Apparently Onan - the guy nobody wants to shake hands with - has a little trouble with…math. 1989 vs. 1982 is - wait for it - seven years earlier, score it for Meier. Camazotz Automat - it's a family name, he was birthed through a vending machine - proudly gives us similar LATER numbers, apparently thinking that also pointing out that Meier wins this one means, what, that he doesn't?
If the technology had already trickled down to worthless "customer service modular training," and had trickled down to godless print-men (heh) (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ghost_and_Mr._Chicken
) then 1982 wasn't earthshaking in the context of how long the technology/concept had been developing (even further back than computer usage, as I view it, i.e., since man first learned to finger-paint/point)
To make conversation specifically with onan, I cited my own experience with what I consider old overrated and faddish tech.
I didn't go into any detail about the toxic aroma of freshly pressed vinyl notebooks... The whispered screams of circular velcro tabs as modules were opened and explored under the oversight of brain dead dictator managers wearing the latest 80s power suits.
More importantly, Mr. Horn, did you pick up on the undercurrent of what a cunt Fred Smith is, riding on the backs of his employees' visual health in the name of saving a few bucks in a multi-billion dollar corporation?
Almost one hundred employees in that call center alone, reading those goddamned monochrome green screens for eight hour shifts, forty hours per week. Billy Meier knows, the glare factor was outrageous.
It was like staring into the vapid radioactive eye of a prehistoric fish.
That was the true thrust of my post. To onan.
There is something familiar about you. Do I ~know~ you? Who is this?
Was your REAL mother, in fact, a vending machine?
Your personal name means little to me.
What was your mother's patent number(s)?
I've been searching for my siblings for decades.
If you're extremely lucky, you could be one of them.
Because I have tons of cash to share with my true siblings - leftover after suing the living healing bejesus out of Federal Express.
(Or "Fedex" as they now refer to themselves, though in 1988, if one answered the service line with "Fedex," one could ((and would!)) be taken aside for some serious touch-screen time to teach one how to correctly state the company's holy name.)
An aside: You'll learn my personal name if/when I meet you in the flesh.
(But I don't think you're gonna like it.)