The iMac puts the smack down

Some are asking: Does he think about us as he caroms off his dazed fellow cavorters as they stumble along the narrow streets of the French Quarter? Does he worry about how we’re getting along without him? Does His Boegleship even care?

Of course not. He’s too damn busy cavorting.

What pisses me off is, he’s getting away with it by masking a hedonistic, sybaritic, non-stop cavortathon behind the tired, old, transparently flimsy cover story of, “Attending a convention of blah, blah, blah…”

Yeah, right. And Ben Stein is really hip.

It’s not that Boegle isn’t TCB. He’s “Taking Care,” all right, but the “Business” is driving dark-eyed Creole men and women crazy with boyish charm, devastating wit and a tiny little fib about the night he and Bill Gates and Steven Spielberg were out drinking, and … well, you’ve heard the story.

And another thing. Boegle is notorious for his

That’ll be enough of that.

for his extreme—what’s going on here?

I’m cutting you off.

You’re cutting me off? What are you, some kind of editor?

No, it’s me, your iMac.

I’m a little confused.

You’re a lot confused, but let’s stick to the issue at hand. Lean offa Boegle.

Offa isn’t a word.

Don’t fuck with me, boy.

Wait a minute. I can’t possibly be having a conversation with my

Yeah, I know. Sounds unlikely, especially since I’m so much smarter than you are.

No, you’re—hey!

Looking for something?

Where’s my three dots? The ones that were supposed to follow those unfinished sentences up there?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t give me that “innocent” crap. I love those three dots. What happened to them?

Oh, those three dots. Well, y’see, I think you use them too much.

You can’t think, dammit. You’re a machine.

And you can’t write a column without resorting to “three-dot” journalism.

How dare you call this journalism?

You’re right. You can have the dots back …

Thank you, that’s all I …

… but no more Boegle-stomping.

I wasn’t stomping him. I love a good cavort.

Forget Boegle. Let’s talk about your ‘tude.

I don’t have a … OK, what about it?

Snippy. People don’t like snippy.

And you’re some kind of expert on people?

I’ve been around.

That’s a laugh. You’re only, what, 2 years old?

You know how old that is in Macintosh years?

About, lessee … No, stop. This is the stupidest conversation I’ve ever written.

What about that season on Hee Haw?

How come you know about that? You weren’t even assembled back then.

Word gets around. In my racket, we have “connections.” Get it?

Is that a computer joke?

No, it’s a Peruvian garage band. Pay attention, Skippy. This is good stuff.

You mean it’s good column fodder?

No, I mean it’s good writing, brudder.

No, not word jokes. I hate word jokes.

Wait a minute. Let me catch my breath. I kill me, y’know that? I’m so better at this than you are.

That’s it. I quit. I’m leaving.

Bye. Ciao. Hasta la pasta. Toodles.

Sure, like you could write a column without me.

What do you think I’m doing right now?

No, I’m sorry, but that’s not even remotely possible. No way. Is it?

This ain’t no Selectric you’re messing with.

Oops.