Concerned Parent

Late last night I got a text from a friend asking "Are you awake?". Knowing that this would result in a phone call, I replied 'yes' and sat back waiting to hear the ringer go off. Sure enough...

BEEP BO BEEP BOP, BEEP BO BEEP BOP

Only twice in my life have I gotten these sorts of urgent late night calls from female friends. The first was back in year one university when a certain sensitive girl phoned me in complete tears. Why? Her computer was blitzing out. It only took a little digging to discover that she'd opened an internet link titled "sexvid", all because she'd been desperately clicking random buttons to find the newest episode of Gossip Girl online (needless to say, I still don't buy that excuse... I think she's probably a raging nymphomaniac who needs help).

Regardless, the phone call last night was -- surprise surprise -- about this other girl's computer problems. Windows Defender had detected some sort of virus creature and she was worried sick (albeit not in tears like Porno Girl). Well, since Windows Defender is like the barely-qualified school nurse of computer health, I suggested she run an AVG scan and see what that report had to say. Since it would take hours, we said our goodnights and that was that.

This morning, I get a text from this friend saying that AVG had found threats but wouldn't delete them. She then goes on to say that she emptied the virus vault and asks "is that the same thing as removing them?".

News Flash: if you have no clue what you're doing, don't start deleting shit! This is the type of girl who would stick a wet knife in an electric toaster to fish out the two pennies she dropped inside. Her cuteness is no excuse for her blonde buffoonery.

In lieu of explaining things she wouldn't understand, I told her: "Your computer has had viruses for months if not years, it's just slowly metastasizing. For you to fix all its problems would take three days in hell with a tech guy named Jesus. I suggest holding its hand as it dies its painful, cancerous death."

Well this wasn't exactly the answer she wanted to hear, so she asks about reformatting the whole drive from scratch. I say "sure, if you're brave enough", to which she asks "alright, but can I keep my music and pictures?".

Sigh.

No, you can't wipe an entire system off your computer and expect to keep the music and picture files. That's like me wanting a sex change and saying to the surgeon "would you please leave my left testicle? I really want a vagina, but can that one ball still dangle down?". It's all or nothing.

The girl then explains that a different boy once promised to reformat her computer and, not only that, but also said he'd use his fancy external hard drive to keep the files that she didn't want deleted.

At this point, I felt like a dad shaking his head at an impatient, naive daughter. This girl is like family to me, but, well, there's only so much a dad can say. When she had a serious problem late last night, she knew she could call me for anything and I'd be there. But now that a few hours had passed, she was done with dad and eager to go back to the boy who'd promised who-knows-how-long-ago to put his hands all over her software.

My last warning was: "If he sticks his external hard drive in your dirty USB hole, there's a risk of him getting your digital STI."

Her reply: "Don't worry, he's smart. I'm sure he'll think of these things", to which I quickly retorted "He's also a boy. Mark my words, if you bring this up to him he'll whisper 'Don't worry, babe. That won't happen to us'".

I tell you, life is tough as the metaphorical dad whose daughters call late at night for computer comfort. You can warn them all you want, but ultimately they have to learn from their own mistakes.

Please, practice safe computing.

Happy Belated, Susan Blip

I feel bad for not wishing my blog a happy one year birthday back on Jan. 15th... but in all honesty, who actually remembered? Let me be the first to say that if a dad doesn't remember his daughter's birthday, either the dad or the daughter is probably a loser. I wish to clarify that I am not a loser, and, hence, my irregularly updated blog daughter is in fact the let-down of this dysfunctional family.

again, happy birthday sweetie

Gene Simmons vs. George Bush

Waaaay back in term one, I was fortunate enough to be in the same room as two of the planet's biggest celebrities: George Bush and Gene Simmons. This blog is about what would have happened had they got in a fight. Enjoy.

GOD OF THUNDER VS. PRESIDENT OF THE USA

TCU Event Center is swarming with onlookers. Protest signs, plastic masks, and tacky silver costumes flood the streets to form a giant ring. The middle of this street circle is empty, when all of a sudden --

Rock 'N' Roll erupts from out of no where! The crowds turn to see a long piano-black limo torpedoing down 22nd. It slams to a stop...

And Gene Simmons steps out. No costume, no make-up. Just a leather coat and those "I don't give a shit" sunglasses. He looks around and steps into the center of the giant ring made by the thundering fans.

Gene opens his mouth to say something, when suddenly

REAL THUNDER! Clouds swirl in the sky, lightning thrashes like long Texan bull whips. Two dozen helicopters plummet through a black nimbus and land firmly on the pavement, gusts sweeping people away like flimsy Democrat ballots. Men in black suits repel down the side of TCU; armed trucks close off the street exits.

Gene watches, stone-faced. Un-phased.

A helicopter door swings open -- George Bush steps out, a clueless smirk stretched across his face.

Gene removes his sunglasses and George wipes the dumbfounded look off of his face. No disguises; this is all about honour.

Let the battle begin.

Gene snaps his jaw open and the legendary tongue shoots out like an Amazonian Anaconda. It coils around the ex-President with pure muscle. George Bush wiggles and sweats, but the thirty foot tongue squeezes harder... tighter...

POP! The crowd's heads shoot up, watching Bush soar out of the tongue's grasp and land perfectly on his two feet. He's dripping with Politician Grease, having secreted enough to help him slip out.

Simmons doesn't waste a second. The flailing tongue flies back to the limousine and retrieves an electric guitar. He strikes a G chord (although a little flat) and is suddenly transformed into the cape-wearing, black-and-white face paint demon everyone knows.

"TERRORIST!" shouts Bush. The entire secret service floods the ring with AK-47s and Sig semiautomatics, two dozen laser beams trained on Simmons' chest. The Feds close in, a smirk returning to Bush's face, when suddenly a velvety voice cries:

"Hey boys! Yoo-hoo!"

The secret service agents look over and see Shannon Tweed stepping out of Gene's limo. She's certainly not as attractive as she was twenty years ago, but those breasts are enough to make every Republican guard drop their gun just to stare at God's two best creations.

Unfortunately, Gene can't stop staring either.

"Quick honey! Get Dubya!" screams Shannon. Gene tries taking his eyes away... but no matter how hard he struggles, he can't. Bush walks up (after years with Laura, sex and breasts have lost all power over him) and he pulls out his cell phone to dial a number labelled 'Lawyers', mumbling "Let's see what's legal..."

All of a sudden George spots Gene's electric guitar. He throws the cell phone away and picks up the instrument, hands testing the strings like a kid with a cool new toy. He takes a deep breath --

Gene yells "NO!"

-- And Bush strikes a B Chord!

A bright white light blinds the entire city and, in a transformation as quick as Gene's, George Bush instantly morphs into the much more cool, much more slick, much more rockstarish...

Barack Obama.

The whole crowd looks at Obama and gasps, his sexiness easily outshining Shannon Tweed's. The protesters lower their signs, the republicans scatter.

Obama extends his hand and helps Gene to his feet. For once, Gene's tongue is tied.

Barack turns to the crowd, about to declare "Change!", when suddenly a dart zooms through the air and punctures his jugular vein. Obama screams, morphing back into a shocked and confused George Bush. Gene looks up to see Dick Cheney flying towards them in a helicopter, his hands clenching a still-smoking RepubliGUN. The chopper swoops and Sarah Palin erupts from the passenger side, just low enough to lean out, grab George Bush, and pull the president back in the cabin.

Gene dons his sunglasses again, watching the helicopter rocket North towards Alaska with the three cowards safe inside.

This isn't over yet.

Gene Simmons - 1. George Bush - 0.