Come The Revolution...
Damn and blast it, with a large punnet of British expletives. A virus managed to slip through my foolproof net of a trial version of Norton Antivirus and 3-year old virus definitions, and it seems to be trying to e-mail copies of itself to random addresses. The fuckwits who make these nasty little things should have chum attached to their balls and be dangled over the side of a boat in shark country.
Anyway, it's 6am and I have to sit here until this damned Bloodhound.w32.EP gets the hell out of my system. Bearing in mind that my technical knowledge of computers stretches as far as On/Off button, and how to write in italics and bold, this could take a while. I've been watching old episodes of Family guy while guzzling gallons of gut-rotting fizzy orange juice, and I'm about to collapse.
While I'm here, though, I may as well direct your attention over to the top of the right sidebar, where my new sponsor, Eight Foot Llama, takes pride of place. If you're looking for a gift you won't find in Toys'R'Us, go and pay a visit.