Laptop Losers (9-27-07)

Just when I thought it was safe to go out into the world after dealing with Them Mailbox-Bashing Bastards, I have to report that Mr. Recluse here has been struck again by a second set of bastards. How about if we call them These New Bastards.

Now I can't prove it, (as if that's ever stopped me from popping off) but I think These New Bastards were just waiting for me to start writing a column again and going out into this wonderful world and pretending I was Julie Andrews. I knew they were out there, just lurking. Nothing else to do. No, no. Just gotta lurk. Just wait around and lurk. I think we should put all lurkers in Guantanamo. And pee on something they like.

OK, These New Bastards did not attack my mailbox. They were smarter than that. They knew if they did any mailbox-whacking, there would be a little comes-around shotgun-whacking they would have to deal with themselves. No, These New Bastards stole my beautiful MacBook Pro laptop computer. I am still sick about it. They ripped it off last Sunday night, and my guts are still grinding today. I am not lying to you. My stomach is spitting out my old ulcers and making brand new ulcers. Second-generation ulcers. The worst kind.

Here's what happened. I was returning from a Scrabble tournament in Albuquerque. (Yes, yet another Scrabble tournament. No, I'm not telling you how I did.) It was a little Friday-to-Sunday deal and I was waiting for my plane in the Albuquerque (I just like writing Albuquerque) Airport. I had two hours to kill, so I went into this airport fake-Mexican restaurant. You know, the kind with serapes all over the walls and black and gold sombreros everywhere and the sweet smell of lard and grease and taco shells and spilled Corona and guacamole that was moving. And I said to the waitress, “I'm going to say words that have never been heard in this muy malo establishamente before.” She rolled her eyes and sighed, and I said, “I'll have a tuna sandwich.”

And, of course, all this time I am keeping close watch on my laptop. It's in my carry-on bag and I have it right next to me. So I'm not completely stupid. Yet. Then I go to the United Airlines gate where my plane will be boarding and I sit down in the waiting area and I'm probably happier than maybe 80 percent of the clams I know. And then this voice comes over the speaker announcing that our flight will be an hour late. OK, I can deal with that. I'm an adult. I can handle heartbreak — I'm an LA Kings fan.

So to pass the time, I pull out my computer and surf the Net and read a couple of chapters on my e-book and even order something from eBay. I am one tech-happening dude, baby. But I guess that is where These New Bastards spotted their prey. They must have seen just how wonderful my laptop was and just how savvy its owner was. Sumbitches.

OK, now here's where the rubber hit the road. United is finally boarding our flight and just when I get to the door of the plane, the flight attendant tells me that the plane is very full and would I mind letting them store my carry-on bag. I say, “Would I mind? Uh, would I mind if you cut off my ding-dong and threw it on the tarmac?” OK, I didn't say that, but I did inquire as to how safe the bag would be. They guaranteed me that it would be safe and they gave me a claim check and said that they would hold the bag until I gave them the claim check and that they would never let the bag out of their sight. They also said they liked to date lanky guys. So, I committed stupidity.

Well, when we landed in LA, I happened to be one of the last people off the plane. When I get just outside the airplane door, I see one lonely bag leaning up against the wall. It is my bag. I go over to it. There is no attendant there. There is nobody who asks me for my claim check. There is just my damn bag and the outer compartment, where I have cleverly hidden my $2,300 computer, is zipped open like Michael Jackson's fly.

My heart sank. I reached into the open unzipped hole of hell and I felt nothing. (Kind of like in high school.) It was devastating. My laptop was gone. Some New Bastards had gotten it. I was really mad. I won't go into it here, but I did some serious yelling. All I can say is that when one baggage clerk in the main office suggested that it was “your own fault, sir” I did lose it. I yelled, “How dare you?!” along with a few other thoughtful phrases. And she actually ran out of the office we were in. I think she's still running. I hadn't even used obscenity or threatened her or anything, but I was indeed mad. I guess she got my drift and caught the first stagecoach out of Dodge.

I'm still pissed off. I have fantasies about finding out who These New Bastards are. And ripping off their ears and stuffing them up their noses and making them sneeze and pinching their noses closed and watching their ears come out the holes where their ears used to be hooked onto the sides of their heads. Yes, I am that mad.

I want to find These New Bastards. How hard could it be? There were only 60 seats on the plane. And let's assume that the two pilots and the three flight attendants didn't do it. And I know I didn't do it. And I don't think Pasadena's Mac-hating PC guru Steve Bass was on the plane. So that leaves only 54 suspects. All I need is the passenger list and I'll deputize all you readers. (Sorry, but I can't deputize you readerettes. It's too dangerous.) And we'll mount up and go after these thieving varmints.

Let's ride!