Not an Aesop Fable

After a long and tiring day of work, I only had one thing in mind.



Okay, I lied. I had five things streaming through my brain.

First was that I had to force myself to wake up at 0830 so I can prep up a mad storm of my delicious fried rice. Why so uncharacteristically early? I had no time after work to head to our newly-refurbished grocery department to nab all the ingredients necessary for my "custom" recipe.

Second was the fact that I needed to get gas for my car. I've been running on fumes since Thursday, so I'm amazed at how far my car can go with only so much petrol in the tank.

Third was the increasingly-loud grumbling of my stomach. I ate halfway through my shift, but I burned through all that energy because so many people needed me to hold their hand while they shopped help them out with their purchases. It left the store messy and devoid of all cleanliness, and that void must have consumed the contents of my din-din.

Fourth was me mentally kicking myself because of the fact that I have to wake up early tomorrow. Granted, I looked at my schedule and it said 1900 (I looked in shock - where were my hours?), but I promised my friends at work that I'd be there at roughly 1500 to let them have a stab at the humongo-giant batch of fried rice they'll be facing at work.



Which brings us to the fifth thing... which, when you look at this entry and remove all this context I slapped here, is really the first thing that was swimming through my mind.

All my stress from today was easily traceable back to one omnipresent source. It corrupted the newspaper advertisements with its false promises of its presence; it turned half the guests asking about it from normal chaps to mentally-deranged assholes who should remove themselves from the gene pool; it suckers average joes into throwing over five Benjamins away at the wind and praying it gets blown back to them.



The source was obvious: the Apple iPad 2.



Now, barring the iPod Classic and the Mac's amazing video-editing capabilities, I despise Apple. It might have to do with the fact that my first experience with PCs started with MS-DOS (which later went to 3.1, then 95, 98, ME, XP and (sadly) Vista) and I became attached to machines which catered to function over fashion (Macs look more feminine than I do!). It might have to do with the fact that most things on the market were designed with Windows in mind. It might even have to do with Steve Jobs and his evil black sweater.

But when I see the iPad (and now, the iPad 2), a white-hot rage that rivals most objects on my infamous Hate List begins to burn within me. In my honest view, it's an overglorified iPod Touch* on steroids. I mean, it's physically bigger and carries with it a façade that screams "amazing performance" but really means "I'm just as good as your average iPod Touch." (Huh, don't real-life steroids do that to people, too? They look bigger but have the same overall strength once the fad dies off?)

Unfortunately, I had to deal with this devilish device when I saw that this week's print ad advertised its availability in our store. No sooner did I clock in was I swamped by angry guests who didn't comprehend the meaning of the words "limited quantities." That whole jovial session lasted me a good four hours or so. Yay for guest incompetency, I suppose. While I encounter the occasionally-intelligent guest, none were present when they kept spamming my aural space with "WTB IPAD NAO U NUB" requests (proven by the fact that the "asshole shopper" that retail workers normally encounter during the holiday season turns out to be that iPad whore demanding that you service them immediately).

Make no mistake: if I absolutely have to sell one of those ridiculous paperweights to a guest, I will not attempt to hide my disappointment in their lack of fully-functioning brain cells. Watching a guest waste over $500 USD on a PC-reliant tablet (which just should not happen - tablets are supposed to be self-sufficient) is like watching a pet attempt to chase a laser from a laser pointer - they give you a much-needed scrutinizing laugh that they can't seem to comprehend the meaning behind.

* = I swear to God... if I hear another incompetent flat-foot call it an "iTouch" like some preppy, snotty-ass blonde... girl... oh, WAIT. Nearly every idiot who calls an iPod Touch an "iTouch" was blonde. *frustrated sigh*



So, the moral of today's entry? FUCK THE iPAD. Fuck it.