Twas the night after x-mas, post-consumerist boom,
Not a synapse was stirring, and this makes me fume.
Debt was amassed as gadgets were bought,
And the fury of installation would soon be wrought,
Upon our humble narrator, he fixes all things,
Like the stupidity of all the world’s ding a lings.
Like little Suzy’s iPOD, it played no new jazz,
For she had not read the manual, what a stupid little spaz.
She lamented and cried, and let loose a shriek,
Without my new iPod, I can’t be unique!
She dashed to her phone, and my digits she dialed,
As I answered the phone, my fury ran wild.
Tech support I answered, how can I help you this day?
You fix my iPod mister, I demand things my way!
You fix my new toy, or I’ll cancel my service,
I could tell from her voice she was a bit nervous.
I let out a sigh, and I said, do you suppose,
You forgot the power cable – it needs one of those?
Silence I heard, and then a slight scuffle,
Then bad music, some ghetto-rap shuffle.
You fixed my iPod! I love you to death!
You are so welcome! “Fucking idiot,” under my breath.
I hung up the phone, but it rang much, much more,
and from all this, there is one thing I adore.
Self sufficient people, and instruction manual readers,
To me, they alone should be allowed to be breeders.
So if you have ever called my number, which I suppose is your right,
Eat shit, goto hell, and I hope you die this very night!