Apple Users are Religious Zealots, the BBC says so...

I liked to have shit! Was this real or is this just a scientific ploy by a bunch of PC (the computer, not Politically Correct) guys from a scientific community getting a really good jab at the Mac folks?   Personally, I don't think I'll be getting that much mileage out of this, but the spark of bellicose hilarity for the title alone made this worth blogging about.

"Apple 'fanboyism' triggers same brain reaction as religious zealousness"

The article as I found it can be read at the following LINK and at the time of this blog doesn't seem to be bringing the house down with much more press.

In a nutshell, the BBC is completing a documentary surrounding behavior and something called “Superbranding”. It just so happens that the Apple computer manufacturer is in the mix along with probably a half dozen other well known Fortune 500 organizations.  But what shot my fat ass off the office chair cushion was the references to the fanaticism akin to that of religious fervors recognized in revivals & other “zealot” (their words, not mine) blow outs.

Now I'm not talking about tears & snot flying guffaws here, but I was chortling pretty good. You see I grew up with one side of my family being REALLY religious. While the bulk of you readers may conjure up the tedium of dressing, driving, attending, mantra, vacating and the rest of the day being the jest of your religious experience, I don't think that's exactly what the BBC crew had in mind when putting this broadcast together. Having written 'that' I'll guarantee they didn't have the same experience or baseline that I did when I read this small article.

The simple comment of “glassy-eyed staff at the Apple store opening“ mentioned within the BBC documentary is so subjective alone I could shit. Everything from "it's your job", "opening day jitters" to "quick dude, smoke this” could have contributed to that... so for all intents & purposes those folks conducting the 'experiment can fuck off... What kind of quantitative study is this shit based on?
No, where I want to go with this blog is where no colonoscopy has ever tipped my brother into pissy-dom. Not that I have ever known my brother to wait in line for anything more than a movie, I will brave the beating for the artistic masterpiece I am about render before you...

For you - my 158 readers, 2011 May 17 15:00 – 2011 May 24 14:00... Pricks one and all!!!

I salute you.

So much for family ties... HahHAHahahaHAAHAHA!!!!

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It's a lightly breezed late May weekend in Sanford; a suburb of Orlando. My Brother, we'll call Bubba, (not that changing his name will necessarily protect him) is out with the kids in the family hearse (traveling at something just shy of the speed of sound) as the wife stayed home.

Wife, “I'm not going out to stand in line for you to spend more money on that techno-shit so you can have yet another reason to retreat from the family.”

Bubba, “That's not what...”

Wife, “Don't give me any of your bullshit! You want... whatever the hell you call that thing... You take the kids with you!”

My brother, knowing a hidden victory when he sees it, doesn't allow the air to escape the rest of her lungs off of “... with you!” before the son, daughter, dog, car keys wallet and personal, undocumented check book have made their way out of the house, into the minivan and down the driveway.

Befuddled by the commotion, Megan (protected, for obvious reasons) emerges into the garage to witness the remains of Bubba's escape. The garage door still groaning its way up, green metal flake glinting off the bottom of the two unhinged, swinging panels... primer dust floating to the cement floor. The smell of burnt rubber & oil smoke lingering in the air. Possibly even a faint hint of dog shit and Juicy-Juice, one can't be sure.

A small breeze tussles Megan's hair from over her ear. For a second she thought she heard a child shriek or was it an animal. She emerged from the now fully open garage to look in the direction that Bubba was last thought to drive off. Should she fear?

Bubba-log – Stardate: May 2000 and – Fuck it... I got to get to this new Apple Store outlet cause the Mac stiff-dick is about to come out & I just got to have it.

Once again the wife seems to think this tank runs on wish piss and that the gyotdamn “E” on the dash means “Enough to get me back and forth for the rest of my life”. Fuck, fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck!!! (done to the tune of any military limerick you want)

Jr., “Dad...”

Bubba, “yeah, son...” 65mph...

Jr., “da dog barfed...” 40mph!

Everything slides up into the front with Bubba... including the yacking dog...

Bubba, “Get something to clean it!” 45mhp.

Jr., “All da stuffs up there wit you & sides I can't reach it wit my seat belt on & in muh chair...” 47mph.

Rover's eyes are bugging out and his mouth is starting to yawn like a second set of mandibles are going to appear any minute. Terry is giggling at the whole process. She's two and would probably giggle if the walls started bleeding. Which for the Bubba, the day is just starting.

Bubba, “FFFFffffffff antastic... OK, OK, hold on then...” 45mph turns into passing gear!

Jr,.”ALRIGHT!!!” 57mph! Eyes bugging, body pinned, skin rippling slightly...

Terry, “Giggle!” 68mph! Eyes bugging, similar body disposition... Shit from front bounce harmlessly off car seat like one of daddy's scifi movies.

Dog, “Bork!” or “York!” intermixed with a kind of wet meaty snap that comes from a larynx violently closing after trying to vomit but being thrown from one's comfort area into a fight or flight condition. I'll let you decide which as the untethered dog was in the vehicle as it reached 88mph and Captain Bubba started to see flashes of lightening encompassing the van and the greater Orlando burbs slowly flashed back & forth between highway & swamp land.

TWANG, RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE...

Jr, “Barfs gone dad...” 93mph.

Do minivans have push rods? Maybe valve springs? Better take my foot out of this thing...

Bubba, “That's great son, make sure that stupid dog stay's in the back till we get to the store, OK?”

Jr, “K, dad. Get back Ratscal.” 84mph...

Giggle.

Fifteen miles in six minutes, Bubba was ready to split atoms with the best NASA had to offer if only the masses would get the fuck out of his way of in front of the “APPLE STORE”.

Like a mutated throbbing horse cock being strode down the hallway of a brood farm; you want to look away, but were freakishly fixated at it. Call it the ending to Titanic, an impending train wreck, a lit fuse... Gyotdamnit, you KNOW what's going to happen, yet there you are watching the clock tick away. The second hand slowing, literally coming to a virtual stop, but with the perfect knowledge of it's inevitable last steps to detonation, fall, collision, submersion. Bullet Time!

He pulls into, what would seem to some, a freakishly small parking lot of the store, jammed to the gills with the nameless minions of those slobbering to have hands laid upon by... “Apple”.

So innocent are the young, tethered to their car seats... the others in their strollers. No escape to be had and yet ignorant of the knowledge that they are in need of that escape. Cattle to the slaughter. Or should it be called veal?

Missionaries say the same thing as well. Bubba hasn't used or said the 'words' exactly... but he can hear the “CALL”... it's on the wind... “Join Us”.

In the excitement Bubba almost loses control over the minivan as he scrapes the passenger side, squeezing the vehicle into the last available space reserved for “compact vehicles”.

Jr, “Ya almost got on two wheels dad! Dat was cool!”

Giggle!

“Don't tell your mom I did that & we'll do it again some time... Got It!”

Jr, “All Right!”

Giggle!

Having a shape not exactly concussive to moving like special forces operator Bubba moves from his belted seat to opening the hatchback, getting the stroller out for Terry and letting the kids out, seeing as they couldn't get out of the other side anyway.

“Fuck it. I compacted it in there. Besides, emerald green metal flake broad stripes look pretty good on that burgundy Metro.” Bubba pursed his lips in assurance looking down the side of the van, inspecting the 'customization'.

Jr, “Dat really was cool dad! Can we do dat on duh way home! Hey, whats da matter wit da dog?” as he hops down from the back of the still hick-upping van.

Terry pokes the glazed hound in the eye as she waits to be picked up and be lowered into the stroller. Rascal's on his back staring out the back, tongue hanging out, panting like he's smoked half a carton of Pall Malls & covered in his own stomach lining. “At least he ain't pukin' any more”, Bubba thought.

Bubba, “Oh, he's just excited to see all the people.”

Jr, “Why's he on his back den?”

Bubba, “Cause he's an artist, now git your ass out of the parking lot before someone steals you and tries to sell your ass on the black market!”

Giggle!

Slamming the hatch closed, Bubba's brain immediately transfixes into a new universe. Tracers of purple and green wisp from the Apple Store neon as he scoots Terry closer to curb of the side walks edge. It's 0945 do you know where your balls are?

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It's at this point that I'll probably get gouged out of the Christmas card list, my head stone pissed on annually (my birthday & death date) and voodoo doll desecrated in fashions left for world criminals that make Hitler, Bin Laden, Bundy (hell, throw in your favorite atrocity) look like squeezed rodents, but I feel that it's still for the betterment of you... my beloved readers.  All 158 of you...

So if you enjoyed this shit - Fucking share the wealth & turn someone else on to the site!!! I'll write more!

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0955  ---  The carnival barker (or Baptist minister, being in Florida WTF would be the difference) has firmly placed their dominance over the crowd and placed them into a belching white bread, cracker fever pitched frenzy that has scared all the black folks and Latino people away for at least 2 weeks of this opening date.

Four minutes earlier, Bubba tore off his Polo shirt in a palsy Hulk Hogan fit of half rage, half flatulent abound that permeated the sandwich shop next door set off the fire alarm of the candle shop of the adjacent store.

Now adorned across his chest are the medals of his god (actually stickers) depicting the new Mac-stiff dick and other blessing offered from on high.  His arms swaying along with those of his other followers, back and forth like saw grass on the beach.  Iphones popping their lighter apps in & out of screen.  Some showing the timers counting down to opening.
 
Jr standing innocently next to his sister holding his Juicy-Juice box up (Bubbu ain't giving him a phone, you know what those fucking things cost?) a little Apple sticker on his forehead.  Terry quietly sitting in her stroller with one of her diapers on her head (empty you assholes! Bubba's catatonic not stupid), a couple of holes tore out for eyes.  She ain't saying shit for the mere fact she may be the smartest one in this whole "fuck factory" of mayhem.

On one side of the lot we get some grunting of protest that the store should have been open already.  The barker starts a rhythmic bouncing & chanting of some kind of song or speaking in tongues.  Someone else in the crowd goes wild eyed and acts as though they "know" what is being said and starts deciphering the cryptic language.

A small handful of indiscriminate people in the crowd stiffen... their eyes roll into their skulls...  A thunder clap sounds in the distance, the vibration reverberating through the crowd!  Those individuals shit themselves soundly and forcefully and fall to the ground!  A couple of the bystanders play "Name the Fart".

Jr, "Hey dad, Dis guy smells like Ratscal.."

The barker stands suddenly and silently, closing his/her eyes(the fucker's androgynous.  Like I have an idea who they are...) turning their palms to the heavens.  The locks to the double doors loudly "CLUNK" to open with no one there to turn the tumblers.

(In my best Jimmy Falwell) Opening day is upon us!  Thank god somebody was here to cover the event too.  We can always use free publicity.  Who's the news crew there?  Ah FUCK!  It's the BBC...
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Merry Christmas Bubba