My mind is oft occupied by odd thoughts and that is why I’m not on the receiving end of The Big Bucks. Or, a heartfelt and long-lasting Hug Of Appreciation from the sizzling actress, Megan Fox. You know what I think about? Besides that? I think about who would win in a fight — a gorilla or a grizzly bear. I smirk. Well. Of course. A grizzly bear. They can weigh 1,800 pounds. And a gorilla? A skimpy Nutrisystem 600 pounds. Or, 1.001167 Whoopi Goldbergs.
As this is theoretical and all upstairs in my noggin, I can make the pugilistic gorilla 10 feet tall and weigh 5.1 tons, coincidentally the same size as my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Burke.
Mrs. Burke had a giant set of diva soprano bazooms, more immense and threatening than Global Warming. Each came with their own weather system. Mrs. Burke’s endowments were so large, her arms couldn’t reach the blackboard whilst writing, “Today’s Lesson — Argentina…” without her aoogas leaving indelible and perfectly round meter-across concentric breastprints in the chalk dust. What can I say. I was in sixth grade. And, a boy, which, today, thanks to the public school system, is a mortal sin.
Anyway. In case future generations are googling “Win In A Fight, Grizz or Gorilla?” let the record state that, equal sizes, “Put your money on the ape,” which, in odd happenstance, were the last words of Charles Darwin, followed by, “GGGgggggaaaaahhhhhhhbletch…” Granted. I base this decision on my own inter-species prejudice. I share my family tree with gorillas.
Uncle Louie, on Dad’s side, 3 Billion Years B.C., comes to mind.
So. Some 265 words into today’s op/ed piece (please; don’t go back and count), I was thinking about High-Speed Internet, something that apes, bruins and moi know nothing about. “High-Speed Internet.” It’s a phrase I certainly never bandied about when I was a strapping hunter/gatherer youth with a 9-inch forehead, growing up in ancient Newhall in the 1950s, back before paved roads, and we all padded along game trails, making caveperson noises.
Right now? I’m living at the nosebleed elevations of old Newhall and TV cable is a smidge spotty, and, with that, so’s — say it with me like your life depended on it — “High-Speed Internet.” I attempted one of those Google searches. By the time my requested web pages (“SYNONYMS, PLEASE, FOR LADIES’ BREASTS”) loaded, I had time to make scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, lovely hot tea then go de-weed the upper trail on the tractor.
“Rototilling the rattlesnakes,” as we call it in the highly exciting ag business. Coincidentally, “Rototilling the Rattlesnakes” was the emotionally charged campaign slogan that got SClarita Major Jason Gibbs elected, PLUS, the title of the 1958 The Mamas & The Papas hit single. (“La-la, la-luh-la-la, Rototilling, the Rattlesnakes … won’t go, away …”) I could have raised a child and had eye surgery in the time Safari spit out a suggestion for “large breasts.”
I think Spectrum could do much better to improve my High-Speed Internet. But I think word has gotten out that I’m a r-e-g-i-s-t-e-r-e-d-w-h-i-t-e-b-e-l-t-w-e-a-r-i-n-g-G-O-P-g-u-y as opposed to those censoring, blood-slurping liberal kids in Spectrum’s Tech Department. I suspect they sort of step on the hose with both feet when it comes to the “High-Speed” in my “High-Speed Internet” plan. Yesterday? I tried watching a blooper reel on YouTube for “Bewitched.” Remember Samantha? The hubba-hubba blonde TV housewife/temptress with the supernatural powers? She flubbed her line and called one of her husbands (the second, non-alcoholic one) “Ward” instead of “Darrin.” Three solstices passed before Elizabeth Montgomery got to the goof. Worse? My WiFi slowed down to “3.” Double-worse? The reception by then was all scratchy, like on the old 1960s TV show, “The Outer Limits.” Remember the opening?
“WE — control the horizontal. WE — control the vertical.”
My first wife used to yell that a lot. When someone, like, a woman, screams that in a really deep voice and British accent, it can bring up performance anxiety.
Like all of us, I’ve been spoiled. The kids today weren’t around in the C.W.D.’s (Covered Wagon Days) when to even knock on the door of the World Wide Web, you had to go through a modem. It was a metal box the size of a meat freezer and made an ungodly sound like a vet dentist taking an industrial grinder to the incisors of a chimpanzee. Oh, the screams. Oh, the humanity. Worse? These were the early days of the Internet. There wasn’t much on it, like the wealth of Truth & Knowledge that lounges there today, waiting to be plucked. You did your search (one per day) and, 11 weeks later, your computer screen visibly shrugged and the phrase, “Hell. I dunno …” appeared. Why, it’s exactly like dealing with City Planning.
Cripes. Those modem screams. They were soul-wrenching. It was like being on a sailboat, silently gliding past Epstein Island in the Caribbean, where all those Democrats vacationed with the teenage girls.
I can appreciate security. But, with all the congressional investigations into AI, I’m beginning to suspect that Hi Tech has not my best interests at heart. I don’t know if it’s the same with you, but I have to enter a password on my keyboard for every 16 characters I type. Which doesn’t bother me as I’m not usually searching for anything vital, like, “What To Do When Spouse Suffers Heart Attack?” (Then up pops a suggested dating service ad.) I have noticed lately, every time I type in my password, which is “Mrs/Burke’$$$BigBosoms1776TheDayOfHerBirth,” a message appears:
“The password you entered does not match the password we have on file. Idiot. Don’t bother to retype your password or enter another. No matter what password you enter, it will not now, nor ever, match the password we have on file. Suck a lungful of canal water, Chango de Numbnuts… — Sincerely, Your Modem.”
John Boston wrote this week’s column in longhand, which was typed into the computer by an intern named “Tiffany.” Visit Boston’s bookstore at johnbostonbooks.com. Don’t use a modem. It will take you longer.
