My new Macbook is GARBAGE

I received the monstrosity yesterday morning from FedEx (I incorrectly identified the carrier yesterday as UPS - my error), and commenced to set it up in my apartment after work.

Before long, it became clear that the operating system, if I can even call it that, would not run downloaded .exe files. Instead, it insisted on the cognomen "application," a term so vague I could not begin to decipher its possible meanings. I soon discovered that it would be completely impossible to download AIM 4.3 (the indisputable kingpin of the instant message world) from oldversion.com. Instead, I was asked to settle for some nonsense called iChat, which apparently features videoconferencing to the exclusion of sensible layout. Two angry calls to Apple technicians yielded a surplus of ignorance, and I began to positively fume.

The packaged had not been disassembled for thirty minutes when I grew so frustrated that I vowed to dispose of the infernal machine. I had nearly commenced dousing the damned thing with olive oil (the viscosity of which would destroy it completely) when an idea alit in my infuriated brain. Why not use the opportunity for public edification?

So thinking, I borrowed my roommate's writing desk (my own armoire, used for similar purposes, contained a full wardrobe, and was, perforce, difficult to lug) and made for the street. I placed the macbook atop the escritoire, and proceeded to harangue Macintosh, Apple, and all subsidiaries of said company, in my harshest timbre. The volume, I should note, was not insignificant; at a certain renowned Renaissance fair, which I attended at the behest of a former girlfriend whose name I shall not mention, I was told by several knowledgeable antiquarians that my pipes would be more than well-suited for the occupation of medieval town crier.

This continued for perhaps fifteen to twenty minutes. Drawing on association, I began to critique thsoe patrons listening to iPods, and admittedly became too physical in one instance, which led to predictable threats and blustering on the part of the transgressed. A swarthy dose of rodomontade on my part sent her scurrying off, however, and further altercations were forestalled.

Missteps aside, I succeeded in accurately depicting the inefficacy of my new computer. I offered passerby the chance to witness firsthand its instant messaging shortcomings, but precious few showed interest. Such is the apathy of our generation, I'm told.

In any case, I determined to continue the whole night long, should the need arise, if it meant dealing a serious blow to the company's image. If I may be permitted a brief wordplay, I vowed that they would no longer reign as the Apple of the public eye. In order to prepare, I retired to my apartment for a quick snack of apricots and lemon juice, a combination sure to provide sustenance for an intense evening.

Yet upon my return to the sidewalk, both the Macbook and my roommate's writing desk had disappeared. Vigorous questioning of nearby pedestrians yielded no leads, and in short time I quit the search, stymied by hopelessness and a growing inclination to finish The Cossacks, one of Tolstoy's more incendiary novellas.

To the thief, who will undoubtedly be reading this blog with a gloating smirk, I say the following: save your grins until you've more closely examined the capabilities of your loot, for if you are any kind of discriminating instant messenger, severe disappointment is in store. Such are the pitfalls of your chosen profession, and I dare say all future felicities will belong to me.

Due to a certain bulky inheritance received from a great uncle with whom I developed a childhood bond (we would often sit in his den of a morning with two copies of the local paper, taking turns mocking the columnists), the loss does not greatly burden me from a fiscal standpoint. In fact, I've already ordered another Macbook. If one vandal thinks he can stop what may well turn into a powerful grassroots movement, he is sorely mistaken. The demonstration will resume on Friday, if Apple's shipping date is to be believed. Thus far I've been duly impressed with that aspect of the company's functioning.

As a final addendum to the narrative, it looks as though I'll be forced to replace my roommate's erstwhile furniture. At first I pled ignorance to the Case of the Missing Desk, but I'd earlier made the mistake of drawing up plans for my forthcoming protest, detailing in clear terms (and one sketch) the escritoire's role. When he discovered the blueprint, which I'd neglected to burn, I was caught red-handed, and am now forced to pay what I consider an astronomical rate for an item whose utility could be easily duplicated with milk crates and a sturdy piece of plywood.