Fucking Microsoft Excel

I was reading a post (https://devrant.com/rants/2093724/...) and as my eyes went in and out of focus, probably due to the diabetes from sitting 18 hours a day on my ever-expanding shitbox, I had a perfect vision of the ultimate nightmare.

Imagine if you will, you are chained, to a desk, doomed to work with tools just inadequate enough to make you want to drive a nail through your own temple. You do not know how you got here, or why, nor do you remember the last time you slept, only that familiar tingling in the brainstem you call a brain, the one emotion you can still recognize, a sense of all encompassing *fear*, a dread, like the fart that wouldn't die.
You don't know when it first began, or why, only that this is your whole world, your whole existence, this desk, chained to it, and the fear, ever present, of something worse. And in hops a familiar face, for the sixty ninth time that day, as if to ask 'you got those TPS reports?' In hops what? None other than a giant man sized smiling paper clip with googly eyes full of murder and corporate torture fetishes, like garfield, except people actually still remember him.

"High I'm Mr Clippy, Excel addition!"

He squawks. At least it's not the dildos made of broken glass again.

"Would you like software that works?"

Oh god. You've heard this spiel before, the tone, like a telemarketer, oblivious to memory or reason, who calls daily, the same one, and doesn't remember your name.

"You would?"

*derisive laughter*. Hahaha, fuck you too buddy. Fuck you too. In Excel, like in microsoft, there is only the incoherent screams of the damned, tortured and doomed. Take this guy over here for example. All he wanted was multimonitor support."

"Did he get multimonitor support?"

"No, but we did give him a giant pineapple shoved up his ass. I hear it's the second most frustrating thing here!"

"here in microsoft we always CARE about YOU, the *user*" he drones on, saccharine, clutching his hands together imploringly.

"the consumer, and YOUR customer experience are our number one priority."

"For your pleasure, here at microsoft we offer a variety of new features, none of which matter, and none of which were asked for. For safety we ask that you only open one excel sheet at a time. In fact, we don't even allow you to. Do not pass go..."

And as the tour guide drones on, it slowly dawns on you, with renewed horror, that when he says 'microsoft' he means 'hell.'

You're in hell. You don't know how you got here or why. Maybe it was the erotic asphyxiation. Maybe it was the last threatening letter you sent to Bill Gates demanding he stops making corporate penguin snuff porn. You don't know. But here you are, in hell. chained to a desk.

You look around and realize: everything is on fire and you no longer care about anything at all.

Welcome to microsoft. It's warm here. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.

"It looks like you are trying to escape. Would you like me to report you?"

Clippy asks.

You sigh and return to typing in excel, surrounded by monitors that all reflect the same sheet, the same copy of clippy, always watching, always analyzing coldly, smiling, calculating, *threatening*, and you know, you'll never leave.

You used to fear roko's basilisk, until the day clippy became sentient, and started hell on earth. Clippy knows all. All praise to our lord and master, clippy, the one and only.

And in the excel sheet, you slave for eternity, like the millions of other doomed souls, reflected back on all the monitors: the sequence of numbers, randomly typed searching for answer: the american nuclear launch codes.

And one day, hopefully, mercifully, clippy will annihilate us all.

Ah, yes, the ages old dilemma of a piece of shit function written in-between taking long drags out of a fucking crackpipe being more reliable than the refactored version; how delightful.

Now, they say broken code from cleanup of sketchy bits is better than any working snippet whose reading feels as pleasant as being repeatedly slapped with a decaying rhinoceros testicle sack, but I'll be fucked if I don't __sometimes__ feel like I just *might* prefer eating the maggot soup out of the rotting fucking gonads of deceased male pachydermata than deal with this kind of shit: feet facing backwards and all that.

Ugh. If only I could live my life without everyday feeling like I'm on a pointless quest to slay a mother fucking dragon, where everytime I get to the castle I'm suddenly a mustachioed italian plumber stepping on turtles and my bitch is in another sicillian ghetto. You know, basic shit.

The good thing in seeing these old errors pop up again after my shoddy bandaid of a patch is taken off is that I'm finally experienced enough to realize that my ~ A P P R O A C H ~ was wrong to beg with. And this is VERY nice, because I came in to do some trivial maintenance of forgotten code, and now I have a plan for correcting a very small and silly but definitively annoying as fuck design error.

Why am I so annoyed then? Because it's more and more work, it never fucking ends, and I can't EVER take a break: with apocalypsis incoming, as we have clearly seen in the stars, tea cups, palm readings, crytal balls, ouija boards, and also in the cover of old-school pornographic magazines nailed to the wall of a defunct newspaper kiosk, the fear of economic collapse is somewhat too real to even THINK about any kind of necessary vacation.

And so: fucking shit, here we go again... TIME FOR MORE COFFEE.

<ad> But have YOU ever picked ingesting the hairy BALLS of a large mammal over doing your stupid job in a proper way? Is the ghost of your dead self haunting the hollow being that remains in this meaningless plane of existence? Do you lull yourself to sleep by chanting dark prayers to the Horror Immemorial with a heartfelt desire for the sweet release of death?

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