Bill Gates has got his own back on spoof news journalists, parody-writers, jealous scorn-mongers and the humourless robots who write "The Onion" by spiking all their Shredded Wheat with hallucinogenic drugs. TheSpoof has been particularly badly hit.
It all started when my oily ferret-in-a-box called me from the breakfast table. "Jonathan Ross is here to see you, and his face is as purple as time," said the ferret, who'd just read Michael Moore's novel "Abstractism for the Gimmicky Iconoclast Icon."
"What can I do for you, Jonathan?" who had by this time turned into a toaster full of double helix.
The magical hawk winds of the rug I got from DFS told me to folly my elders, and bolly would be mine for all. Schematics and semantics apart, I dug a hole for my whole, and put my ass into it, feeling ten times more climby than before. Everton didn't deserve to go down in this world of fruity Gazza.
"I told you to assault your iMac with your penguin!" said a speckled giant of a bill, who had recently been me, myself and I, on air. Where from whence he came, I am date, to unsure. Although he sent me down the Yellow Brick Pedestrianised High Street and Dixxxxxonnnnnnnnssss?
Jimmy Crickets and his Buddy Holly! Is that really how he died? How did they manage to fit his glasses on the aeroplane? I'm sure Eddie Izzard had something to do with it, although not far from here, I'm sure he waves at Aaliyah through his vanity tabular functions.
By now my iMac was back in my hut, but was now an iLamp. I've been pulling faces at it all afternoon, but the bill had returned, disappointed at my faces, and the iLamp, which was not fulfilling its mirror potential. I was flying through windows before long.
Is my life worth usability and graphics with ease? I'm not Start.