When it come to computers, I’m a full blown idiot. As a stay-at-home dad, my day usually involves hooting like an orangutan and tending to my son’s poopy pants—not exactly a George Clooney lifestyle. But when my ancient candy colored iMac recently barked and hissed at me when I tried to open a simple email, I realized the gigabytes had passed me by. It was finally time for me to leave the woods of domesticity and upgrade.
I strolled into the Apple store with my motormouth son on my heals. The in-store rave music was so loud and irritating I felt like punching someone, particularly the young male employee with the sour puss expression who sneered at me when I walked in. I approached the pasty employee and he froze manikin stiff, seriously trying to hide behind his perfectly placed bangs.
"What kind of iMac do you have?" He asked me as he nonchalantly checked two seperate palm pilots.
"The blue one," I said. He let out a huge sigh of exhaustion.
"How much memory does your iMac have?" He asked.
"Um…lots?" I replied. My son then pulled out a booger and gave it a quizzical look. Then he ate it.
Next, I talked to a young female worker who had dreadlocks and looked like she sparked revolutions in her spare time. As my spastic three year old lifted up the front of my shirt, showing the entire store my grizzled stomach, she hated him with all of her might.
"Is it true that Macs are for artists and PCs are for perverts?" I jokingly asked her.
"You said it not me," She sneered.
Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything.
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