Descent into Microsoft (Part 1)
By Jon Splatz, Humorix Pundit and Social Commentator
February 7, 1999

[This is the first of a series of articles about Jon
Splatz's adventures in obtaining an elusive Windows
refund.  In this first installment, Splatz visits CompUSSR
to buy a new computer system.  Unfortunately, it comes
bundled with Windows 98...  So, sit back, relax, grab a
beer, and follow along as Jon tackles CompUSSR salesmen,
his fears of inadequacy, and the Microsoft End User License
Agreement. -- The Editor]

I feel like one of those Everest climbers. The mountain is
in sight, but I can't quite make it to the base camp
because my pack mule keeps throwing me off.  I suspect that
my sherpa guide is stealing my money and food.

My endeavor for the past two weeks has been to obtain a
refund for the unused copy of Windows 98 that came
pre-installed on my new computer from CompUSSR.  Sitting
here in the basement of Humorix World Headquarters,
clutching my End User License Agreement, I can see the
summit of Mt. Everest -- reclaiming my US$90 Microsoft Tax.

So far, however, my mission has been an utter failure.  I'm
stuck here with this pile of worthless CompUSSR and
Microsoft promotional material that came with my new
system.  It mocks me.  The coupon for a free copy of
Microsoft Bob 99 stares at me like some evil Sasquatch
monster who inhabits the Himalayas.

The weight of the world, of Microsoft's monopoly, of the
shoddy state of the computer industry, bears down upon my
soul.  I feel like destroying my computer and digging out
my dusty old solar calculator and my father's antique
slide-rule.  

Is my goal of climbing Mt. Everest too lofty?  Perhaps, I
ponder, climbing to the summit of the trash heap behind my
apartment complex would be a more realistic endeavor.  Or
climbing the stairs to the top floor of Humorix World
Headquarters.  My faith in geekdom wavers, the pioneer
spirit in me falters.  I should just forget about this
whole crusade and watch a nice movie on TV about mountain
climbing.  

But, alas, as a geek and a pundit, I can't give up!  I
didn't give up before when I was fired from ColdWired, did
I?  Now I have a cushy job writing articles for this
so-called Humorix site. I can beat Microsoft yet! Move over
Microsoft Empire, Jon Splatz is here!  Get ready for me,
Mt. Everest!

This whole adventure began two weeks ago when I was fired
>from my job at ColdWired Magazine.  I was desperate for a
soapbox where I could express my opinions and get paid at
the same time.  Meanwhile, the Humorix site was desperate
for a pundit/social commentator of its own.  If having a
pundit worked for Slashdot, the Humorix staff reasoned, it
could work for them.  I was hired.

Unfortunately, there was one minor problem.  I'd never
heard of Linux. Obviously, I wasn't technically qualified
to write for a Linux humor site (although, frankly, I don't
see what's so "humorous" about half of the stuff that James
Baughn creep writes).  I might make some dumb mistake and
refer to the "Linux kernel" as some guy named Linus in the
military.  I'd already appeared as a fool in other
publications far too many times.

But, yet, I have credentials and experience.  I'm a
professional after all, who has written for ColdWired,
Stale, and several Whiff-Davis publications.  I could bring
in a fresh perspective; something the geeks here at Humorix
don't have.  I also have a life.  

So, I thought, I'm not completely incompetent.  I can write
fine articles for Humorix.  Of course, I would have to
learn how to use this Linux thing.  I needed to summon all
the geek strength in me. But I could do it.

Just one thing stood in my way: Murphy's Law.  My apartment
building had been struck by two violent bolts of lightning
the night before.  One zapped the phone lines, nearly
frying my modem.  It didn't matter much, though, because
the second bolt caused a major power spike.  My old
Macintosh computer actually exploded.  The $9.95 surge
protector I had bought recently from Claw-Mart was no match
for Murphy's fury.  

I asked the Humorix staff for help.  Their advice was
conflicting, full of techno-babble and jargon usually only
found in university CS classes.  "Get a clone and install
Linux in a partition within 1024 cylinders..."  "Don't
forget to run XF86Setup to configure the X Window System,
otherwise the system could overclock the frequency of your
monitor and force it to blow up in your face, wouldn't that
be a shame..."  "Bid on a new computer from eBay... make
sure it has 1MB of L2 pipeline burst cache and a 128 bit
AGP x2 video card..." Blah blah blah.

I wish I still had my old Macintosh.  The Humorix dweebs
kept pressing me to buy, beg, rent, or steal an x86 clone. 
I was about to enter the insecure World of Wintel.  I
collected all the strength I could muster, and pressed on.

Not knowing much about PCs, I decided to visit the only
computer store in my town, CompUSSR.  In hindsight, this
was a terrible mistake.  I found out later that, as the
store's name suggests, CompUSSR was founded by Soviets who
had fled Russia when Communism collapsed.  It shows.  

Upon entering the store, I immediately went to the customer
support desk to ask about Linux.  Maybe they could help me;
the Humorix staff sure wasn't very helpful.  For all I
knew, it may be possible to run this Linux thing on a
Macintosh.  

My hopes were shattered when I saw the employee at the help
desk. He wore a red uniform, sporting an oversized CompUSSR
logo (a hammer and sickle superimposed on a dollar sign)
and a name tag displaying "Mikhail" on his chest.  He
looked like he could have played the part of Joseph Stalin
in one of those cheesy 1970s-era B-movies.  

"I need some of your expert analysis," I said, trying to be
respectful.
"For whom?" the Stalin-like figure asked.
"For me."
"We don't do that."
"What do you mean you don't do that?  You sell computers,
don't you?"
"Yes, but we don't offer psychological counseling."
"Argh! I want Linux on it."
"I thought you said it was for you?  How come you keep
changing your story?  If it's for Linux, why don't you send
him to a doctor?  In fact, why are you here?  We sell
computers here."
"I know! I want one."
"Why didn't you say so?  What kind do you want?"
"I don't know.  I guess one that runs Linux."
"What's your crazy friend got to do with anything?"
"No, no!  Linux the operating system..."
"At CompUSSR all of our computers include an operating
system.  Unlike most stores, we offer you a choice.  You
can choose Windows 3.11, Windows 95, Windows 98, or Windows
NT."
"No, no, I don't want one."
"Well then what are you doing wasting my time?  I think you
are the crazy one, not this Linux friend of yours."
"No, I don't want a Windows operating system!"
"Fine, you can just delete it and install whatever
operating system you want for your crazy friend Linux."
"Great, just give me a computer and I will be on my way."
"Make up your mind you filthy capitalist before I call the
State Sec ...erm, I mean, the police."
"I want to talk to the store manager!"
"Fine.  Oh wait, sorry.  He is vacationing in Siberia with
family. Next customer, please!"

Okay, so Plan A didn't work out.  Maybe Plan B would. 
James Baughn, my new boss, said he would loan me one of his
old Slushware Linux CDs (or was it Slackword?  Slackware?)
when I purchased a new system.  All I had to do was buy a
PC, delete whatever OS was pre-installed on it, pop in the
CD, and install Linux.  Simple.  

I didn't like CompUSSR, but since it's the only computer
store in town, and since I was already there, I decided to
look at their systems. I wandered to the back of the store
and looked at CompUSSR's long display of demo computers. 
Each system had its own CompUSSR brand name: "The Sputnik",
"The Kremlin", "The Orient Express", etc.  Beside each
system was a sheet listing specs and features -- in
Cyrillic and English.  To me, though, the English part
looked an awful lot like Greek; I had no clue what all this
techspeak meant. The only thing I could understand was the
price.

I thought about leaving the store, picking up a copy of
"Wintel Shopper" magazine from the adjoining bookstore, and
buying a computer through mail order.  At least I wouldn't
have to deal with anyone like Mikhail.

However, one CompUSSR salesman, Yuri, had other plans. He
had been watching me look over the demo computers.  When I
was preparing to leave, he jumped on me like a hawk.  "The
Kremlin II is an excellent value," he yelled.  I tried to
escape from the salesman, but he kept bombarding me with
promotional nonsense.

"What's so great about the Kremlin II?" I asked, playing
along until I could find an opportunity to escape.
"See the sticker?  Intel Inside.  You can't beat that."
"But all your computers appear to have Intel chips."
"This Kremlin II is still the best value per ruble, er, I
mean US dollar."
"What's so great about it?
"See the deluxe triple-layered lead-coated case?  Heavy,
but it could withstand a small nuclear blast."
"Uh, nice."  I was trying to find a diversion, but to no
avail.  I usually carry around a fake beeper that I can set
off by scratching my hip.  Unfortunately, I had left my
Divert-O-Beeper(tm) in my apartment.

"What's your most powerful system?" I asked, again feigning
interest.
"Ah, you mean the Sputnik 1000DL-5 Deluxe with 400 MMXYZ
Intel Celery-on chip, 64 bytes memory, built-in 5-1/4 inch
drive, color video card..."  He kept spouting off
meaningless rhetoric about the system.  Did the salesman
understand what he was saying?  I know I didn't.
"...in comparison," he continued, "The Kremlin II Deluxe
has 333 MMXYZ Intel Hexium chip, 48 bytes memory..." Blah
blah blah.

This continued for over an hour.  I tried several times to
fake a diversion, but the sales droid pressed on
relentlessly.

Eventually, I gave in.  CompUSSR had scored another paying
customer. I wrote a check for $999.95 for a "Kremlin II
Deluxe" system with 15 inch "Mir"-brand monitor.  My bank
account was a little low, but I knew my first Humorix
paycheck would be arriving soon.   I then carted the bulky
system back to my apartment.

I found myself back at the customer service desk of
CompUSSR the next morning. My new system wasn't working; it
kept giving me these strange errors (in Cyrillic, no less!)
when I turned it on.

Mikhail was unhappy to see me.  "This box doesn't work," I
complained. "I want it fixed."  

"Sorry, I can't help you.  I don't have any veteranarian
experience. Sergei might, since he worked with animals on a
collective farm in Ukraine, but he won't be in until noon.

"No, you [expletive]!  This computer I bought yesterday
doesn't work."

"See our policy?"  He pointed to a large sign behind him
painted in giant red letters that said, "No returns, no
refunds, all sales are final.  Unattended children will be
sold as slaves."

We argued back and forth for several minutes.  Finally,
remembering something I once saw on a police show, I
blurted out, "Look here Commie boy, I'm an agent for the
INS, EPA, ATF, FBI, and CIA.  The package this computer
came in contains several dozen breeding pairs of dangerous
Asian long-horned beetles.  This is a very serious
situation.  I'd be willing to overlook this little, ah,
problem if you'd destroy the package and give me a new
working computer system."

The CompUSSR weasel finally gave in.  "Alright, we'll
exchange it for another system."  A few minutes later, I
left the store lugging the hundred pound system to my car.

I cleared the junk off the kitchen table in my apartment.
After unpacking the new machine, I plugged in all the
peripherals, and turned it on.  I was greeted by the
Windows 98 splash screen and then this dire message
composed by the Microsoft legal department:

"WARNING! READ CAREFULLY -- By copying or using this
software product, you (the "Supplicant") agree to be bound
by the terms of this Microsoft End-User License Agreement. 
If you do not agree to the terms of this License, promptly
return the unused software product to the place from which
you obtained it for a full refund."

As I sat there pondering these ominous words, the phone
rang.  It was James Baughn, my boss, congratulating me on
my first Humorix article, the "Linux Revolution" book
review.  While Baughn was in a good mood, I asked about my
paycheck.  "When do I get it?"

"Uh, well, uh... hmmm... there seems to be some kind of
misunderstanding," he stuttered.  "Humorix is strictly
non-profit.  There is no paycheck. Didn't I tell you that? 
We hired you so you could get back on your feet from that
terrible ColdWired fiasco, rebuild your reputation, and
then get a real job somewhere else.  I thought we had an
agreement about this. Sorry..."

I hung up on the greedy, ego-maniacal twerp.  I just spent
a thousand dollars on a computer I needed for my new job
that doesn't pay anything!  I still had a few thousand
dollars saved in the bank, but it couldn't last very long.

An idea hit me.  I couldn't return my computer now, but I
could get a refund for Windows.  After all, this Linux
thing was a replacement for Windows, right? I could learn
Linux, get some much-needed money back, and hopefully use
my column on Humorix to rebuild my reputation as a pundit
and geek.

My mission to obtain a Windows refund had begun.  I was
staring at the base of Mt. Everest.  I knew I had a lot of
obstacles to overcome, but I could make it.  I could beat
the system!

What a fool I was.

Return soon for Part 2 of Descent into Microsoft, where I
encounter... Well, you'll see.

Contact me at jonsplatz@i-want-a-website.com


---

James S. Baughn
http://i-want-a-website.com/about-linux/