Not Only In #Trumpland Does Disinformation Serve The Agenda. Would You Believe Corporations Use Smoke Screens Too? Duh!

three dollar bill apple logo (low res)

Worst-writer has been wielding an iPhone 6s for well over two years now. It’s my second “smartphone”. Worst-writer has never been a fan of Apple’s iOS. In fact, most computer operating systems suck. On top of that, the whole smartphone thing bores me. Reason? These things can do so much more. Here’s my worst-dream for smartphones: These things should be a person’s sole device. When on the go, there’s the phone. When at home or in the office, we should be able to use it with some kind interface (hub, docking station, etc.) and thereby have a monitor, keyboard and pointing device. Indeed. We should be able, as of 2017, to carry around a full functioning PC in our pocket. Instead we carry around widget that serves a higher greed purpose. But I digress.

From what I can tell from iPads, Surface tablets, smartphones, etc., these things are most certainly powerful enough to fulfil worst-writer’s worst-dream. Yet we’re still stuck with having to buy separate hardware in order to worst-write, worst-view and worst-consume… all the porn the world and its females can offer. So when I read krapp about how the world’s greediest corporation may or may not be manipulating its products in order to force consumers to buy anew, I go he-he-ha-ha-he-he-haaaaaa.

As far as smokescreens go–which we should all be used to considering a world where #Trump can get elected–Apple has done a fine job of shifting the issue that we should really be discussing. The fact is, Apple’s products are not only dependent on batteries, but they are also dependent on software. I know. I know. Most worst-readers reading this know that. But still, since the issue broke about Apple’s greed systemamtic planned product obsoletism, it seems the whole thing is now ending in it all being about the battery. The problem is sooooooooo not the battery.

For those interested, here’s worst-writer’s solution to the whole worst-thing. Combined with a fair priced battery replacement, Apple could make an iPhone last (until the hardware fails) by allowing customers a choice which iOS version they want to use, including just staying with the iOS that came with the device when it was purchased. IMHO, it is all these crazy iOS upgrades that ruin not only battery life but the whole user experience. Seriously. There is nothing in any iOS upgrade I’ve experienced that has made the degraded functionality that follows worthwhile. Btw, IMHO, that’s exactly what PC makers–including Apple Macs–have done with operations system upgrades, too. But what the hell do I know?

Rant on.

-T

Link that motivated this post:

That Day Great White Apes Unlearned A$$ Whipping And Replaced It With Learned A$$ Kissing–Plus My Translation of Rammstein’s Bück Dich

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Wake up, dear worst-reader. I’ve got some worst-newz for ya. Did you know that there was one of the worst outbreaks of hepatitis-a in the greatest country in the universe last year? Whaaaaa? Repeat: hepatitis-a broke out in southern California! You didn’t know that? Did you not know it because, well, you’re one of the automatons that actually directly contributed to there being such an outbreak? The problems of the world today is mostly due to the passive yet indirect contributory activity of the automaton masses. Even though that mass has been systematically culled over the past two or three decades. Perhaps that’s the reason automatons are so damn nasty these days. And by-the-buy, did you also know that hepatitis-a is one of the easiest diseases to prevent? That’s right, all you gotta do is clean up after yourself and make sure everything else is clean around you. And when I worst-write about clean I’m not talking about clean sneakers or picking up after yourself when you finish your fast-food. I reckon in the land of the free-to-be-stupid taking cleanliness to higher levels–and keeping them there–is asking for a bit much. Of course, my beloved #americant isn’t alone among the so-called first world nations that’s having trouble getting rid of the one thing humanity knows how to make without exploiting others to do it. Even though the two situations I’m referencing here (links below) are quite different, one thing remains the same. You can trace the automaton worship of greed as being the point of entry to the poverty of the soul we all live for now. And the fact that the poor–I’m worst writing about the real poor here–the people that can’t even afford to wipe their a$$es–are soon gonna join the zombies (automatons) as the fastest growing population segment–without proper sanitation and/or sewage. Indeed. Until then, not only do automatons need a place to $hit in the filthy and dilapidated office buildings but the wannabe automatons who couldn’t make it (yes, I’m pretty much one of the later) are leading the way of having to $hit in the streets again (but I’m not quite there yet). Wow. Not unlike feudalism from the good old days, eh?

For what ever strange reason, worst-writing about all this unnecessary poverty in this world got me thinking about Rammstein. I mean, of course, the band and not the rundown town in southwestern Germany. There’s always been something about the song Bück Dich that has bothered me over the years. I remember struggling with the text when I first heard it. Words like Antlitz and Passgang drove me to the brink of coping with having learned this gross language. Yet these words were somehow poetic islands in the sea of wanna-cry devastation that the world has brought upon itself simply because there is so much inherent greed and hate for brothers, sisters and all the freak show inhabitants in-between. Which brings me to this new translation retry of Rammstein’s Bück Dich1:

Bück dich befehl ich dir
(I order you, bend over (and get on all fours))
Wende dein Antlitz ab von mir
(Keep your (facial) expressions to yourself (because of what I’m doing to you)
Dein Gesicht ist mir egal
(Your face doesn’t matter (which is not unlike a whore fcuking her John)
Bück dich
(Get on all fours)

Ein Zweibeiner auf allen Vieren
(Two-Legs is on all fours)
Ich führe ihn spazieren
(I take him for a walk)
Im Passgang den Flur entlang
(Amble along the hallway)
Ich bin enttäuscht
(I’m disappointed)

Jetzt kommt er rückwarts mir entgegen
(Two-Legs passes by me going backwards (but what he really means is that his subject is starting to want it))
Honig bleibt am Strumpfband kleben
(The/my honey sticks to his stockings)
Ich bin enttauscht total enttauscht
(I’m disappointed, really disappointed)

Bück Dich…
Das Gesicht interessiert mich nicht
(Faces don’t interest me)

Der Zweibeiner hat sich gebückt
(Two-Legs bends over)
In ein gutes Licht geruckt
(Finding favour in the light (where I can hone my aim))
Zeig ich ihm was man machen kann
(I show him what a man can do (to another man))
Und ich fang zu weinen an
(Which brings me to tears (of joy or maybe not))

Der Zweifuss stammelt ein Gebet
(Two-Legs screws-up his prayers)
Aus Angst weil es mir schlechter geht
(He is afraid because I’m not pleased (with his performance))
Versucht er tief sich noch zu bücken
(So he tries harder to bend over more)
Tranen laufen hoch den Rucken
(My tears flow up his back)

-end translation-

So I guess, in a way, dear worst-reader, Rammstein has written a homage to humanity and its ability to subject itself to Bück Dick or, putting it in a less Germanic way, bent over and wantonly penetrated so you can have a life where/while someone else can’t. That is, indeed, the only reason you have a life, isn’t it? Because someone else doesn’t? Or are we still on the great white ape thing and how humanity achieved so much coming out of the stone age? But I digress.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:


  1. Note dear worst-reader: I’m taking extreme liberties with this translation. In fact, I am stretching bigly here in an attempt to capture some essence. For example, although I’m using a simple and direct translation of Bück Dich above, there are other translations that would be just as good, e.g. bend over bitch, bow (as in before me), submit (your ass to me), know your place (in this world or in this corporation), I know your place (in this world or in this corporation and will lead you to it you fcuking simpleton automaton that has never had an original thought). ↩︎

The Bridge To The Cliff Has Already Been Crossed. So How’s The View While Falling Off The Cliff That Has Been Your Life Journey?

orwell big brother

The political payback president stupid owes certain republicans has been trickling in with ferocity lately. By certain republicans, of course, I’m referring to the bat$hit religious nutjobs that got Stupid elected. The best example of this can be seen in #Trump’s appointees. There are also a bunch of bat$hit appellate judges he’s been appointing–some of which have never tried a case in court. The way the State Department is being gutted is another example. The department is being headed by a #Trump appointee that is still a f’n Boy Scout. (Yes, I’m ragging on Boy Scouts.) Through new ideological leadership a bunch of long standing diplomats are either early-retiring or quitting their posts at the US State Department. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but I thought draining the swamp had more to do with elected officials and not a bunch easy-target bureaucrats. And let’s not get too deep into the recent tax break that’s been approved by a bat$hit republican Congress–where the richest #americants are not only being giving the largest government hand-out ever but are also being enabled to hoard what’s left of an already decimated economy that probably can’t recover. And by-the buy, how much do you want to bet that of all the free-money the rich are getting after this tax-break none of it will recirculate back in the country? But all that nonsense is neither here nor there. Reason? I can deal with $tupid politics. Stupid politics can be fixed. But there is one thing in politics that can’t be fixed and it almost passed right be me the other day–if it weren’t for a German article my better half showed to me. Did you get the recent BS about #Trump telling the CDC (Centre for Disease Control) what words to use when publishing official documents, especially budget reports? Get this:

In some instances, the analysts were given alternative phrases. Instead of “science-based” or ­“evidence-based,” the suggested phrase is “CDC bases its recommendations on science in consideration with community standards and wishes,” the person said. -from Wash Post article

Gee, dear worst-reader, who do you think the community standards and wishes is in the quote above? If this doesn’t put creepy crawlers under your skin, than nothing should. This is Orwell newspeak, baby. And it’s being officially dolled out by your electoral college elected officials.

Look what you’ve done #americant.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

Maybe Put A Label On It Instead Of Enabling A Bimbo To Sing Put A Ring On The Heart Of Suckers Born Every Minute

sucker born every minute
“There is a sucker born every minute” -PT Barnum

How do you regulate consumption? The consumer is the backbone of the greed economy. No wonder we all have back pain, eh. Yet we also live in a system that has found a way to protect the riches of great-great grandparents. Indeed. Long dead stupid white people have inherited their wealth to offspring that are obviously less ingenious. It’s interesting how the careful consideration of wealth can have grave ramification for a society that only knows the power of suckling the teat of a really, really fat motherfcuker. But I digress.

The issue today, dear worst-reader, is how former president Obama takes sides in the debate of what to do with a society over flowing with Stupid. I mean, why else would it even be an issue–this whole fcuking fake newz thing–if there were just a few more smarts in the world? And so, even a pretty smart guy jumps the gun and blames, of course, the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. And so the disinformation show–which is something different than fake newz–goes on.

Btw, if Obama warns us about “irresponsible social media abuse” who is gonna warn us about all the greed abuse that got us to this dystopia place at all? Oh well.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

Link that motivated this post:

Pyongyang’s Train Driver (A Dream)

kim jong un portrait

The man I was sent to replace was named Charlie. His full name: Christofer Littleton. He was born in Liverpool, England, but hadn’t been back there since he was a kid. After his mother abruptly died on his twelve birthday, his father, who was an engineer for the British army, packed up everything and the two went to India. Charlie finished growing up in Bangelore where his father was a consultant to the Indian Government. After completing compulsory school and utilising contacts from his father, Charlie took a job as a tool-man in Hong Kong. When he departed India, it was two days before his eighteenth birthday. It was 1953.

A “Tool-Man” is another name for a train engineer.

His idea was to work in China and help that country develop its metro system. To start, though, Charlie worked with the digging crews that would eventually lay the first rails of the Hong Kong MTR. During his second year, right after his contract was renewed, Charlie met Marry. Marry was from Korea. Marry moved to HK just after North Korea tried to invade South Korea. Marry and Charlie never had a family. One day Marry went to Charlie and told him she was unhappy with their lives in Hong Kong and that her unhappiness had nothing to do with being barren. She then said that she had a big family back in Korea and she was ready to go home. Charlie had worked ten years. The HK MTR was flourishing.

Charlie quit his job at Hong Kong MTR. With in a few months he and Marry took a boat to South Korea. Once there Marry revealed that her family wasn’t in the South but instead in the North. This revelation had little impact. Charlie joined his wife and the two entered North Korea. It was 1965.

I met Charlie in 1989 in a small office in the south-east corner basement of The Pyongyang Great Hall. The door to Charlie’s office was labelled “Tool-Man” and below that was the Korean translation. After greetings and other formalities, Charlie immediately took me to the train station that was directly at the rear entrance of The Great Hall. It was during this walk through the building that I realised my situation. I was living a dream. Yes, dear worst-reader. Some live dreams through the physical universe, some do not.

I tried to question Charlie about his decision to live in The North. Other than the following, Charlie withheld elaborating about his life decisions. He said, “Do your job.” His other remark was: Not unlike where you come from, everything here is not a dream.

We exited the rear of The Great Hall and I found myself standing directly on the train departure platform. Something was waaaaay out of whack. I couldn’t place it, though. My watch read nine forty-six. The morning air was fresh and crisp, unlike the air in Seoul–which I had no recollection of traveling to. The grey sky dimmed my view somewhat of the train grounds behind The Grat Hall but below the platform was a single narrow gauge track. The track was just as out-of-whack as the departure platform. In fact, according to my limited knowledge of trains, the gauge of the track meant that the train could not be a real train. But none of that mattered because, regardless of train here or there, I would command it the rest of my life… in North Korea.

During the first few moments of this passing of the baton, Charlie voiced soliloquies about his endeavours and when he was done he continued with songs of glory-interludes, adding tales of privilege while driving Dear Leader around the grounds behind The Great Hall. There was also a small buffet of goose-shrimp, tackle-butter and confused-gender bread but only attendees with a special badge could take from it. I did not have the special badge.

I kept one eye on Charlie and the other on the people gathering around us. As each person recognised Charlie and then me, the reason for my presence became clearer. Oh, dear worst-dreamer, I was indeed there for a reason. The reason goes beyond the metaphysical of my never having laid one foot in either South or North Korea. As best as I can surmise, the only reason I was there–in reality or not–was to relay Charlie’s message. For I am, in fact, a chronicler of a dream’s dream.

Being a tool-man wasn’t Charlie’s only purpose in life. His life was the two sides of all coins. First there was Marry. Second there was his message. Together these two purposes served a power higher than even the most giving and willing humans have ever attempted. I speak, of course, of the great messengers Jesus, Mohammad and, perhaps, #Trump. (I use the word “perhaps” because purpose remains to be determined. Or?)

Upon my arrival Charlie had already surpassed his time on earth. His extension or continuance, if you will, was granted by Dear Leader. The cause of this grant was a mistake in life and was not unlike mistakes from other infamous messengers: He failed to get the message out.

I’m wondering if the whole idea of message-delivery is that which brings me to my greatest fear: Not having enough time to debate the error and misfortune of the only son-of-God, born to this foul-able coil, like so many others, of mortality, and thereby stuck with the impossible. But I’m off subject–perhaps.

No matter where Charlie stood during the ceremony there was a descending sun-glow around his head. He had no remorse in saying goodbye to the facility that had him trapped for so many years. Is his face just like that of Jesus? Was his a face of disappointment? A face of misguided rage? Forgive me father for we have sinned?

By-the-buy, asking The Father for forgiveness of your sins was once a translators interpretation of pre canonical text. The reason it is still used today, even though it has nothing to do with biblical forgiveness-seeking, is because it’s what JC said either before or after “Father why hast thou forsaken me.” In fact, JC mumbled no-nonsense for hours before his final light went out.

But Charlie’s remorse was something else. In fact, I’d go so far as to claim that he knew all along that I would get the baton. He might not have known my face but he knew someone would be there. He might have even known all along that he wouldn’t be able to get his message out. So I also wondered if he was enjoying the suffering in my face. Yes, I think he was enjoying it.

After elegantly praising his time as Tool-Man and extolling the joy of marriage, he turned to me and put a hand in a coat pocket. Out of his pocket he pulled a lone key attached to a six inch diameter stainless steel ring. He handed me the ring and key and told me to be gentle but also firm… with her. Then he added: she will determine your time. He stood at attention as the small gauge train rolled around the small gauge track and came to halt before us–on the small departure platform. It was the first time I had seen the down-scaled train.

The underlings of the train exited from one of the three cars attached and they all shook hands with Charlie first. Charlie responded in Korean to their gestures and when all was done, the underlings turned to me and offered salutations anew. As I began to shake hands and reciprocate, Charlie entered the last train car and the train drove off towards the west corner of The Great Hall and I would never see him again.

Just then I woke up.

-end-

Rant on.

-T

Yet Another Example Of Fixing Stupid With Stupider

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That’s right. The red text is from worst-writer.

Disclaimer: The pic above is not an ad. Also, I wish no ill-will to the winery. And in all fairness, the wine wasn’t all that bad (as I eventually did try it–but never drank a glass of it). But I do wish to be critical–on behalf of all humanity that has not allowed itself to be distorted by wilful ignorance.

The pic above, dear worst-reader, is from a recent visit to The Homeland. And that’s where everything starts, doesn’t it? I mean. Come on. A once great nation can now be referred to as The Homeland. If Orwell were to turn in his grave, he also most certainly would be cynically laughing his a$$ off right now. What Aldus Huxley would be doing is whole ‘nother question–so let’s not go there (yet). Instead. Consider The Homeland and what lead to The Homeland for the rest of this worst-post. And now… let’s continue with a blossoming feminine flower that is in a perpetual state of menstruation but eventually finds it way to all-things cognitive.

The wine in the bottle in the pic above is called “Reconciliation”. As bad as the name The Homeland is, Reconciliation can be no worse. Or? When I first saw this bottle and recognised what someone was offering me to drink and what some wine maker decided to call it, I fcuking freaked out. After a few minutes, though, when my steamy, rocket-ship feet once again found solidity with this earth, images and audio of George Carlin and Bill Hicks began to scatter through the innards of my skull. It’s at that moment I turned to the person attempting to serve me.

“I’m not drinking anything from that bottle. Thank you all the same,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Have you lost all since of reality,” I asked my gracious but somewhat politically naive host.

“What do you mean, it’s good wine. I buy it by the case. It was a great catch last summer.”

“My friend…,” I tried to continue but was having trouble pushing my chin upwards in attempt to close-off my dropped jaw.

Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. There has never been and, perhaps, there should never be Reconciliation. Reason? When a war is won, there is a loser and there is a winner. The dip$hit southern states of the United Mistakes of #americant lost the Civil War. And the cock-sucking traitors didn’t JUST lose. They lost big time. And not only did they lose, but they should have also lost the right to even be part of the United Mistakes. Every fcuking person in the fcuking south should have been put on a ship and sent to Africa where they and their great grand children should spend eternity trying to find forgiveness where forgiveness isn’t deserved. With that in mind, Abraham Lincoln deserves a big… Fcuk You Abe! For letting so many of THEM off the hook.

Considering the (political) state of the US today, I suppose it’s no wonder that a bottle of wine named after a lie can be sold to certain clientele. Obviously, according to worst-writer, this clientele is part of the TV nation, better known as The DumbDown aka The Homeland. Even I–a harbinger of wanton intolerance that began with Ronald Reagan–know that rational thinking can only go so far–and so: a bottle of wine named after a systematically perpetuated lie is at the end of my (tolerance) rope. Obviously, there is a place/need for The DumbDown in a society. But the problem now is that The DumbDown have practically taken over as they serve a higher monetary power. But I digress.

Indeed. Let the Phoenix rise. Let the motherfcuker burn (down).

Rant on.

-T

Typing On The New MacBook, The Joy Of Butterfly

IMG_3629

I can’t feel a thing. Well, actually I feel a small click. Yes. It’s a click where there should be movement. And I’m not talking about the trackpad? Yet, so similar are these new input and control gadgets on Apple’s new MacBook. Comparatively, there is much more movement of the keys and the trackpad of my MacBook Air (MBA). And, btw, I’ve always hated chicklet keyboards. And so, Apple came up with a software solution to enhance the typing environment–just for me.

Get this.

You can, in preferences, actually turn on a clicking sound for the trackpad. Ain’t that a hoot! Of course, I don’t know if that’s cool or stupid. But I don’t really care. The software click of the trackpad corresponds perfectly to the precise click of the keyboard and its oh-so limited butterfly key travel. In fact, I’d say this new keyboard is actually louder than the old keyboard. And so, I’m thinking about the keys of the Apple USB keyboard connected to my Mac Pro 5,1. Those keys move more than the ones on my MBA. And as stated: I’m not a fan of chicklets. Yet, in my pseudo review of this MacBook, something isn’t right… when I’m not typing on it.

Here’s the confiscation run-down.

I’m not sure my wife’s 100% behind me taking her MacBook. On the other hand, I can’t stand seeing the thing just lie around. She bought this 2nd gen MacBook in the late summer of 2016 but never really used it. Why she bought it in the first place is another story. In short, it had something to do with her job and BYOD (bring your own device). It turns out that her iPad was more than enough to be her daily driver–even at work. After about six or eight months lugging both the MacBook and the iPad to work she started leaving the MacBook home. That’s when I started fiddling with it in the name of empirical study. I was curious about the device since its debut. It turns out that the performance of the M3 processor is every bit as good as the performance of the i7 processor of my 2015 MBA. Let me tell you, dear worst-reader, that was the first sign that my MBA’s days were numbered.

The complaints.

The Interwebnet is full of MacBook keyboard sucks complainers. Reviewers and users alike all have something negative to say about this new design. Complaints usually start with the price, then comes the keyboard and it all seems to culminate with the single USB-C port. To me, considering Apple’s product trajectory, which is obviously iOS centric, this MacBook only makes sense. I for one am not ready to go iOS–but I see the inevitability of the future. Trust me, I tried i0S. I had a iPad 4 for about a year. And I honestly tried to supplant my 2013 13″ MacBook Pro with it. I did not succeed. I dumped the iPad 4 for an Apple refurbished MacBook Air. (By-the-buy, that’s the only way I buy Apple hardware now.) Apple’s pro machines are too high-priced and also a bit of tech overkill for my needs. And so, my best guess is the only reason Apple still has the Air model is so they can offer it to guys like me in the $999 bracket–or even cheaper refurbished. Anywho. The new-fangled MacBook starts at three hundred bucks more than an Air–and for the life of me I don’t really know why. Despite the new design features, it feels as though you are paying way more for way less by going with the new device. A hefty hunk of change indeed.

And now for some worst-writer honesty.

If I were at an Apple Store right now I wouldn’t even look at a MacBook. That pink colour is just too f’n scary. I would go straight to the Pro line. I’m not sure how long it would take, but after a few milliseconds of witnessing the price of “pro” models, I’d be out of the store and once again walking home where I would try and catch a great deal buying from Apple’s refurbish program. There is no doubt that Apple Macs are waaaaaaay over priced. Yet, I’m stuck in the eco-system. I’m only glad that I have a choice other than full retail consumption of this krapp.  That said, here I am–by means of marital confiscation–absolutely loving the new design, including the keyboard, the single port and f’n everything else. Is it faster than my three year old Air (with i7 cpu): no. Is the screen better: yes. Is the build better: yes. Is the keyboard better: it’s definitely not worse than any chicklet keyboard. Which brings me to…

The only thing I ever learned in #americant public school was the ability to all finger type.

I probably haven’t typed anything on a mechanical typewriter in about two years. I think I might have used my Hermes Baby last year when I needed to address some envelopes. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I addressed snail mail envelopes using a typewriter instead of printing from a laser printer. The reason for that, other than romance and nostalgia mixed with bit of boredom, is not worth addressing here. What’s important is that I don’t miss typing on typewriters. It was/is time to give them up–and not because I too am becoming outdated. I have long since embraced the glorified-typewriters aka computers of today for all my writing. In fact, I was thinking about buying one of them glass cabinets and putting it in a room and filling it with Hermes, Olivetti, Olympia, Princess and Groma Kolibri–all of which are retired in a few boxes in my basement.

glass cabinet for typwriter collection

Oh yeah. The MacBook keyboard.

For the life of me I can’t understand why people complain about this keyboard. Considering that I’ve always found chicklet keyboards a bad idear, this so-called butterfly keyboard made me curious from the get-go. I can see why finger-picking typists would have a hard time with it. The keys have very little travel and even less tactile feel. For finger-pickers it must be like tapping on a glass plate–or worse: typing on an iPad (aghast). When I focus with all nine fingers*, when I soften my strokes, when I get going, I love this keyboard. The butterfly mechanism alleviates having to find the sweet spot of, say, chicklet keys–which is often the biggest problem I’ve had when using my ring finger and little finger on those keyboards. No matter what part of the key you touch on the new MacBook keyboard, it activates. It also makes it easier to find/reach shift-keys and all the other non letter keys with ring and little fingers.

Worst-Writer conclusion: the only other laptop keyboard that has ever been worth a hoot is that of the older Thinkpads. But from what I understand Lenovo, since taking over from IBM, has resorted to chicklet keys, too. As far as I can tell, getting rid of the chicklet keyboard was one of the best things Apple could do. With that in mind, you finger typists should finally learn to type.

Rant on.

-T

*Nine fingers because I use only my right thumb when typing.