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Der Gothmann: The Humanoid Boogie

It's full of Humanoid Rock'n'Roll.

I have a serious gripe.

What the fuck do you mean; "Invalid quantum process, cannot integrate the matrix manifold"!?

This week’s belated post was going to cover the subject of musical emotional impact and why modern “pop” is constructed from electronically solidified wank.

Now, I have a much more pressing hatred; one, to which, all of you have doubtlessly been subject.

While typing up my post on WordPress, you see, I reached for the ever-handy “Save Draft” button and gave it a click. While the little twirly doughnut, (the Windows 7 equivalent of the 90’s computer “egg timer“,) did it’s thing, I was mysteriously logged out of my dashboard, and presented with a demand that I log back in.  Upon doing so, I searched frantically for my saved draft, only to discover that it had been mangled and half destroyed by WordPress.  The most aggravating particular of which being, the last seven or eight times I “saved my progress” had been ignored and/or overruled, and it was suddenly as though I had not written more than half a sodding paragraph!

It should be noted at this point, that I do not respond well to a computer failure.  I start by bashing my hands on the flat of my laptop or my desk.  A low, visceral growl often follows and is topped off by a scream as I lead on, into shouting at the screen while frothing, uncontrollably, at the mouth.

By this point, one of my eyes has started to rotate gently in its socket and the blood vessels on my temple swell promptly, in a pattern – somewhat resembling the mark of Cain.

Many of my friends will probably fall over themselves to testify to this, and describe it in detail, or perhaps with more than a little anecdotal creativity.

I have a theory concerning computer rage.  I believe that a computer’s ability to appear sentient causes us to form a strange emotional attachment to it.  When it inevitably “misbehaves”, we feel the unquenchable urge to reprimand it for its foolishness.  It is only when this urge arises, that we remember that the machine is not a sentient being, and become aggravated with it for tricking us into caring.

By the way, whomsoever deems this an appropriate opportunity to appraise me of the marvellous benefits of a Macintosh over a Windows PC, shall be required – by me – to promptly carve the words: “shut the fuck up” into their faces with the sharp corners of their own motherboard.

 

 

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