Naturally you are following with unprecedented interest the shocking story of Mungo’s sudden decline, so here is the current state of affairs down at the Spinster HQ computer lab:
Total disarray! But the outlook, according to the Magic Eight Ball, is good.
Sure, I’m no board-certified geek, but I am a spinster aunt, which is just as good. By which I mean, I have a philips (sp?) head screwdriver. Over the years I’ve given Mungo a couple of video card transplants. I’ve performed open DVD-drive surgery to resect an impacted disc. I’ve reset its PMU and changed out its PRAM battery. I’ve reenergized its di-lithium crystals and massaged its obstreperal lobe. Thus it was for me it but the work of an instant to harvest the SATA drives from Mungo’s cold dead corpse. The drives now await transplantation into their new host bodies, which are currently being flown in by emergency airlift.
The autopsy revealed much deeply embedded dog hair, and also brown goo oozing from Mungo’s logic board. I fell to my knees, stretched my fists to the sky, and cried “NOOOOOOOO!” causing flocks of birds the world over to take flight.
Then I caved and ordered a new computer, also being flown in by emergency airlift. Lard help me, as much as Apple hates me, it’s another effing Mac.
I used to be an Apple cultist, looking down the Twisty honker at Microsoft’s cheezy UI, talking paperclips, and strange “.exe” viruses, but no more.
You know what? Fuck Apple. Like all bloated corporations with captive customers, Apple’s products are overpriced and increasingly unreliable. And omigod, the customer service? It sucks shit through Hefty bags. Considering the kind of grip $$$ they’ve extorted from me over the years, when I stagger into an Apple store with my 50-pound hunk of Chinese crap they should usher me into an Eames lounge chair, bring a bottle of wine and a tray of canapes, give me a neck rub, and listen with great interest as I speak of my hopes and dreams, of my childhood, of my relationship with my mother, of the coming feminist revolt. But instead they make me stand around, waiting.
On principle I refuse to browse the sparkling gewgaws.
Eventually, although not before the store has emptied of hot teen chicks buying iPod Nanos, they size me up as a middle-aged lady about whom the usual assumptions concerning computer literacy are made. So I give’em the old “I’ve had Macs on my desk, in my bag, and up my butt since they shoveled your first pair of Pampers into a landfill, so how about a little respect, you little retail mall toady” speech. This makes them hate me even more. They cop the ‘tude when I reveal that I didn’t buy their rip-off extended service plan, at which point they inform me with ill-concealed schadenfreude that I have to make an appointment with a “Genius,” the next available of which is next Monday at rush hour.
The crappiness of the service in their retail stores, however, is like eating a caviar taco on a yacht somewhere in the Aegean Sea compared to the condescension and rudeness when calling Customer Service, for which torture Apple charges like $92.86 per call for some tool to tell me — after asking moron questions like “Is it plugged in?” and “Did you restart it?”– that I need to take it in to the shop.
Back when I was a big smoker, I once took a Mac — Mungo’s G4 predecessor, Pongo — into a mom-and-pop repair shop. It smelled like rancid curry in there. Pop opened up my machine and recoiled against the wall, an arm flung across his face.
“It stinks!” he cried. “It stinks like cigarettes!”
Well, when I got that computer back it stunk like rancid curry for about 3 months.
No point to that story, really.
I want to be done with Apple once and for all, but dang it, I’m too old to learn a new platform, and they know it, the benighted geekbags. At least I have the small satisfaction of knowing that, by cleverly sending off for third-party RAM instead of ordering their ridiculously overpriced DIMMs, I kept a cool 5 bills out of their evil clutches.
Except, you know, for the iPhone. That thing is fucking cool.
I may or may not resume blaming the patriarchy from a non-catastrophic computer situation viewpoint tomorrow.