My Bogus Journey and the Last Crusade

I should really write a book one of these days. I really should. I'd call it "How Apple Stole My Soul or Things I Do Because I Own One of These Stupid Ipods."

And after I write it I should really find a publisher that doesn't have any hang-ups about long book titles.

It's suffice to say that ghosts or gnomes or zombies or hippies steal our supplies from work. Whether they tunnel in from Wal*Mart or smuggle things out through the air conditioning ducts is a mystery to me, all I know is things go missing. They vanish into thin air. Either that or we forgot to order them to begin with. That's probably the right answer. Although I would pay good money to see gnomes running off with a box full of shopping bags.

This week the gnomes or zombie hippies made off with our receipt tape. Not quite the laughing matter you'd think it is. Receipt tape represents the symbolic payoff of capitalism in it's true realistic form. You see it's paper, with numbers on it. Paper numbers that represent real numbers! Numbers that represent that we're stinking rich! We take their money, we hand them back a narrow strip of paper that tells them how much we ripped them off. We as capitalists instruct them to keep it, mostly for records, partially so they can glance at it and gloomily remember how much money corporate America makes off of every person that comes through our doors.

Well without receipt tape the money just stops flowing. We can't have that now can we? The thought that the money will stop coming in and thoughts of ensuing panic terrorize us all. Why it's the same as handcuffing yourself to a bowling ball and then dropping said ball off the ledge of a building. Nice to know you. Like I said, panic ensues.

Management, being of sound mind and judgement turns to the one man capable of handling any job, yours truly.

"What's the problem?" I say. They then explain the above dilemma.

"Is that all?" I ask, snidely.

I understand their situation. I hear the ominous tone of their voices. This is not like any other problem. We're running out of paper. Not just any paper, very special paper!

"What will it take?" I ask, my questions pour like a monsoon. And I had enough questions to fill a desert.

"Approximately 40 miles north, in a bunker you'll find everything you need."

I take off, relentlessly speeding into the afternoon. Speeding as fast as a man in traffic can. I approached speeds of 28, 29 miles per hour. These people ahead of me just did not understand what was at stake. PAPER! I had to get up north, just had to. I swerved into turning lanes, I signaled my way to get ahead as fast as my modest Stratus could take. I sped through the gravel filled roads of construction until I could make my way to the modern motorists paradise, the Interstate Highway.

The Interstate Highway wasn't the paradise that I had once remembered. The dreams of smooth and fast driving I had once recalled were replaced by those of signs signifying "Single Lane Only" and "Reduced Speed Ahead." I wouldn't let these bring me down. There was just too much at stake, too much left to accomplish. With one foot on the gas and one hand at the iPod I was reaching speeds of 80 miles per hour listening to the best cruising music that 30 GB could store.

What laid ahead of me was a vast metropolis with more motorists than I had encountered previously in my travels that day. Obstacles, not much more than that really. My sleek moments of freeway travel came to a close. I now had to navigate the streets in an unfamiliar city. I was only armed with a sparsely detailed list of street names and directions. First light right, next right left. Boring instructions yet my destination lay just beyond these.

Once I arrived at this bunker, I took notice at the somewhat familiar settings. Why it was a different place but in our homogenous culture so many stores look the same. Things were smaller, directions were different. The lighting was the same, the colors were the same. The language, the words, and the literature was all the same. I was soon greeted by a barrage of familiar, yet not quite friendly faces. Why these were castaways, outcasts. I'd seen some of these people before. They used to rally around the aisles of my store much like I do now. Their battles in my town had ended, and they were victorious. They then walked off into the sunset, never to be seen again. Until now. And here they were, several of them. They walked off, past the sunset and into these backwaters. It was quite the humbling sight. For these people, there really was nothing beyond what they do. They just wind up doing the same thing someplace else.

They greeted me after my long journey and presented me with a box of receipt tape. I bought a soda and began the return trip home with my Holy grail in hand.

All of this because I have an iPod and car adapter.