Would a Rabbit's Foot Help?

It happened without warning. All of a sudden, I could no longer shift for myself. I mean that every time I tried to capitalize a word or use an upper tier punctuation mark, my keyboard refused to work. Then the computer would try to turn on my earthlink home page, over and over again. This happened whether I was connected to the internet or not. Being the brave Savage that I am, I took immediate and decisive action: I panicked. Certain that an incurable virus had infected my machine; I fell into a deep depression. Eventually, I realized that I must pick myself up off the floor (as I was choking on dust bunnies) and do something constructive. I collected my daughter and my purse and went shopping for shoes.

My trusty, crusty, rusty car Phil, sailed as smoothly down the road as the day he rolled off the assembly line. After a quick stop for daughter's coffee, I restarted Phil. A terrifying rattling, crashing noise came from under his hood and he began to shake like a cheap blender crushing ice. The last time Phil made a scary noise it was the battery exploding. But I don't think it was his fault that time. I blame the lightning, which was igniting little fires all over town. We called Grumpy and let him listen to the noise. He said it sounded like a blown valve (whatever that is) and he could come and look at it. He did, and then with his truck behind us and flashers flashing, we coaxed a rattling, quivering Phil home at the stately speed of nearly thirty miles an hour. We didn't know what else we could do, though many passing motorists offered suggestions, many of which were accompanied by helpful gestures. It was rather like what I imagine riding on top of a lawnmower would be like, and I do not mean the riding kind.

At last, quite literally shaken, we arrived at home. The mail was in, and among the usual junk, magazines and bills was a small yellow postcard from National Dealer Warranties. It read:

FINAL NOTICE

Expired Warranty Notification

On the back side it said:

Your factory vehicle warranty has expired.

Call for extended coverage, 20% off.

P. S. This offer expired in 72 hours!

I set the card down gently on the table and trudged upstairs. With the last of my strength, I collapsed in my chair and stared sadly at my sick computer. Through the window, I could see Grumpy burn his hand on the hot engine of my sick car. No car and no computer. Sigh. And to top it all off, I didn't even get my shoes. However, I did get a small purple lap desk, which would now come in handy as I would have to do all my writing in longhand from now on. I really think I must be psychic.

A bit later: As I write this, Grumpy is still working on Phil. Now it looks as though the problem might be with the fuel injection system, which is bad news as it will cost a lot of money for parts. But things are looking up in the computer department. As you can see, I am once again able to blog. The trouble turned out to be nothing more than

THE WINO SYNDROME

For those of you who may not be as tech-savvy as the me, Wino Syndrome may occur after one repeatedly bathes one's keyboard in wine or other liquid substances, such as bourbon. The problem is exacerbated when certain other foreign substances, like say, chocolate chip cookie crumbs, meld with the liquid to form a lacquer-like surface that jams the keys. This was explained to me in a rather more succinct manner by Grumpy himself. As this is my fourth keyboard in three years, I am now forbidden by Himself to eat or drink anywhere near the computer. What this will do to my literary output I do not know. I tried to effect a compromise with a promise of no snacks and a tightly sealed sippy cup, but he just kept saying, "Four [expletive deleted] keyboards!

He is such a meanie.