I hate adverts. I’m sure the success of adverts depends on people like me grabbing strangers in the street and asking, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THAT WINDOWS 7 ADVERT!? IT’S AWFUL! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I WANT IT TO DIEEEE!’, before screaming off into the distance.
There’s a place reserved in hell for the creators of this baseless dross:
Meet Lindsey, 57. She thinks her eight year old PC is good enough. Eight years old! What is it? A Difference Engine? I didn’t know you could access Faceparty on one of those. Using Microsoft Word on an eight year old PC must be like typewriting onto a sheet of idiot.
You’d have thought Lindsey would have gone looking for a new PC had she wanted one? Well, seemingly not. Cue Microsoft going all Pimp My Living Room on her arse, and turning her living room into a bone-fide, gaudy laptop showroom. I’m speechless!
Everyone knows that if you’ve been using the same PC for eight years, not only are you a light-weary moron, but you’ve essentially been missing out on the luxury of having a PC store in your house. How I’ve mocked my parents with their furniture and pictures as I bask in the warmth of pastel coloured walls strewn with monitors that beam lifeless reams of stock imagery upon my empty, wretched soul.
Had Lindsey torn herself away from flirting with Gavin the PC guy for one second she could have taken the call. It’s from Tony, her husband. Tony works every hour heaven sends in a job he hates so that Lindsey can sit on her fat arse all day reading Take A Shit magazine and shovelling Snack a Jacks into her pie hole.
Tony’s trying to tell her how much he loves her, and that he’s leaving his job so the two of them can finally travel around Sri Lanka. For God’s sake don’t make any unnecessary purchases on the credit card.
‘I’m busy. Looking at new computers’
Lindsey’s daughter slams the phone down.
‘Oh. But…I need to tell her something’ The lines goes dead. Tony holds the yellowed receiver to his ear before carefully placing it back in the cradle. He slowly opens his top drawer and reaches for the antique pistol that belonged to his father. Pressing the rusty, cold barrel into the back of his mouth, his finger tentatively rests upon the trigger.
‘It’s lighter than my handbag!’ says Lindsey excitedly, fawning over the cheap plastic, baby shit brown machine. Lighter than her handbag! No hard task, given the amount of consealer, Vagisil and dildos she insists on carrying round with her all day.
As she turns back towards the ersatz glow of her newly furnished computer room, a police car wearily rolls up outside her house.