Okay, so maybe I’m making this a little dramatic and the mass of biblical references is probably unnecessary, but jokes aside, today was a magical day. No longer will I be forced to unplug the brown plastic 70s phone from the wall. No longer will I have to uncoil the phone cord from the computer and pull it gently over the floor as if I were laying an explosives fuse across the living room. No longer will I have to listen to that god-awful dial-up noise... (Oh yes, reach into your memories of yore, you remember...)
Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop-Boop
eeeeeeeeee-eerrrrrrrrr-eeeeee-yeeeeeeooooooowwwwwww-eeeeerrrrrrreeeeeewwwww
(insert terrible screeching sound here)
static.........
Connected!
My coil of wires has been replaced with a shining beacon of hope, a beautiful white glowing box that sits on the desk, flashing blue and signaling that there is a connection (lasting longer than 20 sustained minutes and moving at a pace faster than that of a Greek foot messenger) to the outside world. A little less beautiful is the abomination that the Hughes internet man decided to erect in our yard. Instead of your standard “let’s just screw this to the side of your house” operation, he deemed it necessary for a free-standing pole to be set into place, complete with a demonstration of his heaving, flabby man-muscles, concrete and a hole drilled through the floor of our house.
Now I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong, if this guy were in a little better shape and were to put up some resistance for the services he were about to provide, I would have happily become bikini clad in seconds, pouring the concrete myself in sub-zero conditions. I might have even gone so far as to bring in an ice chest of beer out and dance around for his amusement while he hooked up the magical little box. Thank god it didn’t come to that, because well, let’s be honest... my pasty, scantily-clad body dancing awkwardly about in the snow probably wouldn’t have helped the situation much. (Great visual picture though) But hell, had it seemed appropriate, I would have happily offered.
With all of this exciting commotion taking place in our hippie bungalow high among the trees, I couldn’t help but notice something a bit odd. Well, not so odd in the eyes of my endearing and perfec
tly naiive, animal-doting mother and her fiancé mountain-man, but a bit weird to everyone else taking in the situation. (That would be just me and the puffy Hughes Net guy) You see, before the glorious rumble of Hughes man’s diesel engine had awaken me from my bear-like slumber, my mum and mountain-man had been up to their usual flower child antics. The goats were running freely about the yard as usual, dropping tiny balls of shit anywhere that I might mistakenly place a rogue stiletto heel and destroying everything they can get their little hooves and mouths around.However, when it came time for Hughes man to go about his satellite obelisk building adventures, the goats got a little too excited. Mountain-man came to Hughes man’s aide as the task became more rugged and therefore more to mountain-man’s interest, and his goat companion, Zeus, could not be kept at bay any longer. He began fiercely head-butting Hughes man and dropping little love pellets all around the work area in sheer delight for someone (other than me) to unleash his wrath upon. My mother finally came to the wise consensus that the goat was impeding construction efforts and was forced to tether him to a stake in the yard.
This was not something that Zeus had ever been subjected to, nor was it of his liking and so he proceeded to run in circles about the tether, crying and shitting everywhere, before finally mangling himself in the line, falling down and collapsing into submission. Now had an avid PETA member been present, they probably would have thought this was horrid, but knowing the complete asshole that this goat is, I thought it was absolutely hilarious. He would look up at mountain man every now and then and let out a pathetic shriek of despair, but there he was, tethered to his little stake in a pile of his own little poo pellets.
It was not long before the whiny goat was released from his tethered prison and let free to harass everyone at will once more, but for fifteen minutes my stiletto collection and I had our revenge. And now that I have satellite internet to do my bidding, I can sit happily inside and watch him shake his angry goat head at me while I take care of more important things, like watch Joaquin Phoenix freak the fuck out on David Letterman.
However, with great internet speed comes an enormous amount of amusing, m
eaningless shit that I have been unable to view for the past three months. Youtube links that were sent to me in January have just been viewed and gaffed over...dolphins blowing bubbles, REALLY??? My myspace totally got a facelift... because yes, I am still that juvenile and well, there were still references of me owning a Vespa and being in LA pasted around my page and I was honestly starting to wonder if a club had been created for bizarre, bloated indie boys with Vespas that had tracked me down as that scooter-cruising side kick of their dreams.Alas, now my page is a little more boring and allows me to be free of friend requests from 30-something Angelenos with shaved heads and sleeves and promise to put me in their top four if we could “really just get together sometime.” Vomit. On the other hand, this will present an interesting flip-side as I will now get to evaluate my new friend requests from the furthest reaches of rural Washington. I’m hoping John Deere hat, gun, truck and dog all in one dazzling profile picture. Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she? Oooooh, or better yet, maybe Hughes man will find me...the puffy satellite installation technician of my dreams... this one goes out to you, tiger. Grooooooowwwwwwllllll.
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