Joebear Laughs While Peter Beats The Shit Out of His Computer
As I was cleaning Peter's house as usual, I heard him swearing at his computer as he has been for the past month now. I was on the phone with my husband, Joebear, and we were laughing our asses off. Joebear could barely breathe. He was using his high-pitched quick laugh as he was crying. I had the phone on speaker while we listened to Peter swear at his computer.
"Goddammit. Why the fuck won't this damn attachment send over? The fuck is wrong with this E-mail?!" Peter would yell.
Joebear and I couldn't help but crack up at him. My lungs were worn out from all the laughing at him I have done for the past two years.
Joebear commented with a laugh, "He sounds like he has a mentally-challenged computer and needs help with his brain."
Peter yelled to Joebear. "All true! This is bullshit!"
We cracked up and then continued on with our day. Joebear was playing "Hobos and Dawgs" by our favorite nerd rap artist, DarthSydePhineas.
"Damn! Damn! DamnDamnDamn! Hobos and Dawgs! Damn! Damn! DamnDamnDamn! Hobos and Dawgs! I need a hobo or a dawg, not you. Then I can go back to class! I need pictures! Where the fuck are they? I need to find a hobo or a dog. I need to find a hobo or a dog. This is bullshit! This is bullshit!" I rapped along.
"Fucking hell. If you are going to make technology, at least make it work correctly. What the fuck is the point?" Peter would continually rant at least 15 times a day. I laughed every time without fail. Godiva would just roll her eyes and ignore the bullshit in her son's office. Jamie would interrupt him from his swearing to do more random chores. Interruptions did not help Peter's already fucked-up mood.
Other times, Joe and I would sing along to DarthSydePhineas's "I AM FUCKING SONIC!" while Peter would be doing chores, and I would clean his house.
"I am fucking Sonic. And you can't fuck with me now. I am a fucking hedgehog! And I have spikes on my back! Oh shit!" Joebear and I would sing.
"Okay. I tried to send this fucker three times. Let me break this file down... AGAIN!!! SIIIIIIGHH!!!" Peter would say at least five times a day. The poor bastard just wanted to publish his novels and send them to every literary agent in the world. Whenever he said this rant, I was on the floor laughing every time while Joebear would try to help him break the file down. Joebear was a computer whiz. Peter was technologically-challenged. Joebear and I had a good laugh. Peter was pissed.
"Yes. I typed Artie Wonderbloom and The Green Goblin and Artie Wonderbloom and The Yellow Brick Road at least 20 times today. The fuck else did I write that I am trying to publish? I already published 20 screenplays. Let's move on with my life PLEASE!!!! SIGH! Fuck off. Where is the auto fill?" Peter would rant. "I published 20 screenplays and am trying to publish two novels. Why the fuck am I still doing DRYWALL? Because of the ever-failing healthcare AND insurance system in America and INFLATION! Fuck this world!" This rant happened at least once a day. This rant also made Joebear and me belly-laugh without sound. "Unbelievable. I was a porn star in my time. I wrote screen plays. I am writing two novels. Blood, sweat, and tears. Lots and lots of tears! Why the ACTUAL fuck am I broke? Because America. Because Republicans! Fuck. My. Life."
Joebear and I would cry laughing at this particular rant. We agreed. It was bullshit that even if you made over $50,000 a year, you were still fucking broke. That's why Joebear and I do our own business. We hate answering to people for no apparent reason.
Today, we felt more sympathetic for our tall, technologically-challenged friend than we usually did. I went over to poke him on the shoulder repeatedly. The poor bastard looked like he was about to cry.
"I have tried three times. Three fucking times. To format this goddamn E-mail correctly. These literary agents are pretentious, picky, self-centered pieces of dog shit. They have so so many fucking rules. It's their way or fuck you. Sigh. I should have been a literary agent. It would definitely help me make more money. If I knew how to be a literary agent, I'd do it. It would also relieve frustration, stress, and anxiety to tell other writers to fuck off if they so much as miss a comma! Fuck. These. Goddamn. People. I want to E-mail them and tell them exactly what the fuck I think!" Peter ranted with his trademark sigh.
Joebear and I laughed again.
"You need a new E-mail client. Comcrap is a piece of dog shit. Also, you do have a knack for missing commas. Your writing is amazing, but you forget commas like you forget everything else. Your memory sucks ass," I said.
"He uses Comcrap? No wonder!" Joebear chimed in.
"I know it!" Peter said as he accented his Southern accent. "You guys use G-mail, right?"
"Yes. XaraNCampanelli@gmail.com," I answered.
"How the fuck do you set up a G-mail account?" he asked.
Joebear sighed. "Xara. Help him please. I'm going to have a bowel movement now. I shall return," he said.
"Enjoy thy shit," I said to Joebear before I answered Peter. "Go to www.gmail.com."
He was typing the address into the Google search engine.
"Okay. Go to G-mail.com," I said.
He clicked the link.
"Now go to 'create account'," I said.
Peter clicked the link. "So I just fill this shit out, right?"
"Yes, Pete," I said.
He put his first name was Peter and last name as Awkward. G-mail suggested that his E-mail be PeterAwkward8@gmail.com.
"Sounds about right. You act like an eight-year-old," I said with a shrug.
"Works for me," he said with a grin. He now had an E-mail address of PeterAwkward8@gmail.com. His other one was SuperCopingMan@comcrap.net. He was also a super hero until last year when he had a mental breakdown and didn't feel like coping with being stuck in drywall, exploding cars, toilet gardens, Pennywise the Dancing Clown, naked neighbors, or birthday parties that went to shit because someone forgot the alcohol.
We continued to set up his G-mail account until he asked me what theme I thought he liked. I was sorry to say, but there was a serene purple scene with lilies in the background that I knew he liked. But it was too feminine. I saw Peter as a manly boy, a guy who liked trees, leaves, and old houses built in the 1800s. I was not going to stand for him to pick something so feminine. I guessed the leaf theme.
"Ugh. No. Too typical. Try again," he said.
"How about the woods?" I asked.
"Oh God. Everyone picks that!" Peter exclaimed.
"I don't. I made a custom black, purple, and white theme to describe my dark nature," I said.
He blinked and made a "taken-aback" face with an added shudder. "Well, I like the black theme, too, but that's too obvious," he said.
"How about the rainbow-colored fish one?" I asked.
"Okay. Stop picking what I *should* like and pick what I *know* I like," Peter said.
I sighed. "Peter, don't pick that purple one..." I said.
Joebear returned to the phone after a quick bowel movement. "So where are we in setting up the E-mail?" he asked.
"Peter picked a purple theme for his new G-mail account," I said.
"You know it!" Peter said with a smile.
"Peter, that's gay," I said.
"Oh my God. That's a ferret thing to do," Joebear said with a laugh.
"What? I like purple. And as I recall, Joebear, you like purple, too," he said as he picked the purple theme.
"Yeah, but I don't pick an overly purple theme! I'm not a ferret" he said.
Peter snickered. "Are you sure about that?" he asked.
"Yeah, dude. I'm pretty sure I'm not homosexual," Joebear said with an added "durrr!" at the end.
"Well, you liked purple, and you called me a ferret, so I had to ask," Peter responded.
"Oh God, Peter," I said and laughed. I went back to work for a bit to try to stop laughing at Peter. "You're such a girl!!!! You know what? I'm going to go ahead and buy you some eyeliner and lipstick. And maybe some new skinny jeans!"
Joebear and I cracked up at my remark. Peter snarled at us and continued to work on his computer.
"That's so stoopid," Joebear said and laughed. "Please don't do that seriously."
"I might," I said.
"Oh God! I'm done! Call me when something stupid happens!" Joebear said.
"Will do. Love you, bae!" I sung.
"Love you, too," he said as he made a dolphin sound.
I made a dolphin sound in return. He hung up the phone.
A few minutes later, I heard a few autistic growls emanating from Peter. He had Asperger's Syndrome, but no one told him yet. I laughed. His mom couldn't help but giggle and shake her head. She was so done with his shit that day. I could tell.
I called Joebear.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Bae, something stupid happened," I said.
"What now?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said as I put my phone on speaker. "I'Il find out." I went over to Peter and patted his shoulder.
"I tried to send this E-mail three goddamn times! Three! Now four! Christ, I can't count!" Peter said as he growled.
"Oh God!" Joebear said as he giggled.
"Maybe you put in the wrong E-mail address," I said.
"Maybe the first time, but I double-checked the website and double-checked my clipboard and everything was fine," he said loudly.
"Maybe the website had the wrong E-mail address," I said.
"No! I went to Donald K. Fulton's WEBSITE ITSELF. That's the literary agent! I took the damn E-mail straight from the damn website and copied it into the damn recipient's box on the goddamn E-mail!" Peter said as he started foaming at the mouth.
"Donald K. Fulton sounds like a ferret's name," Joebear said.
"It is. This guy is a *real* ferret. I hope this ferret accepts my story," Peter said.
The tune, "I Spawn, I Die," by DarthSydePhineas was in the background.
"Dude, have you ever thought that maybe you're just bad with computers?" I said humorously to Peter.
"Not only that, BUT I'M CURSED!!!!!!" Peter yelled as he grabbed his monitor by the sides and stared intently at it with rage. Then he calmed down just for a moment and smiled. "Sometimes these websites just aren't designed very well!"
I laughed. "Because they were designed by Americans."
"Yeah, Americans can't program worth a shit," Joebear added before he sung a mock version of 'I Spawn, I Die.' "They spawn, they die. They spawn, they die. Every mother fucker has stupid E-mails. Every mother fucker has stupid E-mails. D-D-D-D-D-Dumbasses! D-D-D-D-D-Dumbasses!"
"Oh God! Everything with you guys is racist!" Peter said as he rolled his eyes. "How do you refresh the page?"
"Press F5 on the top of your keyboard, you Old Fuck," I said with a giggle.
Joebear snickered at me. "WOW!" he said with a high-pitched quick laugh.
Peter was 54. I was 30. Joebear was 39. And Peter was bad with computers. I was going to call Peter an Old Fuck.
"The fuck did you just call me?" Peter asked as he pressed F5 and turned his face toward me.
"An Old Fuck. You're 54 and are terrible with computers!" I yelled.
"Oh fuck off. You're as bad as these terribly CONFIGURATED web sites!" he said as he flicked me off.
"If we were in Korea, our websites wouldn't be fucked up," Joebear said. "Americans are just STUPID with programming. You need help, Peter?"
"Yes," he answered. "But not before I beat this computer into submission. I haven't tried that yet!" All of a sudden, Peter rose and punched his monitor in the face. "How do you like that?" He kicked the computer desk. "That's what I think of you, you piece of shit!"
Joebear and I cracked up.
"Really? You beat the computer? How is that going to help?" Joebear said as he cracked up. "Oh God."
"This computer cannot be helped," Peter said before he turned off his tablet kindly. He then opened his window. He turned off the computer. "Thank God I backed up all my shit up on a hard drive. Thank you, Joebear."
"You're welcome. What were you trying to do?" Joebear asked with a chuckle.
Peter then went into crying hysterics. "I just wanted to send my query letter to Donald K. Fulton. That's all. Is that too much to ask?" Peter cried.
"Dude, just send it as an attachment," Joebear said.
"No literary agent accepts attachments because trolls put bad stuff on them," Peter said as he was literally crying.
"Oh wow. Don't they have anticuck software to determine if the attachment is fucked?" Joebear asked.
"An anti-what?" Peter asked as he was sniffling.
"It's antivirus software and adblockers to determine whether your attachments are bullshit or not," I answered.
"I don't know, but I can't get this thing to send," Peter said.
"Fuck it. Try it again later," Joebear said.
"Good idea," Peter said with an evil smile. "I'll try it again WITH A NEW COMPUTER!"
He then went ape shit on his computer all of a fucking sudden; he pounded on the sides of the monitor while grunting and swearing. He repeatedly kicked the fuck out of his computer and broke the monitor. "Fuck it! This computer is 10 years old. I am going to Microcenter in Duluth tomorrow to put my shit on a computer that actually fucking works! Fuck this piece of shit! Need to buy a new goddamn computer and need to bitch at these literary agents for being less computer savvy than I am. I'd like to beat the shit out of them." He suddenly threw his computer the fuck out of his window.
"Aaaaagggfghhhhhhhhhh! Get the fuck out of here!!!! FUCK YOU YOU PIECE OF SHIT COMPUTER!!! FUCK THESE LITERARY AGENTS!"
Joebear was laughing hysterically over the phone. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" He asked between laughs. "Okay. That happened. I wasn't expecting that! Wow!" He was crying with laughter. "Holy Cow!"
At this point, I really should be used to Peter's random autistic rages, but I found every single one of them hilarious. I just fucking laughed until my chest felt like exploding. My mouth was hurting from smiling too much out of laughter. I was beyond shocked when he threw his computer out of a window. I was in a ball and crying with laughter. What the fuck, Peter?
"What the fuck?!" Ted the Alligator yelled. "I can't even walk in people's front yard without getting shit thrown at me! Fuuucccck. I'm just trying to find something to fucking eat. I get a COMPUTER thrown at me? The fuck is wrong with this world?"
Joebear continued to sing a mock version of DarthSydePhineas's song, 'I Spawn, I Die.' "Can't stop killing it. Can't stop. Can't stop killing it. Don't how to stop! Can't stop killing it! Don't know how to stop!" He followed with a laughing fit.
When Ted was randomly in Peter's front yard, I was trying to hold my heart in my chest. I was having an autistic laughing fit. I was laughing without being able to breathe.
"What is going on? Is Peter fighting someone? What? Over a computer?" Joebear asked in disbelief.
"Yes. He is fighting with an alligator in his front yard. This shit is hilarious," I said while belly laughing.
"What? Is he Steve Erwin now?! I didn't know computer issues could have such an effect on mental stability," Joebear said while laughing.
"Why the fuck are you in my yard, Ted?! Jesus! Haven't you learned from the time I chased your ass with a chainsaw?" Peter yelled at him and was ready to throw the computer DESK at Ted.
"Crackalack, I ain't even KNEW this was your yard. I normally come in the back yard. I didn't know this was YOUR front yard. Shit. The fuck you throwing your computer at me for?" Ted asked him and was ready to fuck up Peter.
Peter was holding his computer desk and ready to beat Ted with it. "I didn't know you were in my fucking yard!!! If I knew you were there, I would have beat you WITH my computer. Get the fuck out of my yard!" Peter screamed at him. "You're more of a piece of shit than my computer!" Peter made a stupid laugh after that last comment.
"Crackalack, I swear to God I'mma fuck you up in your own house. Come at me, bro!" Ted screamed back at him. "I'm hungry and am in no mood for your BUULL SHIT!" Ted was slithering toward Peter. "Had enough of your damn shit!"
"Ted. Where you at?" Mr. Williamson's voice saved Peter's tall Irish ass.
Joebear and I were howling with laughter.
"Record this! Record this!" Joebear yelled.
"Will do," I said. "I'll send you the video when I finish with it!"
"Okay. Love you, bae," he said.
"Love you, too," I said. "I see you later."
He hung up, and I began to record these bums arguing.
"Man, this crackalack threw a computer at me! I was tryna find something to eat and then this crazy man comes at me," Ted yelled.
"Your alligator is in my yard again! Get out of my yard! What? Is my yard a hangout or something? I've been through this five times! Can we please stop now?!" Peter yelled. "Excuse me. I need to beat the hell out of my computer. I gotta find a hammer." He then came in the house through the window to find a hammer.
I was recording Peter coming through the window before I turned my attention to Mr. Williamson.
"Come on Ted. This guy is off his rocker," Mr. Williamson said as he shook his head and cracked up.
"No kidding. God help us," Ted said as he went to Mr. Williamson.
Jack the Crocodile was behind them. "Hey man, where the heck have you been?" he asked.
"I don't know. I was walking around tryna find something to eat, and all of a sudden, this crazy cat throws a computer out of his window. That thing dang near hit me," Ted said.
Jack shook his head. "Oh wow. That's crazy. Let's get out of here," he said.
Peter returned with a hammer. He jumped out of his window and looked at Mr. Williamson leaving. People driving by saw Peter's computer set-up tossed all over the front yard. "Hi, everyone. Welcome to my front yard. Would you like to see me beat the shit out of my computer?!" he asked loudly with a wide smile and fiery eyes that burned with anger. Those famous red circles around his eyes were dark even behind his glasses.
I laughed loudly as I was recording these shinattigans.
Mr. Williamson laughed and shook his head as he was walking away with Ted and Jack. "No thank you. We have a world to save. I'd give you a pamphlet, but you seem preoccupied," he responded.
"Yep!" Peter said as he started beating his computer with a hammer. He was grunting and muttering swear words. At this point, I doubt he was speaking English. It seemed that Peter was getting angrier and angrier every day. It must come with becoming almost 55. He definitely didn't look 54. Maybe he looked 40, but not 54.
I was having a laughing fit as I watched and recorded computer hardware fly across his yard. He even pulled a few wires out of the machine and electrocuted himself a few times. I was recording and laughing my head off. My chest was hurting from all of that laughing. I couldn't breathe, and my abdomen was cramping up from all of the laughter.
"Oh my God, stop Peter. I'm dying. You're giving me a hernia! Hahaha. I'm going to lose 20 pounds from laughing. Haha!" I yelled at him. I was seriously having trouble breathing.
"The computer has not been obliterated yet, and I have not had adequate shock therapy," he responded as he continued to repeatedly dent the computer processing unit.
He stopped for a second and looked at me with my phone. "Are you recording me?" He was walking toward me angrily with that trademark evil smile with his pointy canines. He was still holding his hammer. "Stop that shit now, or my computer isn't going to be the only thing destroyed!"
I immediately stopped recording and put my phone in my cleaning apron. "Okay, Peter," I said with a smile.
"Thank you," he said before he returned to beating his computer. He already obliterated the monitor some more. Parts of the screen were in his neighbors' yard. It turned out that parts of his desk were in the neighbors' yard, too.
More people drove by before stopping to see Peter destroy his own belongings. He now was kicking his computer desk repeatedly. Some people looked at him with horror while others were laughing hysterically.
"What are you looking at? I live here. I have a right to destroy my own property on my front yard. Obviously, you have nothing better to do with your life than watch me decimate this object that has caused me grief and suffering for FAR TOO LONG!!!!" He called to passerbys as he continued to beat his computer to oblivion.
People drove away as they were laughing and/or were mortified. I was laughing, too. I hoped Peter was relieving stress and anxiety on that piece of shit computer. It probably needed a good beating. It was the only thing Peter could do with a computer correctly. He even received a few bonus electric shock treatments to perhaps help him learn how to do something with a computer besides use it as a personal whipping post.
"Goddammit. Why the fuck won't this damn attachment send over? The fuck is wrong with this E-mail?!" Peter would yell.
Joebear and I couldn't help but crack up at him. My lungs were worn out from all the laughing at him I have done for the past two years.
Joebear commented with a laugh, "He sounds like he has a mentally-challenged computer and needs help with his brain."
Peter yelled to Joebear. "All true! This is bullshit!"
We cracked up and then continued on with our day. Joebear was playing "Hobos and Dawgs" by our favorite nerd rap artist, DarthSydePhineas.
"Damn! Damn! DamnDamnDamn! Hobos and Dawgs! Damn! Damn! DamnDamnDamn! Hobos and Dawgs! I need a hobo or a dawg, not you. Then I can go back to class! I need pictures! Where the fuck are they? I need to find a hobo or a dog. I need to find a hobo or a dog. This is bullshit! This is bullshit!" I rapped along.
"Fucking hell. If you are going to make technology, at least make it work correctly. What the fuck is the point?" Peter would continually rant at least 15 times a day. I laughed every time without fail. Godiva would just roll her eyes and ignore the bullshit in her son's office. Jamie would interrupt him from his swearing to do more random chores. Interruptions did not help Peter's already fucked-up mood.
Other times, Joe and I would sing along to DarthSydePhineas's "I AM FUCKING SONIC!" while Peter would be doing chores, and I would clean his house.
"I am fucking Sonic. And you can't fuck with me now. I am a fucking hedgehog! And I have spikes on my back! Oh shit!" Joebear and I would sing.
"Okay. I tried to send this fucker three times. Let me break this file down... AGAIN!!! SIIIIIIGHH!!!" Peter would say at least five times a day. The poor bastard just wanted to publish his novels and send them to every literary agent in the world. Whenever he said this rant, I was on the floor laughing every time while Joebear would try to help him break the file down. Joebear was a computer whiz. Peter was technologically-challenged. Joebear and I had a good laugh. Peter was pissed.
"Yes. I typed Artie Wonderbloom and The Green Goblin and Artie Wonderbloom and The Yellow Brick Road at least 20 times today. The fuck else did I write that I am trying to publish? I already published 20 screenplays. Let's move on with my life PLEASE!!!! SIGH! Fuck off. Where is the auto fill?" Peter would rant. "I published 20 screenplays and am trying to publish two novels. Why the fuck am I still doing DRYWALL? Because of the ever-failing healthcare AND insurance system in America and INFLATION! Fuck this world!" This rant happened at least once a day. This rant also made Joebear and me belly-laugh without sound. "Unbelievable. I was a porn star in my time. I wrote screen plays. I am writing two novels. Blood, sweat, and tears. Lots and lots of tears! Why the ACTUAL fuck am I broke? Because America. Because Republicans! Fuck. My. Life."
Joebear and I would cry laughing at this particular rant. We agreed. It was bullshit that even if you made over $50,000 a year, you were still fucking broke. That's why Joebear and I do our own business. We hate answering to people for no apparent reason.
Today, we felt more sympathetic for our tall, technologically-challenged friend than we usually did. I went over to poke him on the shoulder repeatedly. The poor bastard looked like he was about to cry.
"I have tried three times. Three fucking times. To format this goddamn E-mail correctly. These literary agents are pretentious, picky, self-centered pieces of dog shit. They have so so many fucking rules. It's their way or fuck you. Sigh. I should have been a literary agent. It would definitely help me make more money. If I knew how to be a literary agent, I'd do it. It would also relieve frustration, stress, and anxiety to tell other writers to fuck off if they so much as miss a comma! Fuck. These. Goddamn. People. I want to E-mail them and tell them exactly what the fuck I think!" Peter ranted with his trademark sigh.
Joebear and I laughed again.
"You need a new E-mail client. Comcrap is a piece of dog shit. Also, you do have a knack for missing commas. Your writing is amazing, but you forget commas like you forget everything else. Your memory sucks ass," I said.
"He uses Comcrap? No wonder!" Joebear chimed in.
"I know it!" Peter said as he accented his Southern accent. "You guys use G-mail, right?"
"Yes. XaraNCampanelli@gmail.com," I answered.
"How the fuck do you set up a G-mail account?" he asked.
Joebear sighed. "Xara. Help him please. I'm going to have a bowel movement now. I shall return," he said.
"Enjoy thy shit," I said to Joebear before I answered Peter. "Go to www.gmail.com."
He was typing the address into the Google search engine.
"Okay. Go to G-mail.com," I said.
He clicked the link.
"Now go to 'create account'," I said.
Peter clicked the link. "So I just fill this shit out, right?"
"Yes, Pete," I said.
He put his first name was Peter and last name as Awkward. G-mail suggested that his E-mail be PeterAwkward8@gmail.com.
"Sounds about right. You act like an eight-year-old," I said with a shrug.
"Works for me," he said with a grin. He now had an E-mail address of PeterAwkward8@gmail.com. His other one was SuperCopingMan@comcrap.net. He was also a super hero until last year when he had a mental breakdown and didn't feel like coping with being stuck in drywall, exploding cars, toilet gardens, Pennywise the Dancing Clown, naked neighbors, or birthday parties that went to shit because someone forgot the alcohol.
We continued to set up his G-mail account until he asked me what theme I thought he liked. I was sorry to say, but there was a serene purple scene with lilies in the background that I knew he liked. But it was too feminine. I saw Peter as a manly boy, a guy who liked trees, leaves, and old houses built in the 1800s. I was not going to stand for him to pick something so feminine. I guessed the leaf theme.
"Ugh. No. Too typical. Try again," he said.
"How about the woods?" I asked.
"Oh God. Everyone picks that!" Peter exclaimed.
"I don't. I made a custom black, purple, and white theme to describe my dark nature," I said.
He blinked and made a "taken-aback" face with an added shudder. "Well, I like the black theme, too, but that's too obvious," he said.
"How about the rainbow-colored fish one?" I asked.
"Okay. Stop picking what I *should* like and pick what I *know* I like," Peter said.
I sighed. "Peter, don't pick that purple one..." I said.
Joebear returned to the phone after a quick bowel movement. "So where are we in setting up the E-mail?" he asked.
"Peter picked a purple theme for his new G-mail account," I said.
"You know it!" Peter said with a smile.
"Peter, that's gay," I said.
"Oh my God. That's a ferret thing to do," Joebear said with a laugh.
"What? I like purple. And as I recall, Joebear, you like purple, too," he said as he picked the purple theme.
"Yeah, but I don't pick an overly purple theme! I'm not a ferret" he said.
Peter snickered. "Are you sure about that?" he asked.
"Yeah, dude. I'm pretty sure I'm not homosexual," Joebear said with an added "durrr!" at the end.
"Well, you liked purple, and you called me a ferret, so I had to ask," Peter responded.
"Oh God, Peter," I said and laughed. I went back to work for a bit to try to stop laughing at Peter. "You're such a girl!!!! You know what? I'm going to go ahead and buy you some eyeliner and lipstick. And maybe some new skinny jeans!"
Joebear and I cracked up at my remark. Peter snarled at us and continued to work on his computer.
"That's so stoopid," Joebear said and laughed. "Please don't do that seriously."
"I might," I said.
"Oh God! I'm done! Call me when something stupid happens!" Joebear said.
"Will do. Love you, bae!" I sung.
"Love you, too," he said as he made a dolphin sound.
I made a dolphin sound in return. He hung up the phone.
A few minutes later, I heard a few autistic growls emanating from Peter. He had Asperger's Syndrome, but no one told him yet. I laughed. His mom couldn't help but giggle and shake her head. She was so done with his shit that day. I could tell.
I called Joebear.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Bae, something stupid happened," I said.
"What now?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said as I put my phone on speaker. "I'Il find out." I went over to Peter and patted his shoulder.
"I tried to send this E-mail three goddamn times! Three! Now four! Christ, I can't count!" Peter said as he growled.
"Oh God!" Joebear said as he giggled.
"Maybe you put in the wrong E-mail address," I said.
"Maybe the first time, but I double-checked the website and double-checked my clipboard and everything was fine," he said loudly.
"Maybe the website had the wrong E-mail address," I said.
"No! I went to Donald K. Fulton's WEBSITE ITSELF. That's the literary agent! I took the damn E-mail straight from the damn website and copied it into the damn recipient's box on the goddamn E-mail!" Peter said as he started foaming at the mouth.
"Donald K. Fulton sounds like a ferret's name," Joebear said.
"It is. This guy is a *real* ferret. I hope this ferret accepts my story," Peter said.
The tune, "I Spawn, I Die," by DarthSydePhineas was in the background.
"Dude, have you ever thought that maybe you're just bad with computers?" I said humorously to Peter.
"Not only that, BUT I'M CURSED!!!!!!" Peter yelled as he grabbed his monitor by the sides and stared intently at it with rage. Then he calmed down just for a moment and smiled. "Sometimes these websites just aren't designed very well!"
I laughed. "Because they were designed by Americans."
"Yeah, Americans can't program worth a shit," Joebear added before he sung a mock version of 'I Spawn, I Die.' "They spawn, they die. They spawn, they die. Every mother fucker has stupid E-mails. Every mother fucker has stupid E-mails. D-D-D-D-D-Dumbasses! D-D-D-D-D-Dumbasses!"
"Oh God! Everything with you guys is racist!" Peter said as he rolled his eyes. "How do you refresh the page?"
"Press F5 on the top of your keyboard, you Old Fuck," I said with a giggle.
Joebear snickered at me. "WOW!" he said with a high-pitched quick laugh.
Peter was 54. I was 30. Joebear was 39. And Peter was bad with computers. I was going to call Peter an Old Fuck.
"The fuck did you just call me?" Peter asked as he pressed F5 and turned his face toward me.
"An Old Fuck. You're 54 and are terrible with computers!" I yelled.
"Oh fuck off. You're as bad as these terribly CONFIGURATED web sites!" he said as he flicked me off.
"If we were in Korea, our websites wouldn't be fucked up," Joebear said. "Americans are just STUPID with programming. You need help, Peter?"
"Yes," he answered. "But not before I beat this computer into submission. I haven't tried that yet!" All of a sudden, Peter rose and punched his monitor in the face. "How do you like that?" He kicked the computer desk. "That's what I think of you, you piece of shit!"
Joebear and I cracked up.
"Really? You beat the computer? How is that going to help?" Joebear said as he cracked up. "Oh God."
"This computer cannot be helped," Peter said before he turned off his tablet kindly. He then opened his window. He turned off the computer. "Thank God I backed up all my shit up on a hard drive. Thank you, Joebear."
"You're welcome. What were you trying to do?" Joebear asked with a chuckle.
Peter then went into crying hysterics. "I just wanted to send my query letter to Donald K. Fulton. That's all. Is that too much to ask?" Peter cried.
"Dude, just send it as an attachment," Joebear said.
"No literary agent accepts attachments because trolls put bad stuff on them," Peter said as he was literally crying.
"Oh wow. Don't they have anticuck software to determine if the attachment is fucked?" Joebear asked.
"An anti-what?" Peter asked as he was sniffling.
"It's antivirus software and adblockers to determine whether your attachments are bullshit or not," I answered.
"I don't know, but I can't get this thing to send," Peter said.
"Fuck it. Try it again later," Joebear said.
"Good idea," Peter said with an evil smile. "I'll try it again WITH A NEW COMPUTER!"
He then went ape shit on his computer all of a fucking sudden; he pounded on the sides of the monitor while grunting and swearing. He repeatedly kicked the fuck out of his computer and broke the monitor. "Fuck it! This computer is 10 years old. I am going to Microcenter in Duluth tomorrow to put my shit on a computer that actually fucking works! Fuck this piece of shit! Need to buy a new goddamn computer and need to bitch at these literary agents for being less computer savvy than I am. I'd like to beat the shit out of them." He suddenly threw his computer the fuck out of his window.
"Aaaaagggfghhhhhhhhhh! Get the fuck out of here!!!! FUCK YOU YOU PIECE OF SHIT COMPUTER!!! FUCK THESE LITERARY AGENTS!"
Joebear was laughing hysterically over the phone. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" He asked between laughs. "Okay. That happened. I wasn't expecting that! Wow!" He was crying with laughter. "Holy Cow!"
At this point, I really should be used to Peter's random autistic rages, but I found every single one of them hilarious. I just fucking laughed until my chest felt like exploding. My mouth was hurting from smiling too much out of laughter. I was beyond shocked when he threw his computer out of a window. I was in a ball and crying with laughter. What the fuck, Peter?
"What the fuck?!" Ted the Alligator yelled. "I can't even walk in people's front yard without getting shit thrown at me! Fuuucccck. I'm just trying to find something to fucking eat. I get a COMPUTER thrown at me? The fuck is wrong with this world?"
Joebear continued to sing a mock version of DarthSydePhineas's song, 'I Spawn, I Die.' "Can't stop killing it. Can't stop. Can't stop killing it. Don't how to stop! Can't stop killing it! Don't know how to stop!" He followed with a laughing fit.
When Ted was randomly in Peter's front yard, I was trying to hold my heart in my chest. I was having an autistic laughing fit. I was laughing without being able to breathe.
"What is going on? Is Peter fighting someone? What? Over a computer?" Joebear asked in disbelief.
"Yes. He is fighting with an alligator in his front yard. This shit is hilarious," I said while belly laughing.
"What? Is he Steve Erwin now?! I didn't know computer issues could have such an effect on mental stability," Joebear said while laughing.
"Why the fuck are you in my yard, Ted?! Jesus! Haven't you learned from the time I chased your ass with a chainsaw?" Peter yelled at him and was ready to throw the computer DESK at Ted.
"Crackalack, I ain't even KNEW this was your yard. I normally come in the back yard. I didn't know this was YOUR front yard. Shit. The fuck you throwing your computer at me for?" Ted asked him and was ready to fuck up Peter.
Peter was holding his computer desk and ready to beat Ted with it. "I didn't know you were in my fucking yard!!! If I knew you were there, I would have beat you WITH my computer. Get the fuck out of my yard!" Peter screamed at him. "You're more of a piece of shit than my computer!" Peter made a stupid laugh after that last comment.
"Crackalack, I swear to God I'mma fuck you up in your own house. Come at me, bro!" Ted screamed back at him. "I'm hungry and am in no mood for your BUULL SHIT!" Ted was slithering toward Peter. "Had enough of your damn shit!"
"Ted. Where you at?" Mr. Williamson's voice saved Peter's tall Irish ass.
Joebear and I were howling with laughter.
"Record this! Record this!" Joebear yelled.
"Will do," I said. "I'll send you the video when I finish with it!"
"Okay. Love you, bae," he said.
"Love you, too," I said. "I see you later."
He hung up, and I began to record these bums arguing.
"Man, this crackalack threw a computer at me! I was tryna find something to eat and then this crazy man comes at me," Ted yelled.
"Your alligator is in my yard again! Get out of my yard! What? Is my yard a hangout or something? I've been through this five times! Can we please stop now?!" Peter yelled. "Excuse me. I need to beat the hell out of my computer. I gotta find a hammer." He then came in the house through the window to find a hammer.
I was recording Peter coming through the window before I turned my attention to Mr. Williamson.
"Come on Ted. This guy is off his rocker," Mr. Williamson said as he shook his head and cracked up.
"No kidding. God help us," Ted said as he went to Mr. Williamson.
Jack the Crocodile was behind them. "Hey man, where the heck have you been?" he asked.
"I don't know. I was walking around tryna find something to eat, and all of a sudden, this crazy cat throws a computer out of his window. That thing dang near hit me," Ted said.
Jack shook his head. "Oh wow. That's crazy. Let's get out of here," he said.
Peter returned with a hammer. He jumped out of his window and looked at Mr. Williamson leaving. People driving by saw Peter's computer set-up tossed all over the front yard. "Hi, everyone. Welcome to my front yard. Would you like to see me beat the shit out of my computer?!" he asked loudly with a wide smile and fiery eyes that burned with anger. Those famous red circles around his eyes were dark even behind his glasses.
I laughed loudly as I was recording these shinattigans.
Mr. Williamson laughed and shook his head as he was walking away with Ted and Jack. "No thank you. We have a world to save. I'd give you a pamphlet, but you seem preoccupied," he responded.
"Yep!" Peter said as he started beating his computer with a hammer. He was grunting and muttering swear words. At this point, I doubt he was speaking English. It seemed that Peter was getting angrier and angrier every day. It must come with becoming almost 55. He definitely didn't look 54. Maybe he looked 40, but not 54.
I was having a laughing fit as I watched and recorded computer hardware fly across his yard. He even pulled a few wires out of the machine and electrocuted himself a few times. I was recording and laughing my head off. My chest was hurting from all of that laughing. I couldn't breathe, and my abdomen was cramping up from all of the laughter.
"Oh my God, stop Peter. I'm dying. You're giving me a hernia! Hahaha. I'm going to lose 20 pounds from laughing. Haha!" I yelled at him. I was seriously having trouble breathing.
"The computer has not been obliterated yet, and I have not had adequate shock therapy," he responded as he continued to repeatedly dent the computer processing unit.
He stopped for a second and looked at me with my phone. "Are you recording me?" He was walking toward me angrily with that trademark evil smile with his pointy canines. He was still holding his hammer. "Stop that shit now, or my computer isn't going to be the only thing destroyed!"
I immediately stopped recording and put my phone in my cleaning apron. "Okay, Peter," I said with a smile.
"Thank you," he said before he returned to beating his computer. He already obliterated the monitor some more. Parts of the screen were in his neighbors' yard. It turned out that parts of his desk were in the neighbors' yard, too.
More people drove by before stopping to see Peter destroy his own belongings. He now was kicking his computer desk repeatedly. Some people looked at him with horror while others were laughing hysterically.
"What are you looking at? I live here. I have a right to destroy my own property on my front yard. Obviously, you have nothing better to do with your life than watch me decimate this object that has caused me grief and suffering for FAR TOO LONG!!!!" He called to passerbys as he continued to beat his computer to oblivion.
People drove away as they were laughing and/or were mortified. I was laughing, too. I hoped Peter was relieving stress and anxiety on that piece of shit computer. It probably needed a good beating. It was the only thing Peter could do with a computer correctly. He even received a few bonus electric shock treatments to perhaps help him learn how to do something with a computer besides use it as a personal whipping post.