You know how I hate to complain, but this journalism thing is starting to tug on my shorts. I hate computers. And they hate me. I’ve been writing for GOLF Magazine for three years now, and still it takes me forever to type two words in a row. I can’t even point and click without shanking every second attempt, and I use enough paper every year to deforest an area the size of Rhode Island. I’m the only person I know that uses ballpoint pens until they actually run out of ink.
Now, to make matters worse, I’m writing a book. I have the first two chapters done, about 8,000 words, and the other day I invested in one of those new fangled voice recognition software packages. You know the thingy — you talk and it types. Yeah, right. I’ve been yelling at the damn thing for last three days and it hasn’t typed a word yet. No matter what I say to it, it won’t even come out of the box it came in.
My wife, wouldn’t you know it, chose the last five days to be in the Idaho panhandle, leaving me with three boys and our baby girl, who, at 17 months, is beginning to develop a disturbingly Hitleresque attitude to the rest of the human race. The consequences of disobeying her are simply too horrifying to be entertained, so I’m thinking of putting her in charge of the voice recognition thingy in the hope that she can scare it into compliance. I mean what the bloody hell is going on when you can spend $184 on a compact disc that is supposed to obey your every word, and it pays about as much attention to you as a member of your family? I might as well shove my dog into the old Compaq Presario, for all the difference it would make. At least you can get some noise out of a Schnauzer if you kick it.
Oh, and another thing. I’m getting desperate for topics for the magazine column. I actually wrote one on PGA Tour marriages for the January issue. I hope Mike Purkey can read my handwriting, because if my wife has to type this one up, I’m liable to be wearing my gonads as earrings the next time you see me.
Yours from the two minutes a word club,