I really miss the Secret Diary of Steve Jobs. Real Dan's new stuff just doesn't have that Mount Olympus venom that I used to look forward to every day.
So with that, I borrowed one of my favorite tomes from Mark Twain and read it to my Bay Area Gated Community poetry group.
Ode to Fake Steven Pauly Jobs
And did Fake Steven sicken,
And did Fake Steven die?
Or did the Dude turn chicken?
And did Mac faithful cry?
No; such was not the fate of
Fake Steven Pauly Jobs;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear, with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Fake Steven Pauly Jobs.
Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Fake Steven Pauly Jobs.
O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His blog did from this cold world fly,
When book sales they did smell.
They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
Fake spirit gone to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.
