I am slowly going crazy. Tonight, my internet speed is the s l o w e s t speed ever imagined. A narcoleptic snail could make a trip from Milan to Minsk in the time it takes a page to load. In fact, I could pen an entire screenplay for "Go Snail, Go Snail: A young mollusk's strange, erotic journey from Milan to Minsk" before my comments page opens.
In the time left over, I could take a gallon jug of molasses from my refrigerator and pour it into four quarts, then read The Stand (the 1153 page unabridged edition), and trek outside to fill my backyard pool with a garden hose.
The current speed limit on my information superhighway is slower than an elementary-school drop-off zone.
A young rooster and hen could mature, engage in courtship, acquire a real estate agent, rehab an old coop, flog themselves silly, hatch their very own Egghead, Jr., and send him off to poultry college before I can view a recently clicked link.
The line at the motor vehicle registration office moves faster than my internet, even counting that one day when all clerks stopped working to pay for their watermelons, delivered by a meth-bearded, overalled dude in a pick-up truck, and politely asked the patrons if they would like to purchase any for themselves.
Oh, how I long for the salad days of dial-up.