This is one of the few posts that lives in my likes because every once in a while I think, “I should listen to that video again, it can’t possibly be as funny as I thought it was the first time I heard it” and then I hit play and I laugh. Every time.
IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A Tweet by Twitter user @jillianIngram15 reads, “The problem with capitalism is that if you aren’t born into wealth, your only capital is your labor. So automatically, your human body, is now a commodity that you must sell, and if you can’t sell it for enough, you won’t be able to care for it and will lose your capital.”
They were the dwarves’ dwarves, the grey-bearded masters of their trades. They were the craftsmen of such crafts you never see today, and they had come together to make a machine.
An autonomous, mechanical miner, they said. A machine that will never fear falling stones or firedamp. It’ll revolutionize the industry, they said, change the face of history.
Plans were drafted, gold was soldered, and in the heart of the mountain they bent metal around their dream.
It was a masterpiece. Iron black as ebony, mithril grey and glittering as a winter morning. In its head, gold circuitry clung to crystals as blue as the belly of icebergs. It was a thing of beauty.
It was also alive; worse, it was kind, and gentle, and unfortunately easy to love. And one day as it babbled through its language processor, it said, “Dad!” and seven heads perked up in a moment of mutually embarrassing recognition.
From that moment on, the seven agreed to raise the machine as their own child. And the seasons passed happily around the mountain until one bitter summer.
It was never known where the apple had come from. A jealous craftsman, possibly, or a seriously waylaid sorceress. But one day the dwarves came home to find it locked in the steel grip of the sleeping mechanical girl.
Cunning and clever as they were, not one among them knew how to wake her. Wizards and warlocks were sent for, and each walked away pulling their beards in frustration.
But at the last – truly last – there was a young magician, who knelt and whispered in the ear of the mechanical girl.
The cavern held its breath. Even the stones were listening. Then gears began to spin. Gold circuitry crackled. And all at once she woke. The dwarves fell amongst themselves, sobbing happy tears into their beards and holding their mechanical child.
And from the clowder, one asked the young magician how they had done it, where wizards and warlocks and the great craftsmen of the dwarves had failed.
“All you had to do was uninstall apple,” they said.
