This morning, as I waited for my toothbrush to finish updating its directory, I couldn’t help wondering if the city bus I usually take to work would have finished upgrading its registry in time. There’s nothing worse than boarding a bus that’s in the middle of a major service pack upgrade.
Having finished with the update, my toothbrush automatically restarted itself and was now buffering at an excruciatingly slow pace.
Forget that, I said to myself, and walked out of the bathroom, indignant at the way my own toothbrush was treating me.
Outside the sun was shining…no, wait, that’s what people used to say before the Sun underwent a facelift. Now our formerly shiny star looks like a spinning circle, with the words “Please wait for the Sun to finish updating” scrolling right under it. Oh, well, we were sick of sunshine anyhow.
I boarded my bus and sat in the back so that I could fully devote myself to spacing out. All of a sudden the bus came to a screeching halt and then began to move backwards. “Sorry about that, folks,” said the driver, “the update didn’t take, so we have to go back to the beginning of our morning route, which is on the other side of the city.”
Late for work only four hours, I snuck into my designated cubicle and promptly went to sleep. Office work is such a pain in the ass.
At lunch I pondered going across the street to Joe’s Digital Pancakes, but remembering that more hard sleep awaited me in the afternoon, I opted to just chow down a frozen meal in the company cafeteria.
Alas, lunch was simply not meant to be. My frozen beef stroganoff, which looked exactly like the contents of a dead cow’s rectum, couldn’t fit into the microwave. “It is, after all, called a MICROwave,” said one of my snooty coworkers. The latest update, speeding up the operating system and clearing up some minor upload/download issues, shrank the microwave to the seize of a match box. My beef stroganoff, left in the fridge overnight, underwent an important anti-malicious software upgrade, ballooning to the size of a small delivery van.
Lunchless, I spent the afternoon hard at sleep.
Post meridiem break interrupted my weekly assignment, which often baffles me with almost insurmountable challenges. This time I had a particularly difficult task of uploading short clips of impossibly cute kittens doing impossibly cute things. As I departed, seven of my colleagues began the arduous task of counting the number of views, done by hand to prevent lethal miscalculations.
Deciding to grab a byte to eat during my break, which is usually only 18% loaded by the time I have to head back to my cube, I ran out into the street to find Kilo Byte, the falafel vendor. He’s one of the best because you get exactly one kilo per byte for only 756 bitcoins.
Instead of old Kilo, I ran into the Prince of Sudan, who usually steers clear of my partition of town, preferring to roam the empty spaces of the reformatted E Drive.
The Prince really used to be a prince, but after a very unfortunate and nearly deadly incident in the Royal Penthouse #11 of the Abu Dubai Home Edition Hotel, he lost his official designation because he was unable to cover the costs incurred by his stay at this swanky location, which used to be easily accessible by rick-clicking near the exit for the Hard Drive (now the Home Edition is only available in Ubuntu, which is a country in Africa renowned for its outstanding cuisine and home-made sex toys).
Anyhow, the Prince accosted me as I attempted to cross the street, telling me some cockamamie story about how the Home Edition made him wash dishes to pay off his debt.
No sooner had I shrugged off the Prince, who (BTW) looks more pixely than ever, when widow Upsala di Youmustbeshittingme jumped right in front of me, trying to stop me as I dived for Kilo’s falafel cart.
Upsala wasn’t always a widow. She also used to be an old maid and worked numerous jokes as one of the two guys who walk into the bar (she used to be a man, duh). Her husband of more than seven battery life cycles died after a dead pixel fell on his mustache.
As I watched Kilo disappear around the corner, Upsala begged me to provide her with my bank account info. Apparently the widow had come into a large inheritance of Spanish gold, recovered after a thorough virus scan was performed on some long-forgotten external drives. The only problem for Upsala was that she couldn’t get her mouse on the gold until she withdrew all but 0.91% of my life savings from my bank account.
Glad to be able to help, not only did I give her my savings account info, but I also promptly emptied my pockets and gave her the shirt off my back.
On the way back to the office, dazed by hunger, I tripped first over a weather update popup (rain possible on the coast of Madagascar–but which coast?!), and then over a news flash informing me that Dow Jones fell down seven points. Jones used to be my neighbor, and I remember when he used to play tic-tac-toe with that nyse guy from New Amsterdam. Interestingly, they both always won, and I, though I never played with them, had to pay for the next round of drinks.
The rest of the day at work was pure hell. I couldn’t concentrate on sleeping hard, so I dozed. This upset my task manager, who ordered me to perform a quick scan and immediately head for the main menu.
Increasingly suspicious that my identity had been stolen by Amanda I. Wanttobeyourfuckbuddy, I skipped the main menu and headed straight home. But I had forgotten than in order to get home I now need to hit tab and then backspace, I tumbled down a dark corridor, where a strange man kept offering me a penis enlargement (which I accepted; who wouldn’t?!) and random people kept having sex over and over again.
Thank god I could scroll down to the Comments Section, where all of my genius friends reside.