There are many things in this world that absolutely suck...diarreah, that asshole with the subwoofer in his pinto next to you at the stoplight, your ex-best friend's manipulative whore/bitch girlfriend who makes me completely nauseated with her stupid little baby voice...but the things that are pissing me off this week are cd burners and gastroenterologists. Lets start with the gastro guys.

Now your gastroenterologist seems like your friend. Hi, how are ya, good to see you, sorry to hear your puking...that type of schpiel. So you tell him you feel shitty, he says there's really nothing wrong with you, but he'll prescribe some useless old drug to you for your piece of mind, and you should be done. But no, the man just has to examine you.

Examine. That's what they call it. What they really mean is "I'm going to apply intense pressure on various parts of your body to see if anything explodes." So he pokes you, pushes you, prods you, and after each "test" you clench your teeth and tell him it doesn't hurt in the hopes, misplaced hopes I might add, that he won't put on the glove. But oh no, the glove comes out, time after time after time. The glove comes out, along with the "lubricant" and the glove goes on the hand of this suddenly possessed ghoul, and he points his merciless, formidable index finger. "Turn on your side please," he says with a smirk, but what he really means is "Assume the position in which it will be easiest for me to watch you squirm." And then he takes his merciless, formidable index finger and sticks it,...well I think we all know where he sticks it. But for those who don't know...it goes RIGHT UP YOUR FRICKIN ASS. Oh and it doesn't stop there. It digs. It drills for oil. It scavenges for gold. He rams what seems to be his entire arm up my ass before he finds anything "useful" at which point he removes the offending appendage from points south and puts it back where it belongs. And that, my friends, my simple, naive friends, is "how they getcha". Bastards.

And what does it tell them? What does this insane experiment tell those bastards? It tells them, anti-climacticly, that you aren't shitting blood or corn or gold. And what better way to find out if I'm shitting gold, then by ramming your finger up my ass. Hmmmm, how about FRICKIN ASKING ME??? I mean I would think...I would HOPE...that if I was shitting gold, I'd be the first frickin person to know that I was shitting gold, and I sure as hell don't think I would need a supposed doctor to ram his entire torso up my ass, searching for gold, just to tell me that I'm not going to be shitting any, any time soon. So that, in a large nutshell, is my beef with gastroenterologists.

Now why don't we talk about my current dilemma, the cd burner. The cd burner is an intriguing device. It brings with it a feeling of power. Power to create and listen to cd's, the technology behind which is far beyond the capacities of most of us. Of course, we don't need to understand how a cd works to make one. All we have to do, is point, and click.

See, that's what they want you to think, those high paid corporate computer pricks, with their billions of dollars and their market monopolies and their stinking PC's that ACTUALLY FRICKIN WORK. I hate those guys. Because my computer never works. It doesn't do what I tell it to do. Most of the time it doesn't do anything. It sits, and it hums, and every time I put a simple task at its feet, it passes out, and when I finally revive it, it sits, and hums a little bit louder, with a little bit of an audible limp. And that, my friends, is clearly not good.

And they make you think its your fault. that you must have done something wrong, clicked the wrong click or pointed the wrong point, because the computer doesn't make mistakes. Oh no, the pc is flawless, it must be you, the stupid, feeble, dumbass, jerkoff user... that's the problem. Well let me tell you a little secret. Its not you, or me, or him that's the problem. (well maybe him, he looks like trouble) Its actually the computer. The computers are all connected and they plot against us when we're not looking and then, when they make us crazy, when we're hopping up and down yelling expletives at them...what do they do? They laugh. they tell all their networked computer buddies about the dumbass who they made cry.

That's what they do.

Well I for one am not gonna take it anymore. When my computer gives me trouble, I'm gonna fix it. I'm gonna fix every fucking problem with my computer. I'll break it in. Make it tame. I'm determined. Soon, it'll be doing what I want. It'll be purring quietly, processing every command I issue with full efficiency. And then what'll I do?

I'll laugh.

Oh yes I will laugh.

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