Ah, the age of technology. Basking in the golden glow of the afternoon sun, eating a gourmet five course meal re hydrated moments before by my robot servant, sighing deeply as "work minute" arrives and I will have to push a button.
Ha! My robot appears to be late. My printer died last week. It was having communication problems with my hard drive and, instead of opting for therapy, it decided to crash and burn. Though not before printing off a ream of half of garble containing the mysterious message to wa---ch you-- bac---k.
The modern dream is hardly a reality. Hands up those of you who work longer than nine to five and spend half that time erasing email, printing copies of memos and rewriting important documents that disappeared in a "crash". You know what I'm talking about. So, now, I am attempting to get my new, oh so much faster printer to "talk" to my computer. Make friends, be buddy, buddy, at least exchange a curt "hello". No dice.
"I don't really need you," I threaten, "Shakespeare wrote lots of plays, really good ones, and all he had was parchment and a quill. If you won't cooperate I'm sure they still sell pencils at Staples."
Ominous silence.
The machines mock me. Ah, yes, there may be a day far, far off in the future where man and machine will live together in harmony, it working, me sipping a sweet soda, but not today. Today, they are in therapy.
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