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Filed Under
Fax Machine You're My Worst Girlfriend Ever
Posted March 10, 2010
3 comments posted. Read them now.
You're a total embarrassment. Every once in a while I'm giving somebody a tour of my office. Where the magic happens. And they're like "paper shredder, cool." Because they know that I'm not afraid to shred documents, to cover my tracks. To have a much easier way to make my own paper mache.
But then their eyes move to the corner, underneath the giant poster of the American Eagle who is all about freedom and I find very inspirational and they ask is that a fax machine. Yeah. You know. Because sometimes. Someone asks me to fax something. After that the person asks to see a cooler room in my house. Like the back hall closet. It's like they've seen my Shawn Colvin CDs.
I don't understand why we're still moving data across phone lines. I could scan a document, import it into some program, make it a PDF and then email it in less time than it takes to move from one fax to another. But for some reason that doesn't count as paper? You know how you make e-mail like a fax? You print it out, then crumple it up a few times.
How the hell have you weaved this serpentine succubus spell on normal people? How did you convince them that you're still an absolute necessity? In an era when Astronauts can send twitter updates. From space?
But ask those same space jockeys to fill out their flexible spending claims for medical reimbursements and then say, oh, no, I guess I'll have to wait until I get back to Earth. Because the International Space Station doesn't have a fax machine. Bullshit!
Fax machine, you hear that sound? It's my Blackberry laughing at you. (she's a cyberbully). It's a specific ringtone she uses to make fun of others. Oh, what's a ringtone?
The other day I asked my financial adviser to send me some tax documents, and she was like, so do you have a fax number? I can't email them because of privacy concerns.
Right. Because it's more secure for you to send it from your office, where your fax machine could just print out another copy after you've left for the day, they do that sometimes, then to have it hang out in the middle of my office where it could be stolen by some temp who's there for a few weeks until his sculpture blog takes off.
The only reason I still hang out with you is because they make me. It's like I'm seventeen and I don't have a license and you have your own car. You just sit there all the time, you're dusty, you can't scan, the copies you make are sub-par. You're totally pre-Y2k.
I wish the telephone had never introduced us.
I want you out of my life. I don't know. Take a trip to the third world. You might do some good there. But you can't stay here anymore.
Oh wait. I just remember I have to fax something to my doctor's office. It's kind of important. No? Really?
Please. I need you.
 
copyright 2004-2024 G. Xavier Robillard
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