Out of Kilter presents – The Doofus in the Machine
By Ken Carpenter
October 29, 2005
Newfangled contraptions have always had it in for me. In case anybody is wondering, my definition of a newfangled contraption is fairly liberal. If it has more than three moving parts, runs on gas, plugs into electricity or makes a noise of its own, it qualifies.
It doesn’t matter if it was invented two or two hundred years ago. If it is not of solid construction like a nice, stout rock, it will eventually betray me.
I have not failed to notice that the computer age is an unhealthy time to have an aversion to machines. Everything is programmed, automated, motorized or mechanized. A guy that has a hard time even going to the bathroom without a little robotic voice reminding him to put the seat back down.
In case you are wondering, my wife does not have a robotic voice. It does, however, have a touch of Darth Vader to it when she bellows from the bathroom after splashing down in the seatless toilet bowl.
My most recent tormentor is the wily and hateful answering machine, yet another tinny voice in the night. It is not my own machine that delights in making a fool of me, though I suspect he is just biding his time (I know it is he, for its monotonous voice sounds like a door-to-door cutlery salesman who once appeared on my porch).
The machines of others persecute me, lying in wait for my hesitant voice, knowing full well that before my two minutes are up, I will leave another permanent scar on my reputation. They are rarely disappointed.
My latest faux pas (fancy French phrase for boobery) took place at work, as they quite often do. Mainly that is because I have to leave several messages per week, and I am never smart enough to write out something I can just read in case I have to talk to another infernal machine.
I started out wonderfully, using my semi-professional voice and sticking to the facts, ma’am, nothing but the facts. The words rolled off my tongue like warm molasses, with nary a glitch to slow my momentum. “Finally,” I thought to myself, “Victory is mine!”
My celebration was a tad premature however, for I closed out my message in a matter I am sure the recipient had never heard before.
“Thank you please,” I warbled sweetly, and the stunned silence that followed those mismatched words left a message of their own. Cringing, I delicately hung up the phone, as only a man that has his tail tucked firmly between his legs can.
My mom always taught me to say please and thank you, but never in her wildest dreams would she have expected me to paste them together in that way. My paranoid imagination can visualize the proud owners of that message tape playing it for their grandkid’s years from now.
“Here it is again kids, listen to the dork. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.”
My co-workers thought my latest embarrassment was so funny that I am sure they will still be saying “Thank you please” for my benefit when 2006 rolls around. My wife enjoyed it so much she has been calling me Abu, after the heavily accented, grammatically challenged Quicky Mart proprietor on The Simpsons. She soon abominated that into Abu Pooh Pooh, but I refuse to dignify that with an explanation.
Sign, I guess I will never be able to trust my tongue to do what my brain wants it to. On second thought, I can’t really blame my tongue or any other body part for ignoring my brain. It hasn’t exactly been such a smooth operator that it has inspired blind obedience from its cronies.
Especially when it comes to having a battle of wits with another of the legion of cursed machines that plague me, answering or otherwise.
In closing, all I can say is, “Thank you please,” cackle maniacally, and move on.
Slowly, very slowly, measuring every word as I go.