OMGWTFBBQXMAS
There’s a whole different bunch of people who emerge at this time of year. There’s the little lady and her billion-year-old mother who are walking two abreast pushing a trolley at 1 inch per second down a narrow shopping aisle, deep in conversation and oblivious to a growing queue of irate shoppers behind them. There’s the guys in trilby hats who seem to be blind and walk into you, or suddenly stop for no apparent reason when you’re behind them. Then there’s the old trouts who engage the cashier in extended conversations about home made Christmas decorations, despite the presence of an impatient and dangerous-looking mob of shoppers waiting to check out behind them. Or the people who arrive at the till carrying a single item, and so look like they will have a quick transaction, but end up needing to fill out some form for a gift card or an order for commutating flurble-durbles in *red*, because “you only have green ones” (announced reproachfully as if only fools buy green).
And what is all this malarkey with Rewards Cards? Let’s take Borders as an example. Instead of just being able to pay for my magazine, and get out of there, I am now faced with having to answer questions about their Rewards Card, which isn’t worth the plastic it’s printed on, since it only gives you discount on the latest Danielle Steele full price hardback book entitled “Plunging Vibrant Members Between Ripped Heaving Bodices in 17th Century Versailles”.
“Do you have a Borders Card?”
“I do, but I left it at home.”
“I can look it up for you. What’s your email address?”
“ArbeBlarbleMcFarble@Incomprehensible.com”
“Can you spell that for me?”
“A-R-B- …….. ” (several minutes later) ” … Dot-C-O-M”
“I haven’t got a record of that. What’s your telephone number?”
“1519176″
“No. Maybe you registered with a different number?”
“Try 5263991″
“Hmm. It’s not showing in the database. What’s the name again?”
“Freddy Impatiently-Waiting”
“Is Impatiently your middle name?”
“Yes. Look, it doesn’t really matter. Can we leave it?”
“Alright. Or you could sign up for another one. Would you like to do that?”
“What sort of discount do I get?”
“Well you get 3% off Danielle Steele’s latest bodice-ripping member-plunging hardback, but we’re out of stock.”
“Forget it. Could I please leave now? I really want to leave. I am very keen to exit from this shop. Do you have a small padded room where I can go and scream my head off without alarming your other customers?”
It’s all about volume. Are you worried about the volume of a) your beverage container, b) your trunk, c) your microwave oven, d) your ejaculate? I say “tosh” to all that. I prefer my stuff in moderate volumes.
On a completely different topic, I often wonder why they pay me. Right now I am drudging through the preparation of a lecture on “Grids and Networks”, subjects which I am by no means an expert on, and for which I have feelings that range from idle sparks of interest every six months, to profound boredom, with the preponderence of weight firmly towards the latter. Why am I being paid to prepare these slides and talk about them? Lord alone knows.
There are some things I am quite good at, but I don’t really do those things anymore. Instead I talk or write about them, unless I can avoid it. I would much rather be doing those things, of course.
On a more upbeat note, I understand that Christmas is approaching. We have already received a couple of Christmas cards. It’s not clear whether these are supposed to be for Christmas 2007 or Christmas 2008: they have come so early it’s hard to be sure.
I am toying with the idea of a custom designed Cogshifter Christmas Card this year, something that will exercise my nascent artistic skills (cue howls of derisive laughter from the stalls) and be sufficiently rude that you wont be showing it to granny, and will opt to mount it just behind the snowy wooded glade cottage scene card sent by Uncle Fred, thus concealing the profane artwork. If you would fancy such a Cog card, drop me a line: cogshifter at gmail.com
I just received a Christmas card and letter from some elderly relations in New Hampshire. The letter finished up: “Our health continues to be good, despite all the things that are wrong with us.”
Which I found amusing, and thought I should share.
The office next to mine has been empty for a few months, and I got tired of it. So I put a big name sticker on the door, saying Leonardo da Vinci. Will I get into trouble?
How neat it would be to have Leonardo in the next office! One could nip in for a discussion about helicopters, and loan him some shampoo. He’d be all hunched up over his scrolls, dipping his nib in ink, and writing backwards using a mirror. He’d probably be glad of a bacon, stewed apple and Gorgonzola pizza, brought over from the canteen. And one could borrow one of his hats.
Thanksgiving doesn’t do it for me. I can’t get excited. All this “what are you thankful for” stuff makes me cringe. Besides, big Turkey meals are for Christmas, with a flaming pudding, a concealed sixpence, and a bunch of crackers over port, with daft little plastic moustaches flying around the room. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy the excellent turkey meal we had at the bovriotic’s place, because I did. But Christmas is my thing. I guess I’m just old-fashioned that way (I mean .gt. 300 years old fashioned).
My curve tracer has a weird problem that the combined intellect of the Tekscopes group cannot fathom. The trace is dim. At serious risk to life and limb I have been making measurements of the HV over the weekend. I need to write a Last Will and Testament, just in case.
I am listening to a recording of “Oh! What a Lovely War!” I dubbed from an old reel-to-reel tape of my Dad’s. There are some good songs. I especially like the one that starts:
“It was Christmas Day in the Harem,
The Eunuchs were standing round,
And hundreds of beautiful women,
were stretched out on the ground.
When in strode the bold, bad Sultan,
And gazed at his marble halls, saying
‘What do you want for Christmas, boys?’
And the Eunuchs answered ‘Balls!’”
I have received:
- A multipurpose tool
- A double DVD of The Office, series 1
- A book on Sex
- A cocktail glass
- A thing for making burned marshmallows indoors
- A little torch
- A framed set of atmospheric misty photos (shared with )
I feel there is a ulterior theme running through this lot, but haven’t yet identified it. I have been playing with my tool for most of the afternoon. What else is there to do when it’s raining cats and dogs outside?
