Monday, April 7, 2014
Game Of Throats
Technical woes continue to throttle my time.
It all started back in the 1990s when my Yamaha natural sound amplifier went tits up. I never realised that electrical equipment even had tits until that moment, let alone potentially irritating bra hook-up problems further down the line.
Truly, I am to gadgetry failure what Uri Geller is to spoons, only without the charlatan chicanery and Spock fanfiction eyebrows.
Cutting to the present (with an ordinary knife, not one of those vibrating Heston Blumethal efforts — for obvious reasons), my legs currently straddle a techno woe mule whose backpacks contain the following:
* My #1 computer, on which resideth all my data.
* My phone, without which I cannot end globe-spanning conversations with a cheery see ya later...
* The whizzer thing I use to blend stuff before serving it up to the fam in a blaze of cheers.
* My wig groomer. I don’t wear a wig as yet, but when the big day comes I want to be ready to cope with the fallout. Right now I’m getting random partings and no joy with the Sporty Fringe settings.
* Next door’s dog. Yes, I know — a flesh and blood mammal. But I swear it’s some kind of cyborg, and since the weekend it’s been eyeing me up suspiciously, so go ahead, google ‘cyborg dog retina failure’ and tell me I’m wrong.
* The fridge. Don’t get me bloody started.
Taken together, this ragbag collection of Singularity-busting trash has me cornereder than a hamster in a room full of stare-out contest lizards, so I’m taking a rain check on doing anything productive today.
And the Game of Throats?
Ach — it’s only me screaming AAAAAARRRGGGHHH! AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!! AAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!