Ask Matt Labash

Ask Matt Labash: Why iHate Steve Jobs/Apple products, and Hoffa, SOB’s, and the New Conservative Crybabyism

Photo of Matt Labash
Matt Labash
  • See All Articles
  • Send Email
  • Subscribe to RSS
  • Bio

      Matt Labash

      Hi, welcome to “Ask Matt Labash.” I’ll be your host, Matt Labash. The idea for this column – if idea isn’t too strong a word – is that it is not a column at all. Rather, it’s a conversation. One in which I do ninety-five percent of the talking. If you did most of the talking, you’d have to watch my eyes go dead and my attention wander until it was my turn to talk again. So trust me, it’s better this way.

      For those unfamiliar with me from my day job at The Weekly Standard, I’ll give you a capsule bio by way of introduction: I have the gift of wisdom. Does that sound arrogant? I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. I didn’t choose wisdom. It chose me. If I had my druthers, I’d have chosen another gift, perhaps the untold riches of Lil’ Wayne, whose teeth are made of actual diamonds, or to be the sexiest man alive, like Rachel Maddow. But wisdom is what they gave me, so wisdom is all I have to give back to you.

      This is not, you should know, a mere advice column. If you need advice, I’ll give it. But the only rule here is that there are no rules. You can ask me a question about anything that’s on your mind: current events, pop culture, media, theology, string theory, fishing tips, wicker repair. The only limits we have are those of your imagination. And those of my knowledge base. Which is considerably limited, truth be told. So try not to ask me anything that requires research. Though they tell me I have access to Google on this computer if we need it.

      If all goes according to plan, ours will not be a traditional writer/reader relationship. It’s more complex than that. I might empathize or cajole. I might educate, instruct, or inspire. I might pretend to answer your question while actually reporting you to Social Services, since you’re a dangerous person who should not have contact with children. I might tell you to climb up on my shoulders, that you’re not heavy, you’re my brother. Or I might tell you that you are heavy, and that you should hop down until you lose a few pounds. I might just sidle up behind you, put my big strong man hands on the small of your back, and whisper in your ear the words of the poet, Kenny Rogers: “We’ve got tonight, who needs tomorrow?”

      To which you’ll say something like, “I can’t, I’ve got to go home and wash my hair.”
      To which I’ll say something like, “Shhh. We’ve got tonight babe, why don’t you stay?”
      Wherever this takes us, our journey begins now:

      <i>Matt Labash is a senior writer with The Weekly Standard. His first book, <a href="">Fly Fishing with Darth Vader: And Other Adventures with Evangelical Wrestlers, Political Hitmen, and Jewish Cowboys</a> will be published next month by Simon & Schuster.</i>

Editor’s Note: Have a question for Matt Labash? Submit it here

Have I destroyed Apple by resigning? Do the faithful think this is like if Jesus went back to carpentry? -  Fake Steve Jobs

Let’s hope so — fingers crossed. Because the only thing more annoying than Apple products is the people who use them. Not just because they tend to be personally annoying, though they do. But because they never shut up about it. I am sick of your cultists giving me their laundry lists of why my PC is inferior. I’m sure it is. But I unapologetically keep purchasing pieces-of-crap HP notebooks (at a clip of about one every two years, since that’s how often they fail me), just to annoy you and your Kool-Aid drinking iCatamites, to fly the middle finger of resistance in the face of your moony-eyed groupthink and technological triumphalism.

Fake Steve Jobs, I am sick of both you as an individual, as well as being sick of what you represent. I am sick of your trendy untrendiness. Your eternal black turtleneck. You’re freakin’ 56 years old. You’re worth 5.5 billion dollars. Time to change your shirt, man. You smell like stale Speed Stick and sweaty affectation.

I am sick of your never-ending stream of overhyped, overpriced, unnecessary iProducts. Your iPads and iClouds and iToldyouso’s. I’m sick of the way you lowercase your “I’s” for all proper nouns, a transparent act of false modesty, as though the laws of nature and punctuation don’t apply to you. I’m sick of how I can no longer get all the way through lunch without my dining companion succumbing to iPhone interruptus. And I’m sick of the way your iPod has put every record store within a 100-mile radius of me out of business. I can no longer even find one at the mall. But I sure as hell can find an Apple Store, where iDorks stand six deep to get their iProducts iServiced, as they sport your iUniform (mom jeans and New Balance shoes), completely oblivious to the fact that unlike you, they’re not rich enough to get away with dressing that badly.

Fake Steve Jobs, you’re a computer geek, so you’ll understand that life is a binary choice. You are one thing, or you are the other. You are Coke or Pepsi. Stones or Beatles. Dog person or cat person. SUV or Prius. Jesus or Satan. Real or fake. Wood-burning fireplace or gas. Bourbon or vodka. PC or Mac.  Me, I’ve made my choice: Coke-Stones -Dog-SUV-Jesus-Real-Wood-burning-Bourbon-PC. So I have no room in my life for your iClutter.

Don’t get me wrong, you have my sympathies on your health travails. And I’m glad you’ve resigned in order to focus on your physical well-being. Here’s hoping you and your new liver have many happy, healthy years together. That said, I hope your company gets bought out and sold off for parts by a consortium of the record-store clerks you threw out of work, along with the Chinese iSlaves who manufacture your products, though there’d have to be a lot of the latter, since the ones who haven’t killed themselves are only paid about $293 a month, and that, after a 65 percent raise after the rare negative press that ensued after the iSuicides.

Let us pray that Apple is done. Or that at the very least, that smug and snarky little iPunk, Justin Long, shoots a new Apple commercial in which John Hodgman once and for all crushes him and his metrosexual skinny jeans with an old-school IBM mainframe, eats his heart, and picks his teeth with Justin’s bones. That would be iDeal.