June 9, 2003
That’s it computer. You did not just disconnect me right when I was going to win. This is the last straw.
I will hurt you. I will make all your electrodes cry out with the pain of a million volts. You don’t want to know what I can do to you, computer.
I will put cheese in your floppy drive, bologna in your cd drive, and will fill your I/O ports with ketchup. I will set your power supply on fire and then pour thermal grease on you. Conductive.
If you do not return my connection, I will take you out into a field and increase your airflow with a shotgun. I will remove your processor, and pull each pin off with plyers as I listen to your motors whimper. It will be bad, computer. It will be very bad.
At night, when you slumber, I shall creep stealthily up to your monitor, smash it in with a hammer, and dance gleefully, wearing a headdress made from your shredded IDE cables.
There are limits, computer. And I am up to here with you. ::Holds hand up::