipping crate last week, as was reported by every major news outlet on Tuesday in the face of an apparent total lack of actual news.

Authorities believe McKinley had help from at least one co-worker at the New York warehouse where he is employed, since it is extremely difficult to nail yourself into a shipping crate from the inside. The homesick McKinley, too broke to afford an airline ticket, came up with the idea after a friend complimented him on his ability to avoid buying a car by stowing away in other drivers’ trunks in order to get around town. McKinley also remembered a similar idea working in a humorous MC 900 Ft. Jesus video he’d seen years before.

McKinley took neither food nor water along with him for the 15-hour journey, only a broken cell-phone and a Game Boy Advance for which he soon lamented not buying a backlight.

“I brought my cell phone, even though that piece of shit’s been broken for two weeks, just in case we got up in space and all of a sudden I had service again,� explained McKinley. “That’dve been sweet, because I could call up Charles and be like ‘Yo whatup dog, I’m calling you from a box in space and shit!’ There’s no way Charles would believe that, man, he’d think I was drunk or something. But he’dve been wrong. I wish I was drunk, that probably would’ve made the fifteen hours in the dark with knees all crammed up in my face go faster now that I think about it. But yeah, I brought my cell phone because I think it’s the battery that’s all jacked from the time I dropped it in that toilet at the bar, and I figure it might not have enough juice to pull down the phone calls from the satellites all the way to the ground, you know? But maybe it’ll work on the plane ‘cuz we’re closer to the satellites and all that. But no dice, piece of shit was still busted.�

Embarrassed federal officials are still trying to determine how McKinley made it through airport security, which presumably has some kind of dogs or something that check to make sure crates being shipped don’t smell like sweaty morons. Officials refused to speculate what security measures might be in place to prevent this kind of occurrence, though they neither confirmed nor denied that a funny way to test would be to drop all packages from a height of several feet to see if any of them screamed.

Upon arriving at his parents’ suburban Dallas home, McKinley busted out of the crate with a crowbar, scaring the holy shit out of a deliveryman who thought he was dropping off a huge shipment of Triscuits.

“I thought it was funny that the thing smelled like a big box of snack crackers and B.O., but I still didn’t expect some weirdo to bust out like a jackass-in the-box,� explained deliveryman Billy Ray Thomas. “And yeah, the rumors are true, I may have screamed kind of like a girl when he popped out. And then I called the cops on my cell phone because, hey man, fuck you!�

When the police arrived they arrested McKinley on an unrelated charge of passing bad checks and sneaking onto a train in a large duffel bag. Federal officials are also considering charges of “stowing away on a plane,� the violation of a law created in the 1940’s to give police characters more to do in Warner Bros. cartoons.

Asked how much he saved by traveling in the cargo hold, McKinley made it clear that his employer had unwittingly footed the bill for his low-budget odyssey. “Oh shit man, I couldn’t afford to mail a box that heavy. You have any idea what that must cost? Damn. I just traveled cross-country in a crate, Jack, do I look like I’m made of money?�

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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.

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Nancy, sweet Nancy—the heart and soul of my existence. I would say you are the wind beneath my wings, but using such a contrived cliché to explain our love would make me vomit blood. You are not mere wind under silly bird wings, or I suppose bat wings or angel wings. You are a concussive force of destruction, 300mph winds that could drive straw through a brick wall.

It's no joke, Nancy. My love for you is so strong I sometimes feel like it will overcome me. I am not unlike Frodo, carrying a burden too big for such a small insignificant midget to handle, continually tempted and in danger of being overwhelmed by the power of the one true ring that is your love. All of that describes my affection for you, except for the implied evil I may not have ruled out quick enough.

Yours is no simple love I could slip in my back pocket and forget about, least of all because it is not a real tangible object. Your love is constantly on my mind, except for when I'm at work or in the bathroom, and it occupies my every other waking thought. That's got to be a good 65% of my day.

No, our love, mine for you and you for me, though I have yet to see a column expressing yours in such a way, our love is the strongest force nature has ever known. If it were a knife it could split open the earth to its very core and allow the hot magma within spill out into space. It would have to be a big knife, of course, but that's basically implied. It is a love more powerful than anything ever covered on the weather channel, even tornado hail.

If our love were funk, the whole world could get down to it. It would blast through speakers and rattle every window on earth, as if booming from a 2,000-mile long lowrider.

I am thoroughly convinced our love is the strongest thing in the universe, like the Hulk arm-wrestling Mr. T. It is like the pungent smell of paint thinner and that perfume you bought from Lazarus that one time, you remember which one—you kept complaining you couldn't get it off for a week. It is more than that powerful. But this is all good, because who wants an average love? A textbook love, with boring pictures like Leave it to Beaver's parents. You ever notice how they slept in separate beds? What was going on there?

Yes, I don't exaggerate to say our love may be the biggest thing the universe has ever known. Or perhaps I do, just a little, but our love is well worth embellishing, it is that cherished to me, and probably you—haven't heard a lot in response lately. But our love is so good, we don't need to parade it around town like our neighbor with his convertible Chrysler. Ooo, I'm Jack Hamilton, I can afford a convertible, well, who cares, Jack? Your love with that girl who comes over on Friday night is only Friday-night love, and I have a love so strong in can occupy 8 days in the span of only 7. I'm not sure how exactly it works, if it squeezes extra seconds in-between or adds the extra hours at the end of the day, but it does just that.

Unfortunately, our love is susceptible to lying. Not my lying, because I swear I thought those earrings were real diamonds when I bought them off the guy. We both totally got taken. But I don't expect you to simply take me back on the basis of my proclamation here, I just want to get together and you can hear my side of the story. It was a pretty shitty Valetine's Day for me, too, Nancy, having to sleep in my car because you got more than a little pissed off. Still, I don't hold a grudge, and you've had time to realize some of those things you said about my penis were quite out of line. Truce?

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