"A Bum Walked Up To Me And Said..."
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved



                      "A Bum Walked Up To Me And Said,
                    'I Haven't Had A Byte In Three Days.'
                         So I Gave Him A Computer."
                                     by
                                Bruce Diamond


      My friend, Rick, the stand-up comic, told me the other day he just
landed a gig at some big gala event and he wanted to bounce some jokes off
me.  Dripping sweat on the new carpet I had installed in my home office, Rick
flopped down on the guest chair after his afternoon jog.  Why he insisted
jogging with all of his gadgets always puzzled me -- he looked like a secret
service agent after a quick sprint around the Rose Garden with Bill Clinton.

      Rick's a gadget freak, even if he doesn't know the business end of a
computer; he gravitates towards telecommunications/paging gizmos.  Two
pagers (one for digital messages, the other to display telephone numbers), a
cellular phone (usually kept in a briefcase), a flip phone, two microcassette
recorders (one for joke ideas, the other one to record everything else), an
electronic rolodex, an electronic dictionary, and an electronic translator (he
just likes the sound of English translated to Latin and back . . . don't ask
me).  The translator hits the upper limit of his gizmatic abilities, though . . .
most everything with more than ten keys confuses him.

      I just nodded, staring at the "Wrong fax modem type" error message on
my screen.  Wrong type?  The manual indicated all I had to do was install the
word processing program and boom, I'd be junk-faxing thirty companies in
Walla Walla the details of my new fake insect in the ice cube products, "the
perfect ice-breaker at parties."

      Rick droned on about the national convention of computer nerds where
he'd be performing.  I shot him my best "I can kill you with a pocket
protector" glare, but he ignored it, as usual.  The word processor/fax
software manual was more interesting, anyway.

      "I figured," he went on, "that since you're the only computer ner . . .
er, I mean expert . . . that I know, maybe you could give me some feedback
on these techy jokes I'm gonna wow 'em with."

      Murmuring a vague assent, I realized I hadn't loaded the fax utilities
that came with the word processor.  Writing jokes for Rick would take less
time than reinstalling the program, but it was my only option.  At least Rick
could help me kill some time.

      "Get this one, get this one."  Rick shuffled the index cards he pulled
out of his fanny pack.  "Hey, I hear Bill Gates once worked on an earlier
version of Windows called . . . No-Doze!  Geddit, geddit?"

      I snatched the card from him.  "It's spelled W-I-N-D-O-W-S, Rick.  And
the only people who complain about the speed are the prehistorics still
running 386-25 machines."

      Rick took the card back, giving me his "you're a walking encyclopedia,
and annoying on top of it" look.  I just smiled and turned back to the
computer.  The installation was finished, so I rebooted while Rick scribbled
some notes.  He grabbed another card from his stack. Torturing him was going
to be fun.

      "I suppose I can scrap this one, too.  'Programs don't run under
Windows . . . they crawl.'"  He lifted an eyebrow, daring me to disagree.

      I smiled.

      Rick tore the card in two.  And about ten others, muttering something
like "Fifty bucks, down the drain" under his breath.  He lifted another card.

      "WordImperfect?" he asked, querously.

      Shaking my head, I answered, "Been done."  While he tossed three other
cards, I tried faxing again.  Again the computer beeped and "Wrong fax modem
type" appeared on the screen.  Realizing my mistake, I rewrote the batch file
to load the driver before the word processor, and rebooted again.  Maybe
writing jokes for Rick would be easier than this.  The person who first
thought of integrated software should be subjected to Rick's routine.

      Where did he get this material?  Rick's no A-list comedian, but he isn't
bottom-of-the-barrel, either.  He's played Vegas, for goodness' sake.  Well,
okay, so it was a small club on the outskirts of town, but it was Vegas.  His
glitter-suits, specially tailored for him in Nevada, were the only proof he had
of the two-night gig, but I never doubted him.

      Triumphantly, Rick lifted another card from the stack.  "This one's
guaranteed, baby.  It'll kill, I know it will."  He cleared his throat and put on
his best stage voice.  Unfortunately, I can't repeat what he said here, this
being a family publication and all.  The joke went on for five minutes, filled
with "software" and "hardware" and "hard disk," all told in an adolescent-
male voice loaded with testosterone.  Is that a vivid enough picture for you?

      "Obviously, Rick, you've never played Leather Goddesses of Phobos or
Leisure Suit Larry.  This material won't kill . . . it's already dead."

      "Writing the Great American Novell?"  Nuh-uh.  "New Frito-Lay Computer
Chips, able to store three times the fat and salt than other chips?"  Nope. 
"IBM means Infernally Bad Machines?"  I showed him my IBM shirt with three
dozen variations on the theme.  "I hit a speed-bump on the Information
Superhighway?"  Oh, please.  You've hit a speed-bump in your brain.  "My
mouth runs at 14.4k baud but my brain runs at 300 baud?"  That's true, but
it won't get any laughs.  "I got a code in my node from a computer virus?" 
Highly unlikely.  "Nancy Sinatra's new hit song, 'These Reboots Are Made For
AWKing'?"  Too obscure, incorrect, and just plain unfunny.  "I know all about
multitasking -- I read in the bathroom, and eat while watching TV."  Yawn. 
"This LAN is your LAN, this LAN is my LAN . . ."  He still insists on singing
in his act despite his agent's advice, and despite my yowling-dog
impersonation when he does it.  Rick is completely tone-deaf.  "Byte me." 
Only works in print, bucko.  And even in print it's dull.

      Rick must have run through a hundred "jokes" on that lazy, hazy,
crazy afternoon, getting more discouraged with each passing hour.  When he
offered "just the fax, ma'am," that reminded me of my task at hand, and I
reloaded the word processor while he ran through his last half-dozen gags.  I
couldn't stand it any more . . . I just had to know.

      "Rick, where did you get this awful material?  Your usual stuff is
cleverer than this."

      Rick shook his head and sighed.  "I've gotta cousin, oh, about 15 years
old, who runs her own BBS, and thought I'd save a little money . . ."

      I ran a hand over my face.  "Don't tell me -- she grabbed a tagline file
for you, didn't she?"

      Nodding, Rick tore the last few cards in two.  My office looked like the
remains of a ticker tape parade, or an all-night crash programming session at
Microsoft.  "Look, Rick," I counseled, "you and I both know you get what you
pay for.  Gear up your regular writers and bite the bullet."

      "Yeah, yeah, I know you're right."  Rick thanked me for the input and
shuffled his way back to his apartment, gadgets clacking against each other
on his fanny pouch belt.  He looked as dejected as Lotus after Novell beat
them out to purchase WordPerfect.  Turning back to my screen, I entered
Rick's name and address on the fax cover letter as the contact person for the
fake ice cube novelties.

      Looked like he needed something to fall back on.  Those "nerds" were
going to eat him alive.

