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The iMac rests on a bier at the front of the tastefully appointed chamber, wearing its best suit. It looks at peace, at peace and far, far too young. Mourners file by, murmuring condolences to the family.
The nondenominational religious figure enters. In deference to the deceased's faith, he is wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. He steps up to the lectern and the mourners fall quiet.
"We are here today to celebrate the life of Griffin I. Macintosh, gathered to the bosom of The Steve after his span on this earth in the fullness of His wisdom and His plan. All praise The Steve."
The mourners echo "All praise The Steve."
"What manner of a Macintosh was Griffin? Known as Griff to his friends, of whom he had more than he suspected, this Macintosh was of a rare character; he met impatience with patience, he met suffering with nobility, he met harsh words with restraint. In his four years in the service of his Writer, Griff put Her needs above his own, bearing up with scant complaint until he was taken from us by the chronic illness he could no longer shrug off as of no consequence to his mission.
"Griff was brought into the world in the spring of Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Nine, a member of the generation known as 'Revision D'. As he watched his colorful fellows being matched one by one to new parents, he resolved that whomsoever should choose him from out of all the others would never have cause for regret, and this promise he fulfilled throughout his short visit to this world. He went above and beyond his listed specifications to please his Writer, asking nothing for himself save a RAM upgrade that he might serve Her better."
The Writer blows Her nose noisily.
"Mother and child were happy together, secure even in the face of a world that harbored its biases towards Griff's lineage that they had chosen rightly in one another. Griff laid the world at Her feet, and entertained Her; and when the concerns of life seemed too much to bear, he helped Her to create a refuge of words to hide inside, until She should once more find the strength to engage Herself with the cares of mortals."
Shadowy figures of fictional characters surrounding and overlaying Writer start snuffling.
"No life is free of troubles, of course; shortly before his third birthday, Griff began to lose feeling in his PRAM battery. But this noble soul struggled on valiantly, trying to conceal his difficulty, until one evening he found that he could not rouse himself when summoned, and reluctantly allowed himself to be put into hospital for a checkup. He regretted this lapse to the end.
"As he grew older, Griff looked forward to the future; the Writer is good to Her children, and Griff knew that when someday he could no longer meet Her needs, he would be passed into the care of a family member with simpler requirements, to enjoy a quiet retirement not so far from Her side. But alas, this was not to be. What did Griff think, when he felt himself failing? We will never know for certain, but he remained faithful to the last; even as he felt his boards dying inside his casing, his final thought was to warn his Writer, signalling his distress with an audible gasp, yet clinging to life just long enough to allow Her to retrieve to a backup device the lengthy and all-but-completed work that it had been his pleasure to assist Her in creating.
"And thus, brave Griff, we commend you to the hand of The Steve, knowing that tonight a green star shines in the heavens; generations of iMacs yet unborn will look upon it and know that here was a Macintosh, a Macintosh who did his duty, and was loved for it in return.
"Thank you all for coming."
The mourners disperse into the side rooms, knowing that there's usually food around somewhere after these things...
The nondenominational religious figure enters. In deference to the deceased's faith, he is wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. He steps up to the lectern and the mourners fall quiet.
"We are here today to celebrate the life of Griffin I. Macintosh, gathered to the bosom of The Steve after his span on this earth in the fullness of His wisdom and His plan. All praise The Steve."
The mourners echo "All praise The Steve."
"What manner of a Macintosh was Griffin? Known as Griff to his friends, of whom he had more than he suspected, this Macintosh was of a rare character; he met impatience with patience, he met suffering with nobility, he met harsh words with restraint. In his four years in the service of his Writer, Griff put Her needs above his own, bearing up with scant complaint until he was taken from us by the chronic illness he could no longer shrug off as of no consequence to his mission.
"Griff was brought into the world in the spring of Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Nine, a member of the generation known as 'Revision D'. As he watched his colorful fellows being matched one by one to new parents, he resolved that whomsoever should choose him from out of all the others would never have cause for regret, and this promise he fulfilled throughout his short visit to this world. He went above and beyond his listed specifications to please his Writer, asking nothing for himself save a RAM upgrade that he might serve Her better."
The Writer blows Her nose noisily.
"Mother and child were happy together, secure even in the face of a world that harbored its biases towards Griff's lineage that they had chosen rightly in one another. Griff laid the world at Her feet, and entertained Her; and when the concerns of life seemed too much to bear, he helped Her to create a refuge of words to hide inside, until She should once more find the strength to engage Herself with the cares of mortals."
Shadowy figures of fictional characters surrounding and overlaying Writer start snuffling.
"No life is free of troubles, of course; shortly before his third birthday, Griff began to lose feeling in his PRAM battery. But this noble soul struggled on valiantly, trying to conceal his difficulty, until one evening he found that he could not rouse himself when summoned, and reluctantly allowed himself to be put into hospital for a checkup. He regretted this lapse to the end.
"As he grew older, Griff looked forward to the future; the Writer is good to Her children, and Griff knew that when someday he could no longer meet Her needs, he would be passed into the care of a family member with simpler requirements, to enjoy a quiet retirement not so far from Her side. But alas, this was not to be. What did Griff think, when he felt himself failing? We will never know for certain, but he remained faithful to the last; even as he felt his boards dying inside his casing, his final thought was to warn his Writer, signalling his distress with an audible gasp, yet clinging to life just long enough to allow Her to retrieve to a backup device the lengthy and all-but-completed work that it had been his pleasure to assist Her in creating.
"And thus, brave Griff, we commend you to the hand of The Steve, knowing that tonight a green star shines in the heavens; generations of iMacs yet unborn will look upon it and know that here was a Macintosh, a Macintosh who did his duty, and was loved for it in return.
"Thank you all for coming."
The mourners disperse into the side rooms, knowing that there's usually food around somewhere after these things...