Twelve Bleeps of Protest

On the first day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
A worm that corrupted drive C:

VIRUS

It's a pleasant summer's night, circa 1992. I ought to be out enjoying it, but instead, I'm cooped up in the worst room in Ontario. The walls are floor-to-ceiling pink, embellished with a pattern of interlocking bows. The carpet's probably white, but the reflection from the walls has turned it a disturbing shade of My Little Pony rose. There are two chairs: a comfy rocking chair, and the one I'm sitting on. My chair is not comfy. It's a dreadful lopsided thing, held together with a dressing-gown cord and a prayer. There's a window just above my head, adorned with various suncatchers, a painted Aztec artifact, and a big green bird. The bird is eating the Venetian blinds. I can hear its beak scraping together as it gnaws. It's worse than fingernails on the blackboard: skrrrka, skrrrka, skrrrka!

One day, in this very room, a crow will force its way in through the windowscreen and bite me bloody. A dying rat will sink its teeth into my hand, then succumb to rigor mortis before I can pry it free. A box-cutter will escape my sweaty grip, and embed itself in my foot. But the pain in store for me tonight is of a different sort entirely. It is the pain of cruel, cruel betrayal, from none other than my beloved PC.

I hate this bloody room, I type. I'm writing a letter to one of my mates back in Cambridge. You wouldn't believe this place. It's like Barbie hell. It's like someone took a pat of Gibbs Dentifrice and set a grenade to it. It's like an unholy union of Pepto-Bismol, pink foxgloves, and rock candy. If I stare at the wallpaper for more than a few seconds at a time, my eyes go all funny, as if they're trying to jump out of my--

"Aaaaaaaaaugh! Jesus! Fuck! Ow!"

A great, horrible death's head has just taken over my screen. I've never seen anything like it. This is well before the World Wide Web has made these sorts of things commonplace. Besides, I'm not even online. One minute, I'm staring at the serene blue-grey of Word Perfect 5.1, and the next--faugh! I jerk backwards to get away from it, and the bum leg breaks off my chair. By the time I've scraped myself off the floor, the apparition's gone, and the blind-chewing bird has had a shite on my desk.

A virus scan fails to turn up anything out of the ordinary. The death's head never returns. Everybody thinks I made it up. Who knows?--maybe I did. You hear about people who start believing their own lies, after telling them enough times.

* * *

On the second day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

SPAM

Socar's Delicious Ham, Ham, Ham, Bacon, Lettuce, and Spam Sarnie Recipe

Ingredients:
Ham, black forest (one slice)
Ham, maple glazed (one slice)
Ham, honey roasted (one slice)
Bacon, non-Canadian (three rashers)
Lettuce, Romaine (several shreds)
Spam (one box)
Bread, sourdough (two slices)

1) Fry bacon till pleasantly crispy. None of that limp-arsed sissy bacon, mind. Us rats like our bacon good and stiff.

2) Fry ham, ham, ham, and spam lightly in the grease left over from the bacon.

3) Pat residual grease off all meatsome items.

4) Toast bread till warm and golden-brown.

5) Pile ham, ham, ham, bacon, and lettuce on bread. Add salt, pepper, and mustard to taste.

6) Throw away the fucking spam.

7) Put on the other bit of bread.

There you go. Wasn't that lovely?

* * *

On the third day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

JOKE

There exists a joke of legend--a joke so bad, a joke so lame, grim, and patently awful, that none dare utter its punchline. That joke, or so the story goes, was cracked at a long-ago college party, and elicited such a chorus of groans and wails that it was heard up and down the street. The dog covered its ears, and the neighbours called the police. And that joke was dubbed The Geraldo Joke, for it had something to do with Geraldo.

Unfortunately, it was so dreadful no-one remembers it.

* * *

On the fourth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

NERDS

Where better to find nerds than on IRC?

[socar] I found a girl on livejournal.com who thinks she's married to Sephiroth. You know, from Final Fantasy VII? Long white hair, Lego face?

[Jaded_Sod] That's nothing. There's at least five hundred Mrs. Sephiroths on Livejournal alone.

[socar] ...

[socar] See, that's why I don't date Internet people. You could meet this guy, and he seems perfectly normal, then--pouf!--he thinks he's Super Mario, or something.

[socar] I can just see it now--we're in bed, and he's got to eat a mushroom to get hard.

[socar] (making Super Mario sound-effects) Woup-woup-woup-WOUP!

* * *

On the fifth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

MEME-ME

NINE INCONSEQUENTIAL FACTS ABOUT ME

1) I don't think pirates, ninjas, or cats are particularly amusing, in and of themselves.

2) One time, I got caught at a social function without tampons. If I had used a sock instead, this story might have been funny, but I just went to a nearby gas-station and bought some.

3) I have two pairs of nail-clippers, but I can't find one of them.

4) I have no particular feelings, one way or the other, about string beans.

5) Whenever I sneeze, I yell "atchoo." People think I'm a loud sneezer, but I'm really just a loud yeller. The sneezes themselves are quite dainty.

6) I rarely think about mosquitoes.

7) I don't have a dog.

8) Sometimes, my nose itches.

9) When my nose itches in public, I rub my whole face so people don't get the impression I'm picking my nose.

(And here, a bonus fact: I bloody hate these Internet memes.)

* * *

On the sixth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Six nasty e-mails,
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

LOATHING

Brevity is not always the soul of wit.

HE SENT ME A SHORT NOTE, EXPRESSING HIS DISAPPROVAL

"I do not like," his note began,
(Except he spelled it "liek"--oh, man!)
And then he wrote (as his sort do)
"...you 'anymore.'" (one word, not two).
And that was all the bastard said;
I hit Delete and went to bed.

* * *

On the seventh day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Seven scary snapshots,
Six nasty e-mails,
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

CHEESE!

Three years old, and I'm already in trouble with the fashion police.

At twenty-three, however, I'm a drag king.

It seems I've been dead for a number of years.

Stella's had enough of this nonsense.

Meanwhile, in prison....

No, Rat A is not ready for her close-up.

And no exhibition of scary snapshots would be complete without the Big Blue Headwillies (or, in this case, the Big Sepia Headwillies).

* * *

On the eighth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Eight spywares spying,
Seven scary snapshots,
Six nasty e-mails,
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

SPYING

In Sweden, spy means vomit, and glass means ice-cream. The word spyglass must be awfully disturbing for Swedes.

* * *

On the ninth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Nine stalkers stalking,
Eight spywares spying,
Seven scary snapshots,
Six nasty e-mails,
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

ODE

It seems someone on myspace.com has honoured me with an ode. ("Honoured" and "ode," in this context, are both subject to interpretation.) The author is not, to the best of my knowledge, someone I know.

Ode to Socar Myles

Rats.
Chains.
MINE ALL MINE
You can't have one
I bought one of those
Rats' turds are way too big
you bitch
that doesn't mean
I like your braids
that doesnt mean
i dont like your art
So i like your head!
I bought a mouse instead.

Blimey. I, er--that is to say, I--I'm speechless.

* * *

On the tenth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Ten smirking bluescreens,
Nine stalkers stalking,
Eight spywares spying,
Seven scary snapshots,
Six nasty e-mails,
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

DEATH

Recently, my computer suffered--well, not a crash, so much as an electronic hiccup. Directories evaporated, dumping thousands of unrelated files into a sort of companionable pool. Companionable for the files, that is. Bloody annoying for me, who had to sort them all out.

Among the .exes and .mp3s, I came upon a couple of .jpgs, which I present forthwith--Blob, on the day she died:

Blob was named after the rat in Sierra's Phantasmagoria II, best remembered for one immortal line of dialogue: I told that scaly-tailed slut to get a job, but she just peed on me.

Blob had an extra-long tail.

Blob's ears were more twitchy than the ears of this other rat:

Blob died of cancer in early 2001. That other rat died a few weeks later, and had a Viking funeral.

* * *

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Eleven perverts winking wanking,
Ten bluescreens smirking,
Nine stalkers stalking,
Eight spywares spying,
Seven scary snapshots,
Six nasty e-mails,
Five barmy memes,
Four hopeless nerds,
Three bad jokes,
Two dirty spams,
And a worm that corrupted drive C:

BOSS

"Oh, dear God. I just asked my future boss for the URL to his office."

"You think that's bad? My boss once asked me for the URL to the bathroom."

"So?"

"So I referred him to tubgirl.com."

"Ouch."

* * *

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my modem sent to me
Twelve bleeps of protest
As I unplugged the bloody PC.

<< Socar's Unsubstantiated Theories of Inoffensive Internetting | Main | King Stupid >>