Absurdus Tempus
from http://www4.tomshardware.com/smoke/20010501/

I'm sitting in a bar somewhere in Southern California, drinking my usual mixture of cranberry juice and Advocaat over marshmallows, drowning my sorrows, my pancreas, and any other internal organ that might happen to show signs of virtue.

I'm upset because, I've met this absinthe kind of guy - you know, the type who wears turtlenecks and likes to grow a ponytail even though the top of his head is as smooth as polished glass. We get talking and it turns out he knows about Tom's Hardware Guide, and after we've gotten to be old friends over a pint of aquavit, he says to me, "Man, you guys are freaks!"

For goodness sake, you've modeled your head on the butt of a horse, and you think we're freaks. I'm thinking that. Of course, I end up mumbling, "Oh, what makes you say that?"

He says, "Dude, you have guys who think that they're fighting a righteous fight just because they're buying AMD over Intel. That's freaky! Any of these guys realize that they're backing one multi-billion dollar corporation over another? I mean, it's not like Brittney or Christina, right? It's not Tom or Jerry, man? Then, you have guys who are willing to check out every inch of the site, and then end up getting an iMac. Like paying a visit to Victoria's Secret and then renting The Sound of Music. That's a double freaky! Then, you have the experts, guys who run networks, do research, write programs, have render farms, and crud like that, and they're just glad to find a place where they don't have to read ridiculous columns by self-appointed, pompous wannabe techno-prophets, and they still end up reading this far? Triple freaky, dude!"

"So, what are you saying," I said holding fast to my Woo Woo - a delightful blend of Peach Schnapps, vodka, and cranberry juice, "You think we're extremists, fanatics, people who like to posture?"

Ponytail's eyes lit up, "That's a Woo Woo, right? Haven't seen one of those since my old lady gave up drinking. "Listen, all I'm saying is that I don't get you guys. What's your dojo?"

"You mean mojo?" I corrected him.

"Pass me the Rompope. No, I think I mean loco, from the Latin ablative for locus, meaning place. I'm saying, where are you guys coming from, man?"

I put aside my Nebuchadnezzar of pale ale, and thought to myself, "I can't feel my neck! My head! Where's my head?!"