From now on, I’m fucking Macs and using Dudes.

In the last ten years, I’ve only got mad enough to punch the shit out of inanimate objects on occasions that involved either women or IBM compatibles. And yet, for whatever reason – call it brand loyalty – I have stood steadfastly by both.

Perhaps it’s their flashy complexity. The sense of overcoming an obstacle that you get from conquering something that isn’t very user-friendly. Maybe it’s the way some of the cases light up red, and their packaging is frosted and S-curved and gaudy, not at all like the simple class-act monochrome geometry of the Apple-cum-Man. Maybe it’s the way there’s more than one button on the PC mouse, and you can draw out endless combinations of graphical and audio effects by double-clicking them and squeezing them in different combinations. And it’s not that you can’t drag-and-drop a Mac or a dude – it’s just, the pyrotechnics are strictly functional, and not at all for show.

My retort to Republicans used to be, “Hey, look, if using Macs was a choice, why would you choose it?” But now, I think I get it. PCs suck. And if using a Macintosh is a choice, I’m going to see if I can make it. Because let’s face it, Heaven is pretty much out of the cards for me. This isn’t going to send me to Extra Hippy Hell, where the kids who pretend they don’t have trust funds are forced to spend an eternity living lavish lifestyles and driving $90k cars, and the kids who once thought about kicking a cat have to kick a cat once a minute for infinity minutes. I'm on my way to regular Hell with the rapists and murderers and non-Islamicists.

Conventional wisdom used to say that you could only catch viruses from guys, but it turns out the easiest way to get them is fucking around on a PC. As it happens, the Windows platform is a festering hotbed of scabs and sores and purulent boils, warts and off-colored discharge and itches that you can’t scratch away. Milling around like idiots are the overpowered white blood cells and clueless antibodies, antiviral armies that open their knees wiiiiiide for the Trojan Horse. Fuck me, wood horse, fuck me with your drip-dripping flaming hot spyware horse cock. I like the way it feels with no firewall. Sometimes you can even shoot a squirrel over the castle gates (shout out to Monty Python).

I installed Service Pack 2 on my Dell yesterday, the notoriously worthless update for Windows XP that all your friends seem to resent. It’s like a computer engagement ring. It makes the thing far less valuable, far less functional, but ultimately more in tune with the way Microsoft, for our purposes the Catholic Church, says things should be. I only downloaded it so I could use Windows Movie Maker, which only comes with SP2, but which, oddly enough, did not install itself on my computer when I installed SP2. The only thing that happened when I installed SP2 was, my computer started freezing every fifteen minutes, and wouldn’t play any video or audio files, or even open any players for video or audio files. Call it going out with the boys for a beer. It’s out of the question now that you’ve got the Service Pack. Sure, allegedly it’s insurance that your computer stays “clean,” doesn’t get “infected,” but we all know that it’s just cosmetic. Pure in name only. My internet browsers won’t open, either. I can’t even see tits. It just mills around in a big retarded circle, making sounds like a vacuum and complaining that the neighbors have a refrigerator with an internet connection and when am I going to get promoted.

At the same time, my dad just bought this $4k Mac video editing workstation that’s the computer equivalent of an 18-year-old Dominican poolboy. I’m feeling feelings I never knew I could feel. Feelings of lust, but also of power. Feelings of sympathy, but also violent passion. Feelings of difference and strangeness and new wonder, but also feelings of lascivious anger and preternatural heat, heat coursing through me like I were an ovulating chinchilla. And it doesn’t feel wrong, it doesn’t feel right, it just feels necessary, like this is what God wants for me. And right or wrong, I hear the call, and I’m going to follow it. He's there for me. He wants me to use him. I have to use him. I call him Enrique.

Well, no more of the weaker sex, friends. As soon as I can save up $4k, I’m buying a Macbook and a bus ticket to San Francisco, and I’m starting a whole new life. You’ll know me when you see me – I’ll be the one happily strolling down the streets with trademark white earbuds tickling my pleasure centers with their firm, knobby fingers, telling me exactly what I want to hear, not because I want to hear it, but because it’s the right thing to do. Who’s coming with me? Don’t worry too much, I can always come by myself.