Patch Tuesday: a cautionary tale

Note to my loyal readers: This is an allegory about the dreaded Windows Update, a.k.a. The Yellow Shield of !@#*^!!. Read with tongue firmly in cheek. – DS.

A funny thing happened on the way to the Orifice this morning.  

I woke up before sunrise and thought, “This is great! I’ll go in early and get some work done!” I got ready, packed up my things and headed out to the car.  

Hang on - we'll be done in a couple of minutes.

And there it was in the driveway, in a thousand pieces. The tires were off, the hood was up, the trunk was open and the seats had been ripped out and stacked on the pavement. Little gnomes climbed all over it, muttering to each other in high-pitched voices as they plied their tools. 

One opened the glove compartment and shuffled through my registration papers. It threw a pack of Dentyne out onto the driveway and sorted my Canadian Tire money by colour.  

Hi ho, hi ho....

Another pair of gnomes tore out the engine and disassembled the transmission. “Ooooh!” they cried in unison, as they scattered belts, tubes and hoses all over the ground. “Wheeeeeeee!”  

Inside the car, one gnome tore all the dials and gauges off the instrument panels and did something unspeakable with the gear lever. Another switched the gas pedal and the brakes (turning my car into a Toyota, for all intents and purposes). Yet another careened wildly around the trunk/hatch area, bending my bike rack beyond recognition and then tossing my first-aid kit and spare tire into the garden.  

“No, no!” I cried, trying to shoo them away. Enraged, the gnomes ripped the sunroof off, just to show me who was in charge here.  

I tried to get in the car and push them out. With a collective scream, they tore the doors off their hinges and peed on the floor mats.  

Anguished, I went back inside and looked up “car repair” in the Yellow Pages. There was no point calling the cops; even our Boys in Blue are afraid of the gnomes.  

Half an hour later, I peeked out the window and to my amazement, the gnomes were gone. Near tears with joy and relief, I scrambled back outside and began painstakingly reassembling my vehicle. The gnomes had been gracious enough to stuff the engine back under the hood for me (although god knows what shape they’d left it in), so I put the doors back on, stacked the CDs back in their holder, made sure the sunroof still worked.  

I put the key in the ignition. One by one the instrument lights came on and hey presto! The engine started!  

I did up my seatbelt, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the driveway into traffic.  

At which point the car stopped dead.  

A note appeared on my windshield: “You must restart your car for the updates to take effect.”  

You will find my car at the bottom of a cliff. There may be a bag of gnomes in it. My lips are sealed.  

And the moral of this story, boys and girls, is that next time I am in the market for a computer, I will buy a Mac.  

The End.  

A cure for gnomes.

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