May 16, 2008

My Shitty New Keyboard

I threw good hard cash at a new keyboard two weeks ago (not literally - the coins get stuck between the “A” and the “S” keys, I’ve discovered, and make typing emails to assholes that much more difficult, if not expensive) and I’m now beginning to regret it. Not the kind of regret that shutting your dick in a fridge door brings - just the kind of regret that, say, missing your chance to punch a politician in the face would generate.

Electrical ennui. That kind of thing.

Okay - the keyboard was cheap. In reality, I guess it’s a step up from one a child would practice on before graduating to posting barely literate threats in the comments section on YouTube. But I’ve stuck with it for almost two weeks now, and it’s getting too much. I realise that everything new comes with its own quirks, and you normally accept them, and grow to adapt to them usually, but it’s getting beyond a joke now. The most pressing problem (pun not intended) is the backspace key. You really need to hit it in the centre for it to register, whereas with most, the edge will do. Okay - I could make fewer fucking mistakes when typing, but that’s not the point. I’m a pretty accurate touch-typist, but having to adjust my movements for a shittily responsive key should not be part of the deal - cheap or not cheap.

Now - I’ve noticed - some of the keys just under the home keys start squeaking slightly after some intense typing. And the spacebar is a bit pernickety too. It’s getting to the point where I wouldn’t be surprised if the number keys don’t just burst into flames for no apparent reason. I think a swap out is due, if you ask me. Which you can’t, really.

I sort of miss the old days, with the old IBM keyboards, when you could really hear the switches getting pressed under each key. Alright, they were made from iron and needed to be lifted by two burly, unionised men onto the desk, but dammit - you knew where you were with them. And the clicky-clacky nature of them usually gave the impression you were doing more work than you actually were. Which is a bonus for anything, really.

Yeah. It’s going. Tomorrow. During daylight, when I’ve got a reasonable chance of finding the PS2 port behind my beige monster without resorting to wearing a miner’s lamp.

Also - I swear some of the keys are not in normal QWERTY order.

I swear.

Fuck All

Yep.

I’ve got fuck-all to say at the moment.


May 13, 2008

Fingernails

I cut my fingernails today.

They deserved it. The bastards.

May 12, 2008

Strange Bird Watch

Insomniac that I am, I often find myself awake at the weirdest possible hours. One of these “weird hours” is roundabout 5am. Okay - if you’re a baker, you’re probably thinking I’m over-reacting somewhat, but I don’t care, and while we’re on the subject; I don’t want fucking bakers reading my Tumblr log thing, so fuck off you bunch of bitter, early-rising flour-sniffing shits - I’ve had enough of you and your incessant whining about wheat.

Oh, yes. Anyway - I’m up at this un-Godly hour a lot, and I’ve come to notice the strangest squawky bird noise on a regular basis. I feed wild birds in my garden, so I tend to attract a right bunch of flying-idiots all yammering and fighting over nuts and seed like the be-beaked bastards that they are. And around 5am every morning there’s a terrible squawking from an unseen source. Judging by the volume and tenacity of said squawk, I picture this bird with the wingspan of an Airbus 380 with claws the size of trains and beady eyes like oil drums, perhaps with the ability to both eat and shit children whole. Of course, I’ve yet to see this hell-bird, but I’m pretty sure my description is accurate. It’s squawk-scream makes my windows rattle and my cats run into the tumble-dryer, and I worry that should my sleep patterns every right themselves, I’ll still be woken at 5am by fucking Mr Death Bird or whatever it is.

It’s enough to make me stop feeding birds. Or having windows.

May 11, 2008

The Efficiency Of Drying Clothes Outside

If I was a transvestite (which I’m really not, honest) I believe the best way in keeping my legs hair-free and super-smooth would be to just put on the jeans I brought off the washing line. They’re that rough. Yet strangely tender. Like a drunken bull lost on a tennis court.

Using that rationale, if I washed a balaclava and hung it out to dry, I’d never have to shave again, and I’d save a shit load of money on shampoo into the bargain.

Unfortunately I don’t own a balaclava, nor have any immediate plans to buy one. Yet another part of my life I’ve come to regret.

Celtic Win Whilst I Shave

Being a Celtic fan this season is like pouring pepper on a hedgehog - generally a waste of time, if not cruel. They intrigued me so much this sunny Sunday afternoon I actually went and started shaving during the second-half. I’m glad I only watch them on TV, as I’m sure bringing a safety razor, foam and a little mirror is frowned on by stadium security, if not by the fans themselves.

The good news is that they won 2-0, and a rather cynical Hibs team got two men sent off, and I never cut myself shaving, even once. Our mighty win now gives Motherwell a UEFA Cup spot next year, so here’s hoping they repay us by beating Rangers when they come to visit.

I celebrated all this by killing some weeds in the garden. The metaphor is both obvious and ridiculous.

Apologies to any Americans reading this, who probably have little idea of what I’m on about. And probably not for the first time. Or the last.

Wanky Wordpress

I swear there’s a not-so-grand conspiracy involving the Illuminati or whoever is running Wordpress at the moment. Whenever I decide to post something either wildly cutting or fucking hilarious, they take their servers down for what is apparently termed “maintenance”. Whenever they come back up, I don’t see any improvement. All the letters I formed into sentences and then paragraphs aren’t any funnier than before. The grammatical mistakes haven’t been fixed. There aren’t even any pictures of boobs or cats running nuclear power stations or cool stuff like that.

I am (of course) taking this personally, and I shall be writing to my Member of Parliament come Monday morning. I haven’t written to him for roughly 8 hours now. My last missive was regarding the sudden downpour that afflicted me as I came home earlier carrying some milk. As a sometime tax-payer and random voter, I shouldn’t be expected to suffer these indignities.

My hair got wet. My hair. 

What?

Eh?

Fuck.  This is a great start.

eh?

What?

Oh, right.

Sorry.