I was at the Apple store in Soho the other day, getting my computer fixed by a genius. You probably already know this, but Apple stores have an area called the ‘Genius Bar’ where you can bring your Apple products–your Mac, your Ipad, whatever–and have a ‘Genius’ tell you what’s wrong with it and how much it’s going to cost to have it fixed.
The Geniuses are of course nerds. They look like cool cats–tattoos, earrings, interesting haircuts, etc.– but underneath the getup they’re still the kids that got bullied most at school. I didn’t pick on nerds at school; I didn’t champion them either. But, having been picked on myself, I knew how much it hurt to be bullied, so I left them alone (I was picked on for being either poor or weird or not good at cricket. Boo-hoo).
So the nerds at the Apple store are all pretending to be cool, and while my Genius was doing a diagnostic something-or-other to my laptop, I observed these dweebs closely. It was like the waiting room at the Fonzie audition: at every opportunity they shared ‘cool’ multi-move handshakes and said things like ‘sick’ and ‘dope’; and they all carried themselves with an outrageous air of Rebel Without a Cause-grade apathy. I don’t know why they bothered.
Now, like I said, I never picked on nerds when I was a kid, but now all the grown-up nerds assume that I’m exactly the kind of person who did, and they want revenge. Every question I ask a nerd these days is answered like they’ve told me ten times already. Why won’t I get it? Am I retarded? They roll their eyes so hard I worry they’ll get stuck.
Flashback, Christmas 2010. My sister, thinking it was hilarious, which I guess it was for her, gave me a lollipop shaped like a penis. It was small and yellow, and about the size of dachshund’s John Thomas. ‘I got this for you,’ she said, and began howling. Somehow this little cock on a stick found it’s way into the bottom of my attaché, and it’s lived there amongst the note pads, receipts and other detritus from my busy, exciting life for the past two years. I see it from time to time when I’m digging around for a pen.
Back at the Genius bar, I needed sugar. It came upon me in an instant, that punch-someone-out feeling you get when your blood sugar runs low. I had a look in my bag for gum or something and saw the little yellow dick bouncing around with some small change. ‘There must be a Lifesaver or something in here,’ I thought, but there wasn’t, and I was about to zip my bag up and go sugarless when my Genius asked me a question I didn’t understand on account of me not being fluent in Nerdese. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. He rolled his eyes and made a little exasperated nerd sigh. Then he told me to forget about it. ‘Fuck you,’ I thought. ‘Fuck you, you worthless little piece of shit. How dare you talk to me like that; how dare you–a socially inept, virgin nerd prick–address me like I’m a second class citizen.’ And you know what I did? I pulled out that pineapple flavored cock, and I sucked on the little bastard with the unabashed gusto of a Biafran, ensuring my Genius would feel clammy and uncomfortable for the rest of my visit to the Genius Bar.