In theory, software upgrades and toilet cleaning are best left to others. In practice, most of us wind up doing these things ourselves, because IT departments and maids generally resent the idea of working for free. There are exceptions, I know, but then you'd need a lawyer.
The most important difference between the two activities is that, when your 754 MB download has been corrupted and won't install, it's easy to flush the computer down the toilet. This isn't possible with the toilet, because . . . well, because it's a toilet, and you can't flush something that's already the same thing as the thing you want to flush.
After the plumber has gone, I like to linger awhile and savor the glint of the shiny porcelain bowl. For some reason, it always reminds me of my hard disk before I began installing all the updates and patches required to patch and update the software that worked, sort of, before someone decided it needed cleaning. It was never really clean in the sense that you'd want to eat spaghetti out of it, but it worked.
I've always been fond of the old if it works don't fix it adage, so I have no explanation for attempting to clean something that wasn't entirely dirty to begin with. Now that the madness has passed, I understand the need for buying a new computer every six months, and a new toilet every four. Clean is good, and not everyone is handy with a pipe wrench.
Why is everyone looking at me that way? I can't put my finger [sic] on it, but there's a look in their eyes today. Everywhere I go it's the same. Something about the way they smile . . . but those aren't smiles . . . why is everyone smirking? It isn't natural. Why do I feel like a freak? Is there something in my teeth [sic]? Maybe my skirt [sic] is tucked in my underwear [sic] again? 
Human perception is always fascinating, but it's especially intriguing when it goes terribly wrong and drifts off into the mudhole of misperception. Of course, since the whole business is entirely subjective to begin with, misperception is just as fishy, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't drill holes in our boats when all the lakes have dried up. 
As a literary device, omitting portions of a word—the portion at the end in particular—is often used to denote rough language. This is generally implemented on the written page by an apostrophe in place of one or more missing letters in a word. Used to great effect when, for example, the writer wishes to give a colorful, rough-hewn character an air of gritty nonchalance and missing teeth, the practice is nevertheless tiring, and mundane. 
I enter the room.
After long moments spent hewing and honing a blogologue, it's truly gratifying to hear the three magic words that make it all seem worthwhile. When I hear, "that's really stupid," I always swell up just a little, because I know I've accomplished what I set out to do. 
Hope and Fear present two faces to the world; in secret they confess their unity.
Once the province of stage magic—and, some say, clandestine remote-viewing operations—the ability to read the minds of others is now one step closer to commonplace, thanks to the efforts of researchers at Maastricht University. 
It certainly isn't the first time I've been inspired by Craig Conley's unparalleled handiwork, but I don't recall ever having been inspired in such parallel fashion. 
Punditry suits me. From the fresher vantage point of the morning after, yesterday's incursion into the realm of insightful political commentary was brief, but edifying. I detect, now, a peculiar facility with exactly the sort of in-depth analysis required to quantify the qualifiable, and vice versa. I will demonstrate. 
"I'm watching you, squirrel," said the dog. 
