I Need Someone, Not Just Anyone

Okay, I need some help from you happy folk. I don't care if you're not happy, I still need some help. This is dire and, without your assistance, I might not be able to have sex this weekend. Somewhere, a towel just shed a single tear.

Anyway, let me give you the story here.

My wife works for a bookstore that has an ampersand in the middle of the name (and no S on the end, dipshit). People leave shit there all the time, like harmonicas and lipstick tubes and half drunk lattes and little cars and children. All of these things get chucked into a box (except the children; they get sold to witches in the Black Forest of Germany) cleverly called "Lost and Found". Once a month, or so, they go through the box and shitcan things that have been in there for a while--usually something like three months. If it's something grand and glorious (like, say, a quarter), the employees lay claim to it and if, after the three-month grace period is up, no one claims it, the employee with first dibs on it gets to keep the grand and glorious loot.

Well, a few months ago, some nimrod left his iPod at the store. His 30-gig iPod. I think you can see where I'm going with this, but the public schools have left us all drooling, simpering idiots, so I better spell it out for you, just in case.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca is all woman, trust me. I've inspected. Several times. Thoroughly. However, when she saw this sweet 30-gig iPod in the box, she popped a boner. Right there, in the middle of her shift, in the store. Very awkward, as you can imagine, but that's a story for another day. My wife put her name on the 30-gig iPod that Nimrod had left behind while jetting off for some general douchebag activity, I'm sure. Right after Christmas, the three-month period was up, and my wife came home, happy as a clam at high tide, sporting her treasure. I haven't seen her so happy since the doctor told me I shouldn't have sex for about two weeks after my gall bladder surgery.

I can tell that Nimrod was a douchebag because of his musical selections. Plus, the 30-gig iPod had video capability and photo storage, and yet not one hint of pornography could be found. Not that I checked. Several times. Or anything. Anyway, the point here is that Nimrod's musical tastes are pretty...fucking lousy. Who the hell puts Alan Jackson and Snoop on the same iPod? This poor electronic device needed to be purged of the shit that had been thrust upon it.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca had bought adapters and cords to be able to begin the purging of said iPod. We downloaded the iTunes bullshit. We couldn't clean the thing off. I went and bought a different program that was "guaranteed" to fix everything on my iPod. It doesn't work, either.

I spent a good hour and a half last night trying to clean the iPod off and load all of her CDs and some of my CDs that she likes onto her iPod as a Valentine's Day gift. You know like, "Look, I took the time to do something sweet and romantic and kind for you. Doesn't that moisten you right up?" Or something to that effect. The problem was, despite having charged the iPod and connecting it via the cords she bought, the computer would not recognize the device. I kept getting an error message saying that no iPod could be found, despite using every single trick I knew in order to get the computer to talk with the little bastard machine.

Pay attention; this is where you come in. I beseech you, good folks (see, it sounds more dire with the big, fancy word): Is there a trick that I'm missing here? Or could it be that Nimrod left this thing in the store on purpose because it was fucked up? Also, I've heard that you can exchange an iPod if it breaks or malfunctions or joins al-Qaeda or something; I've heard that they'll even exchange it if it's been soaked in a base bath. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this malicious rumor for me?

And, finally, does anyone have any other advice for how to work this device? Or am I doomed to listen to "Summertime Blues" and "Who Am I?" for the remainder of my days?

I realize that this pretty much ruins the surprise I had in mind, so any thoughts of autolubrication that I had fantasized about once I presented her with an iPod loaded with Barenaked Ladies, Harry Connick, Jr., and Ben Folds is pretty much out the window. Still, any help would be appreciated.

The well-being of my towels are at stake here, people. Help a brother out.