Where's My Laptop?

I shouldn’t waste my weekly column this close to the election, but I need help with a personal matter. From emails I receive, I know people who’d place helping me far below the lowest thing on their list; lower, even, than becoming informed about climate change. With respect, I request they stop reading. Because what follows is embarrassing.

Here’s the situation: not long ago, I found myself unable to access one of my laptop computers, of which, like most people, I have several. Hardly techno-fluent, I took it to a repair shop I stumbled upon on Evergreen Way. Maybe Casino Road. Honestly, I can’t remember. Anyhow, I left it on the counter without providing my name or asking for a receipt. Unconventional, some might say, but others have done it.

I’m hoping the owner or an employee will see this and get in touch. Or maybe someone who was in the shop when I was, or who might have seen a laptop with my personal sticker on it, sitting on a shelf there. Wherever “there” is.

As so often happens after depositing laptops containing potentially incriminating information, I didn’t go back to get it. In fact, until recent events, I’d forgotten I’d taken it in. Completely understandable. Probably because I wasn’t worried. It had that sticker; plus, I’m definitely pretty sure I didn’t give the repair person permission to share it with the FBI.

Since ill-wishers have disengaged by now, I can reveal why it’s so important to get the laptop back. Perhaps those still following along will give me a pass for taking an inculpatory computer to a random repair person, rather than someone I knew well enough to trust. I can’t argue it was prudent. Remember, though: being a liberal, I’m not as experienced with subterfuge as those who’ve stopped reading.

I’m also not a tax cheat. I need records of payments received from George Soros for the pro-communist, anti-capitalist columns I’ve written. (If you missed them, they’re archived here.) For G.S., it was couch-cushion change. For me, though, ten-thousand here, ten-thousand there starts to feel like real money. As they confirm my insider status, I’d also like to retrieve our exchanges about how to keep his involvement hidden. (It’s not plagiarism, by the way, when you quote without attribution but with permission.)

And there are recipes. They aren’t valuable, per se, but I’m creating a cookbook, so I don’t want them leaking prematurely. I recognize its controversial nature, but people are way overreacting to QAnon’s cannibalism revelations. You’d be surprised how well babies pair with a properly-aged California Cabernet.

I’m confident there’s a market for the book, because, as those who are still reading this know, there’s another nationwide cookout/fundraiser scheduled for our deep-state cabal coming up right after the election. If Trump is gone and no longer retweeting “conspiracies,” there’ll be no reason to remain secretive. Plus, it’s not as if we eat all the children we steal. Which reminds me: there are other receipts in there, too.

About the nude pictures, this is more of a warning to the repair person than a plea: I’m way past looking good in the altogether. And although it may appear to be Satanism, it totally wasn’t. Also, the drugs were one-hundred-percent legal. I wrote the prescriptions myself.

I won’t address the pedophilia. Trump just said he’s against it strongly, which explains why people admire him so much. Never mind the fact that the pedophile with whom he liked to party “hung himself” in jail: it was a bold and brave declaration. Mister Soros told me Trump is focus-group-testing taking a stand against coveting thy neighbor’s wife, too, which would further solidify his Christian base and which, ordinarily, I’d be writing about. Unlucky for me, though, the people who know my secrets aren’t the sort who commit “suicide.” It’s another reason I want the laptop back.

Probably I should have deleted Biden’s plans to murder Seal Team 6 right after he emailed them. That, and my correspondence with the president of antifa. Trump would tweet them for sure. And photos of Osama bin Laden living in my basement. Excellent tenant, BTW: pays the rent on time, doesn’t have girls over.

My other laptops are with a guy I met on Twelfth and Broadway who promised to keep them safe. I’ll recognize him if I find him. Has a Russian accent, which I noticed because I speak it some. He was with a friend he called “Rudy,” who seemed nice. 

[lmage source]