The King Is Dead, Long Live The King

Recently, and in a variety of assorted ways, you poor starving peasants have taken it upon yourselves to angrily pester me with your babbling gibberish, vomiting into my inbox with increasing gusto, harassing me with your petty complaints and cynicism about the slow site updates that don't tailor to your every need, and about how a demi-god such as I could have the cheek to not cater my life around your petulant, childish, inferior, commoner ways. I've fawned you off with a variety of big words and sexiness that only a true Man Of The People could understand, rising above your hatred and quelling any potential uprising with a ruthlessness and cold hearted efficiency that history will revere me for.

However, truth be told: my computer blew up. And so I've finally gotten rid of it, about three years after I should have done. So that's why I haven't really been doing much.

I write this to you now from my new computer. It's big, fast, quiet and sexy, with glistening beauty and 22 inches of visual delight. In many ways, apart from the bit about being quiet, using this computer accurately replicates what it would be like if you were to have sex with me.

However, much like having sex with me would be, this computer is something of a disappointment. It works perfectly, and hasn't yet had to recover from a "serious error". It starts first time, every time, and I am able to turn it off at night knowing that it will start the next morning without requiring the elbow grease of four labourers and a defibrillator. It doesn't whirr, grind, grunt or stagger you with its consistently improvised mechanical vocal range, and nor do I have to leave the sides of the tower off with a fan pointed into the motherboard's bowels to prevent it from overheating in event the coldest November weather. It also isn't covered in a thin film of Marmite, like its predecessor.

Because of all this, it is a sleek and efficient Silver Dream Machine, which does what you want when you want it without affecting your sleep. And yet, precisely because of that, it has no charm whatsoever. Shame.

But still. There is an obvious advantage to this persona-free modernisation - shit works now. As a result, I can do the work that you filthy info-stealing bastards use me for, before leaving during the night, ne'er to call again.

Boom rastafari.

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