I live in terror these days. Sheer, heart-stopping panic, unmitigated by reason. What, you ask, could terrify me so aside from the obvious (landsharks)?

The Red Ring of Death.

Red Ring of DeathThose around me fall like wheat before the scythe, as a fourth close friend experienced the red ring of death that signals complete system failure for an Xbox 360. I don’t call too many people close friends so it is disturbing enough to know that the Reaper is stalking us. Still, I’m possessed of powerful Warranty Magic so the Reaper alone cannot chill my heart with this kind of foreboding.

Nay. The grim hand of dread that has gripped my soul this morning derives from the realization that were I to experience the foul Ring now, as did my CTO Chris last night, I would likely not get my console back until after September 25th. My god, just writing that has turned my muscles to jelly and is that a bit of wetness I feel dripping down my left leg?

Poor Chris (who went through four of the original Xboxs) has already resolved that he’ll need to purchase a new 360 because, “I will NOT wait to blast some motherfuckers with a Spartan Laser!

So please, pray for me my friends. If there’s an ounce of humanity in you, pray that I am not marked by the red ring before the 25th. Pray to any God that will listen. (Try Hephaestus. His forges turn out quality stuff.)

And now, I am off to a local farm. There’ll be lamb’s blood on all the doors to stay the Reaper’s hand, and tonight Mr. Gates shall sup on a burnt offering of the finest organic, sustainably-raised Sonoma lamb.