Apple’s home page says: To go where no PC has gone before.
And my first thought is: To the bathroom? Is it a bathroom computer?
I’m not sure that’s what Apple means me to think.
I mean, where haven’t PCs gone? What with colonoscopy and all they’ve gone pretty much everywhere.
A number of people asked me what yesterday’s story meant. Answer: nothing in particular, it’s just a story I hoped would be funny. For me it’s funny to imagine Bill Gates as a cranky, impulse-ridden pothead with delusions of grandeur. There’s no other meaning to decode.
Ken Dow sent me email pointing to the Canadian World Domination website. Apparently all American hopes now rest with that great patriot Bill Gates. Only he can save us from marauding hockey players and eh-sayers.
I don’t smoke pot, by the way. Not out of any conviction, but due to an unfortunate quirk of body chemistry. Here’s what happens to me. I get quiet and paranoid, then I get angry and even more paranoid (but still quiet), then I go throw up, then I go to sleep. All in the space of about 30 minutes. Ugh. Who needs that? I’d rather get punched in the face.
I got a call from Bill after he read yesterday’s post. He’s all, “Dude, you don’t get it, do you.”
“Dude, what?” I said.
“You don’t know me. You don’t know the real me. So why don’t you get down off your high horse and take a bath, you stupid flapjack.”
He’s always like all weird like that when he’s high. I could tell he was maddeningly high, his mind had gone ker-plunk, he was running around in left field without snowshoes.
I go, “Dude, calm down. Simmer.”
And then there’s a long pause, and then he goes, in this real small voice, sounding like a little transistor radio picking up signals from space, “Nobody knows the real me.”
“Dude,” I say, “Dude, listen. You have an empire to keep tabs on. So lay off the weed during the day, at least, would ya?”
“Yeah, whatever,” he goes. Then another long pause. Then he goes, real fast, “Say hi to Sheila.” Then click. He’s hung up.