The Box makes you a better person. That’s not a punch line. I’m thinking no one will argue with me either “I’m the same asshole I’ve always been, in fact shittier, I just kicked my girlfriends goldfish, and I added more pee to her alphabet soup (the letter, dumbass, I don’t pee in soup, well, not hers, yours maybe)” I’m serious, no hyperbole, though, better is kind of a non-committal word. In context it would just mean, in a literal translation, that you have more person stuff to you now, which is sort of contrary to what the less literal translation of a more positive or helpful or even morally sound would mean. Having more person stuff doesn’t mean any of that, peoples is kind of fucked up. It’s what makes them so charming, well it makes them charming to the likes of you and I and we’re kind of flawed. At least you are, I probably am too, I mean I do associate with the likes of you.
It’s not really the box that makes you a better person, but, because here’s where we both are, the box is certainly a player. It’s the daily, sometimes, exfoliation of your soul skin (Heh, I did that to make you cringe. Don’t know if it worked on you, it might take me a half hour to uncringe up in here). I mean most of us write about shit that happened and, you know, think about it. You write, you think, you become better at person shit, like articulating, anticipating, paying attention, and, you know, probably things that could be more directly construed as social skills. Um, live contact is usually better for social skills. Just saying, if I convince you the box has made you better, don’t go all exclusive batshit.
I guess I could make a serious attempt at a serious entry here, I mean I am serious and entries are what these things are called. It’s the me part that puts the doobie in dubious. No, I’m not stoned --- oh, shit, does my mom’s ophthalmologist not have a sense of humor, when he told her she didn’t have glaucoma and I said something like ‘See mom? You didn’t have to get so stoned to come here’ he just looked at us both blankly, my mom, who does have a sense of humor, just looked a bit sheepish about it all, hoping, perhaps, that would have sent dude over the top to smiley land. Nothing. Not a damn thing. --- where was I? Oh yeah, not stoned. Huh, yeah, nobody ever says that when they aren’t stoned. I’m not though, seriously look at my I’s, no hearts or red to the dots.
I am, however, sore as a motherfucker. Well, I’m sore as a sore motherfucker, I’m sorer than a motherfucker who’s just a little sore. So, dawg, you ask in your snotty little ‘sure, you’re not stoned, and yep, box, better person, more person stuff’ whiney little voice. It’s like a squirrel that voice, high up in a tree with a bushy tail. Because, my nut stealing and not storing little buddy, among saving the day and being as righteous as a motherfucker (not a sore motherfucker this time, a righteous one. I’ll make footnotes next time; it’s hard to tell the motherfuckers without a score card. Even moms have a problem with it) I got all my barebones stuff and some secret sauce extra padding, and I am broadcasting to you live from a seriously hard corp motherfucker of a computer (um, that’d be the sort of motherfucker that engages in coitus with his, and I suppose her, mother. Though computers don’t actually reproduce, they sure do send and receive a lot of images of acts that could lead to progeny and acts that won’t lead to progeny but certainly involve some of the bits and pieces that are also used in the reproduction process.). Wait. Shit. I’m the computers mom.
T’any rate eight cores of raging fury and other shit and not a single glitch. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that. It’s almost always a “Shit” and cracking the case back open because I left a burning cigarette in there. I’ve really only screwed the pooch the one time in, you know, a quarter century of building these things, and, now, I’ve done it once without a hiccup. I know, you wanna hear about screwing the pooch. Shit. I take back the becoming a better person part. To keep it short, once, and I’ve built dozens of these things, I pushed the twenty pin power supply to motherboard connection into the wrong place and with a little Marion berry jam and some butter that motherboard would be part of a well-balanced breakfast.
This bad boy, the very bad boy whispering these letters at light speed, well, it’s the shit. I should be wearing a crash helmet and asbestos gloves. Go be better people motherfuckers.
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