Friday, April 8, 2005

Breaking routine utterly vexes me, dear reader, even if it involves something as trivial as an Internet connection. I don’t know how it is for you, but in my case we’re talking trauma. Let’s say there’s a postman, right, and he’s got a pleasant route, fine weather, singing flowers, that kind of stuff, but then you pull the old switcheroo. You play the capricious card, and with it comes all the fixings. Hail. Rain clouds hovering right above the head. Frigid wind. Snarling dogs nipping at the heels. The very hellbeasts of the netherworld unleashed from a molten fissure made cavernous.

In a way, in a melodramatic way, this is how things have been. Temperature prematurely regressed to “feels like 35ºF” recently. Sink was broken. Internet gone. Internet was fixed, but sink continued to clog. Sink was fixed, Internet became clogged. Internet fixed again, except water started leaking from the faucet. This marathon of headaches, well, I’m winning it.

Yesterday, when the mouths of Comcast users were fused shut for quite a few hours, I found momentary comfort in realizing I wasn’t alone. And then it occurred to me how stupid this sentiment sounded. I began to think about the same problems transposed to the past, which took shape as an English hamlet, kinda like one you’d find in Canterbury Tales. It was fun, at least until I blacked out.

Buying Stuff
Now: “WTFOMG, I got a 404 right when I hit my bid button! TTYL401k, I’m never using eBay again. Aw, shitdamn. What is that smell coming from my kitchen sink?” screamed Peter angrily.

Then: “BURNE THE SHOPPEKEEPER at yon stake, but notte before I haven perced him with my lance. To arms, to arms! Shite, who broketh the village damme againn? The foule showres must beeth stopped!” screameth Lord Petrarch the Younger.

Reading Mail
“I think I’ll surf over to Gmail.c– Okay, let’s try Hotm– Fine, Yaho– I’m just going to stare at the screen until it gets better,” said Kristin peevishly.

“Ha ha, you’re so funny. Wanna hit some bars?” asked her friend Jen.

“Um, why is our kitchen wet?”

“Ere Galahad returneth with ourn magick scroll, he beeth usefulle as an unfurled page,” sayeth Lady Krystenne.

“Chortle, chortle! Thou art hotte, for thou maken bawdy innuendoe verily. ‘Tis your lucke Galahad beeth your lord. He wieldeth his iambic pentametre with skill. Libations, perchance?” inquireth Lady Jenaveve.

“To libations, aye, godspede. But softe! The chamber beeth moiste. Wherefore is the scullery maide, that unstaunched wench? Wench!”

Current Events
“Hmmm,” wondered Chuck aloud, “where did the Pope go? Let’s check out nytimes.co– Oh, well. Guess I’ll fall asleep in this puddle of waste water.”

“Cursed days cometh, and darke houres doth sweepen over me. The parchment of Beowulf–it flyeth from mortal sight,” sigheth Sir Charles. “Yon ditch flush with olde pee, swaite Sappho’s nectar, beeth my succor.”

Checking the Weather
“Oh, shits! Weather.com is down again. What was that explosion?” exclaimed Jim.

“O, sundry shite! It raineth. Beeth a catapulte I hear?” exclaimeth Cardinal Jerome MXIX.

Godspede and Good Weekende
Exaggerated? Of course. Sometimes it seems like I’m shouting into a box and, on rare occasions, the box explodes into jagged pieces. Whenever that happens, you should get a band-aid or something, I don’t know. Help yourself.