My meeting with PhiloeFollow

So there I was, hanging out with an acquaintence in Old Town, in downtown Fort Collins. You know, the greatest place in the US to live according to Money Magazine. Anyway, we’re sitting on a bench watching a street artist (bum) sketch folks for donations. And up walks an older gentleman whom I recognized immediately as Academy Award winner Clint Eastwood. Apparently, he knows my acquaintance rather well, and decided to meet him there unknown to me. We headed to a nearby pub called Lucky Joe’s and grabbed a corner table a bit out of the way. After I finally got over my shock, we started chatting a bit. My friend (notice he went from acquaintance to friend by introducing me to Mr. Eastwood) mentioned that I was in computers.

At this point Mr. Eastwood got interested, and said he was having some trouble with his laptop. Being I was talking to the legendary man who starred in such films as Hang ‘Em High, High Plains Drifter, The Outlaw Josey Whales, Pale Rider, and The Enforcer to name a few, I magnanimously offered my services. It turns out he was staying just a few blocks away, and had some well-aged bourbon in stock for us to sample. We then retired to the loft he was staying at.

The loft itself was quite impressive, though Clint said it wasn’t his, he was just renting it for a few days. He pours us each a glass, and we chat a bit more. I realize at this point that I’m having the time of my life. I finally get up the courage to ask for a snapshot of us together, and he says he’s happy to. My friend takes my Razor in hand for a shot, and I grin widely as I shake the famous hand that wielded the most powerful handgun in the world.

Once the pleasantries are over, Clint leads me over to a desk which has a laptop bag on it. He unzips and pulls it out. I gasp in shock, dropping my glass of bourbon which shatters on the impressive hardwood floor.

It’s a @#%^ing Mac.

I pick up the offensive POS and swing wildly at the sacrilegious fool who handed it to me. I recognize that I’m bellowing something at the top of my lungs, and it takes a second before it sinks in.

“Do you feel lucky punk? Well, do ya?!?”

I bash the former legend across the head, blood spraying on the wall of the room. He starts screaming incoherently for me to stop, he’s not packing his six-guns and his orangutan is no where in sight. The bozo who brought me there runs over and tries to restrain me. I flip him over my back and scream at his dazed, upturned face “You @#%^ing Heathen! What kind of person do you think I am?” I drop the pseudo-laptop on the floor next to the nearly unconscious washed up actor, stomp on it a few times to drive the point home, and calmly walk out. I pause at the open door and look over my shoulder and say without the slightest bit of malice, “The Bridges of Madison County was sooo pussy.”

Then I woke up to my alarm going off this morning, and a severe case of cotton mouth. I had to check “My PIX” to ensure myself that it was all a bad dream.

Clint would never own a Mac.




Edited, Aug 11th 2006 at 3:49pm EDT by Kakar

Dude, what if it was a gift from his DAUGHTER and now you BROKE IT?


Punk.

Is it Fort Collins or Greeley that always smells like cow Shit? I always get them mixed up.

RACK you, Kakar. You actually had me going there for a moment, heh.

Totem