Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Pondering the End of Humanity

Remember in Terminator 2 where the computers of the world united taking over the missle defense systems and everything else pitting humanity in a battle versus those machines to win their world, and their freedoms, back? That will never fucking happen. Ever. You know why not? Because machines stink.

I remember watching that movie and then thinking about the internet, and those Honda robots that can play a trumpet, or that Sony dog that is just like a real dog, but is mechanical, and barely moves, and looks dumb, and is waaaay overpriced, but they thought it was really special, when it was just a piece of crap, and how all of these things were going to take over the world and only Arnold from the future could save us.

And then I went to Boston University.

The amount of shit that simply does not work in this institution is baffling for a number of reasons. The most important one is that I pay more than a good number of workers get yearly as a salary. What's almost as important to understand my anger over the situation is that it's never a complicated action that is never done properly. I'm not pissed at some complex pully and lever system with eighty different parts, a thermo-nuclear base, and a hampster in a wheel as a back up. No, I am pissed at the machines that do the easiest things possible.

For example, I will never understand why dryers don't work. Their purpose isn't to dry clothes and read, or dry clothes and formulate ideas on nuclear fission, not even dry clothes and chew gum at the same time (possibly while also rubbing its glass-encased stomach). All it has to do is move shit around while there is some heat. That's it! It's not really complicated. Hell, if you can get the same effect by leaving shit outside for a day while the god damn sun is out, you're really not doing anything strenuous. For whatever reason, this is too much to ask for some days.

On more than one occasion I have washed my clothes, put them in the dryer, and in an hour expected the clothes to be dry. It's not like I expect the dryer to fold them (but if I put it in a folder machine, you can bet your sweet as I would expect wrinkle-free bundles of neatness), I simply ask it to do what it's named for. Think about it: it does its job so well, it's not just its middle name, its the ONLY name...like Madonna, only she isn't best known for...Madonna...ing. Yeah.

When I come down to find my clothes sufficiently damp I will not throw a temper tantrum, nor will I whine. No, I will just with hold all of my anger, plunk down another $1.50 of my Dad's hard-earned money that I spend like the flow will never stop, and mope around like a little bitch. Then, I will hop on the internet to lambast that hunk of scrap metal in the hopes that Machine #3 either reads this, or overhears people talking about it. I think it'd be better if some kids go downstairs, around #3, and say "man, did you hear that kid rip dryer 3 apart?" The other kid will go, "yeah dude, it was wicked nasty to listen to, hahvahd, cah, go sawx, I like being ah livin' stereotype, Sully."

Then, I hope the machine hears it and doesn't cry. No, I don't want tears (I've seen enough liquid come out of that fucking thing). I want change. I want him to have a montage with an elder machine who works #3 to the bone as crappy 80s buttrock plays in the background. I want to see him spinning that inner cycle like nobody's business while "TO THE LIMIT...HE CAN PUSH IT! HE CAN PUSH IT TO THE LIIIIIMIIIIIIT" pumps in the background. At first, he won't do it fast enough, and the older dryer will mock him, saying he doesn't have it. But after a while #3 will keep working until he can spin that fucking inner cycle so hard he's shaking. The older machine will go for a high five and #3 will jump up and get that high five with his bright yellow headband and short shorts for its non-existant legs, which is good cause they're really short and you'd be seeing too much dryer machine thigh anyway.

The dryer will come back to the Myles Standish washing machine room and I'll have some wet, Tide-smelling clothes in my hamper. I will make an audible "argh" when there is only one dryer left - number three. I will complain, saying, "man, this dryer never has what it takes." The dryer will bite its lint trap (the closest thing resembling a tongue) and will let his work do the talking for him. I'll swipe my card, enter the number three, and accept the transaction, fully aware that I'll need to waste another dollar and a half in an hour.

I come downstairs an hour later, open the door, and expect to be disappointed. I'll check the pants, and they will be dry. I will check a t-shirt, and it, too, will be dry. In a joy that comes only with child birth I will go through all of my clothes and will still feel the warmth flowing off my dry garments. Wiping the tear from my cheek, I'll turn to dryer number three, and I'll say "I'm sorry I ever doubted not just your job, but your heart. You're a good dryer. No, no. God dammit, you're one of the best." Then, I'll grab that dryer's door, and I'll give it a hearty handshake.

The moral of the story is: simple machines that do simple things better fucking work. And if they don't, they better montage their asses to glory.

Now, dear readers, as you may have noticed, I have taken down the tracker to this blog off of my profile. Because of this, I don't know if I still have the same amount of readers as before. I now turn to you folks to help me with the next entry. I tried a mailbag-type situation before, very early in the process, and it was kind of a miserable failure. So, I will once again press my luck. Either write in the comments or e-mail something simple, possibly electronic, that doesn't work. Then, if I get enough of a response, I'll make a post with my comments about it. Or, if I don't get any response, I'll just look like a pathetic douche. Fun times putting yourself on the line.

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