Don't talk to me about technology. You wanna complain; I wanna complain.
Two printers have received a fatal Glasgow Kiss from me (it took my girlfriend ten excruciating minutes to extricate the most recent one from my boneheaded napper). Countless mice are rotting on the bed of the Clyde Estuary. I bite the little bitches first, and if they don't survive this, it's Davy Jones's Locker for them. And I have a dead Mesh computer strategically placed in my hallway so that it gets a good kicking every time I go out and come in. It was knackered when I received it, and was just as knackered every time it returned from the morons at Mesh Repairs (four times in six months). Paperweight or kicking bag? That was a no-brainer. It's been happily (or unhappily; who cares) receiving a daily kicking now for four years.
I find visualizing Tom Hanks in the Moneypit; filling the bath that's half way to smashing itself to smithereens on the ground floor, very therapeutic; that mouth-wide-open, that-was-the-last-straw, I-can't-take-it-anymore "HAH HAH HAH" primal scream. It calms me down; that and the pills.
I'm quite a pleasant, easy-to-get-along-with chap. Really I am.
John
