Tag Archives: widget

Protect Thy Ass

beepA company sells a product called the Widget Beep 9000. The sole purpose of this gadget is to “beep” when the customer wants it. That’s it. That’s all it does.

Obviously that motherfucker sells like hotcakes. Because, we needs it.

The company (heretofore known as the Company), however, has an “agreement” that, somehow, you (heretofore known as the Schmuck) accepted simply by buying their product. Clever how that shit works.

When the time is right, pursuant to the terms of the agreement, the Company fully asserts the “absolute right and power, in its sole discretion and without any liability to Schmuck whatsoever, to cease all beeping operations of the widget, without prior notice, in perpetuity throughout the universe, known and unknown.”

Why the fuck would anyone ever agree to terms like that? Ultimately, giving someone money is giving them the power to fuck you.

I wonder how agreements like these worked in colonial times?

“Hey, Washington, I find myself in need of another one of your colonial-era chairs whittled by hand from a block of solid cherry. This will complete my collection. Anon my family will finally be able to break bread and conduct fellowship, at the same time, around hearth, heart and dining room table.”

“Hey, Adams, you useless pustule of a puke. Don’t talk to me about it. Talk to my corporation.”

“By George, what the hell is a corporation?”

“Allow me to don ye olde corporation hat and assplain it you. It’s Step #1 in fucking you red, black and blue.”

“Jolly good!”

“Now then, I direct you to focus your attention on this. I agree to sell you quantity one of Whittled Cherry 9000 and you give me 5,000 quid of two bits. Furthermore, be it known, that I alone will always decide who may sit – or not – on said chair, if ever.”

“Holy shit. That sounds like an awesome deal to me. I can’t give you my quid bits fast enough. Here, take my money! God, I love you so much, George. That’s another one I owe you. You accept tips, right? Here, try a pint of my latest brew!”

“Why the hell do we still measure things in English measurements, like pints? Gods ye fools! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Okay, whatever. Here’s your chair, puke face. Just never sit on it. Now fuck off, ye pukey puke.”

“If only Yelp! had been invented by now, I would herald the news of your beneficence to all the land, from sea to shining sea!”

Indeed. Think Adams sounds like a schmuck? I advise you to check your credit card agreements, especially the section pertaining to “binding arbitration.” You should love it because you agreed to it!

Ha ha ha, you pustule of a schmuck.

He Tasks Me

HeTasksMeWrathOfKahn

I give the orders around here.

This post is dedicated to The Boss whoever it* may be. Ed.

It happened on a work day. (Holy fuck. Is that the scariest opening ever or what?)

It was the arrival of a package that prompted the fun. The boss stopped everything he was doing. Ooh, a package had arrived.

Must. Open. Now.

His fleshy, grubby and unwashed digits picked up the box and it rotated in his massive NFL-style steroid-induced mitts. A piece of gooey food substance jiggled in his beard as he moved.

“Oh look,” he said. “I got something for you.”

Inside? You guessed it. New business cards for my department, the department where he always claimed I was in charge and had autonomy.

The cards were emblazoned with¬†his name. Not mine. And underneath, the business title was printed. “Manager.”

Indeed.

Some time later he indicated with an explosion of gas that he had a “task” for me.

All hail the task!
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Hyppo and Critter