Media Share 9/MEDIASHARE_09.ISO/private/mpc93mar.zip/CAPTAIN.DAT

Text File | 1993-02-14 | 8KB | 143 lines

                           David Wilson Speaks:

                TO C:> WHAT I
                CAN C:>   or,
                The Anti-disestablishment-arian Counter-revolution; or,
                The Thoughts of Chairman Maven; or,
                Something Else,
                If You Don't Like Those...

     By: David Wilson, The Terminally Confused

     CRASH! Thump!

     I looked up from the scene on the TV set to see a truly disquieting
     sight:  my front door had been ripped completely from its hinges and
     was skidding drunkenly across the hall, leaving a rather noticeable
     gap in the front wall of my house. Standing there in the frame thus
     created, an ominous figure was silhouetted against the lightning
     flickering in the stormy winter night.  It appeared to be a man (or
     something pretty close to one) dressed in a tight-fitting garment of
     plain, unrelieved  black, an executioner-style hood over his head,
     with some kind of arcane emblem emblazoned in white on his chest.

     "Who dat, who dat, who dat?", I croaked (for I was watching the Saints
     game and I'm always inclined to be influenced by the signs in the
     stadium).  The answer was, like the figure itself, swift, powerful,
     and unequivocal .

     "CAPTAINNNN CEEPROMT!", the figure roared out as it knocked my bowl of
     popcorn to the floor with a flourish, "here to rescue you from the
     evil clutches of those scurrilous purveyors of gooey programming,
     Tinymush Software.  Their insidious product, PFENSTERS, has invaded
     the marketplace and has been the cause of many a stalwart lad or
     lass's decline into a nightmare world of (Ugh!) rodents, (Yuk!) little
     pictures that you (Gasp!) CLICK on, and (Shudder!) standardized (Dare
     I say it?) interfaces!" It's not easy to gasp, shudder, and roar, at
     the same time , but the midnight-arrayed visitor managed it somehow.

     About this time, I noticed a couple of things.  First, the arcane
     symbol on the figure's chest was shaped hauntingly like a DOS C:>
     prompt; and, secondly, I recognized several of the shapes I saw
     flitting about in the background: Guido, Rocco, and the arch-enforcer,
     Al Dente.  A light slowly dawned.

     "MAVEN!", I screeched in horrified recognition.  And indeed, it was my
     nemesis, P.C. Maven,  the Saddam Hussein of the computer world.  I was
     still recovering from our last encounter that saw me dropped off an
     overpass into a Toxic Waste truck and transported to a disposal site
     in northern Baluchistan (or was it California?  Same thing to me).
     Took me a while to get home, but that's another story.  I was a little
     nonplused to see him again before my fractures had healed.

     Maven laughed as he knocked over the china cabinet with a single
     outflung arm.  "I heard you had attempted to keep up with the world by
     shooting that ridiculous PCjr and getting a 386SX. Well, it's not
     nearly good enough, but it's a step in the right direction.
     Unfortunately, I also heard that you had gotten entangled with those
     namby-pamby picture interface types, so in my capacity as the Defender
     of the Only True Faith - CAPTAINNN CEEPROMT! - I thought I'd drop by
     and demonstrate to you the error of your ways."

     Now, I've learned that when P.C. Maven demonstrates anything at all to
     me, it's painful, but when he talks about errors it could easily be
     fatal.  I edged cautiously over to the window, prepared to jump out
     and run for it if I got the chance.

     "What are you doing?", Maven asked with a smile that reminded me of
     one I had seen on a museum display of Tyrannosaurus Rex .  "It wasn't
     anything to do with that ooey-gooey word, was it?  You know I get a
     little, uh, overexcited when I hear it."

     "Oh, no, no, nothing like that," I tossed off carelessly, " I was just
     going to open this win..., woh, wuh, er, um, vertical-sliding
     transwall visual aperture."  I remembered halfway through that the "W"
     word was likely to cost me more than I really wanted to pay for the
     privilege of free expression.  "What was it that you wanted to say to
     me about the evils of gooey computing?"

     "Just this, you sniveling worm.  If computing was intended to be fun
     or easy, the Great CPU would never have created this most holy of
     symbols," pointing to the C:> on his chest and shattering a mirror for
     emphasis, "and we would never have been allowed to learn the sacred
     Rituals and cabalistic signs of Its ineffable mythos."

     "Whut?"  I gave my Vinnie Barbarino impression a tryout.

     "I mean, you indescribable ninnyhammer, that you aren't supposed to
     have fun with a computer unless you have accessed a game in an
     acceptable way, i,e., you've typed an appropriate command (with paths,
     options, switches, and other esoterica attached), hit the ENTER key,
     and received at least two oracular proclamations such as "File Not
     Found" and/or "Error 67334; don't you EVER do that again!"  Then, and
     only then, are you permitted to look on pages 23, 74, 212, 13, and 56
     to discover what it was you did wrong.  This is the highest form of
     computing, and once you have mastered its 36,414 basic commands and
     variations you can upgrade to the next version with the happy
     confidence that  you'll get to do it all over again.

     Mere mortals can ask no more, and you, dolt, are the merest of them
     all." This was accompanied by a symphony of shattering wood, falling
     plaster, and crunching glass as he emphasized each point.

     "Well,"  I said, not certain of whether to throw caution to the winds
     and make a break or wait for a better opportunity to present itself,
     "that certainly does seem to be a powerful argument against the wicked
     interlopers and purveyors of blasphemous interfaces.  Them and their
     filthy mi... er, rodents.  Is there more?"  Silly me.  Of course there
     was.  Maven is a True Believer.

     "Pictures!", he howled, dismembering my favorite recliner in the
     process.  "The infidels dare to use feelthy peectures as  memory aids
     instead of remembering 36-character commands like REAL computer nerds!
     It's an obscenity!  Next thing you know, they'll be allowing their
     children to use these disgusting devices instead of spending their
     time learning syntax and parsing as they should.  Oh, my heart goes
     out to the little mons..., uh, darlings."  It seemed to be catching.

     "But CAPTAINNN CEEPROMT!", I stammered, "whatever shall I do? Wherever
     shall I go?  (Oops.  Sorry.  I was watching  `Gone With the Wind' the
     other night and I guess Scarlett made a big impression on my speech
     patterns.)  I mean, what can we do to stem this ooey-gooey tide?  Why,
     you make it seem that almost any act could be construed as being a
     part of the conspiracy - even something as simple as opening  this
     window... ACK!  No!  Wait a second!  Would you accept this porthole?
     ¿Como se dice en Español - oh yeah -   how about `este ventana'... or
     maybe Technocratspeak: this Ophthalmic Transparent Glass Display
     Aperture?"

     But it was too late.  I had used the forbidden term.  Guido and Rocco
     closed in and defenestrated me.

     I wonder where Al Dente thinks he's sending me now?  Everyone knows
     there's no atmosphere or other life support in the cargo bay of a
     space shuttle, so the joke's on him, right?

  *************************************************************************

     David Wilson is a renowned butterfly matador whose proficiency in
     evading the charges of this dangerous species has excited the
     admiration and gained the respect of the great fraternity of butterfly
     dodgers around the world.  He wishes he could avoid P.C. Maven with
     the same alacrity.