Last night I stopped into the 24-hour Apple Store, as the person whose wireless connection I have been pirating at home for about four months must have finally put a block on me and, like any self-respecting Internet junkie who needed a fix, I had to check my email twenty times a day or risk withdrawal symptoms. I got to the store around 11:30 p.m.
I had written down the error message I got and wanted to go to the “Genius Bar” to have a drink of computer wisdom passed to me by one of the Apple bartenders, sharing with him why my computer life was a misery and seeing if he could get me back on track, or rather online, in the comfort of my own home—oh yeah, without having to pay for the therapy, I mean, connection. I saw a fellow long-hair at the desk where they hook you up with a “genius” and, like a rasta seeing a fellow dred-head, I nodded as if we had both passed through the gay-sex rituals of the “Skull & Bones” Society like George Bush Junior, Bill Clinton, George Bush Senior and just about every closet fag in a power position in governmental and business and shared the same clicking jaw condition resulting from giving head for three days straight during Hell Week.
After explaining that I just needed someone to decipher the cryptic message I had written down on my piece of scrap paper that also contained notes for creative pieces such as “Six Degrees of Ball Shaving,” he recited like a good slave, “You need to make an appointment in order to speak to an Apple Genius.” Just another military man without the buzz cut.
I told him how this could be handled in 30-seconds and—“You need to make an appointment.” I told him how in the past once I made an appointment and when I showed up at 12:00 noon I found out that I had signed-up for 12:00 midnight but they still sent someone over to talk to me. “You need to make an appointment.” Apparently you needed to make an appointment to speak to an Apple genius but none was required to speak to a moron.
In the 60s, long-hair was somewhat of the “Don’t Tread On Me” flag of the counter-culture, waved proudly in the face of the short-hairs with the message “We’re not showering, shaving, cutting our hair, using contraception, going to school—and it’s all because of you, you short-haired square pricks!” I gave the long-haired pussy before me a history lesson and told him that while he was surrounded by a bunch of square pricks, he was essentially a round pussy. And as we all know, a square prick trying to fit into a round vagina needs a lot of lube.
It reminds me of one of my future projects where I plan to go up to one of those fake anarchists and take his iPod. He will be like, “Hey, that’s my iPod!” and I will respond, “Anarchy bitch—no rules. It’s my iPod now,” and see his false structure crumble as fast as the World Trade Centers after the thermite bomb charges were detonated.
Wear whatever friggin’ costume you want. But I don’t want to see you wearing what I’m wearing if you are a pussy. This round prick pisses on square pussies like you.