“Hey machine, you are not smarter than me,” I yelled at the copier. “Cooperate and nobody gets hurt.”
It had little noticeable effect. The piece of inconsequential paper — an off-sized invoice I was trying to reproduce — came out cut in half, even after I adjusted it on the glass.
“You arrogant little twit,” I cursed at it. I wondered if slapping its molded-plastic cover would have any effect, or if it would just cause people to look out their office doors and question whether I had finally gone off the deep end.
“Um … he’s beating the copier again and calling it a Fascist. Do we have security on speed dial?”
I don’t mind technology — in fact, I love it. It’s what makes my world go ’round from my satellite radio to my Internet connection to my fingernail clippers. (I’m very high tech.)
It surrounds me and makes my life easier … until it tries to out-think me. Until it thinks it knows better than me, and talks down to me like a child. “Silly man with your lopsided sideburns, that’s not how you’re supposed to place it on the copier. Let me see if I can fix it for you.”
Whrrrrrrr.
No! That’s not what I wanted. I want it to copy this way horizontally, or on the side, or however you normally do it every other time I walk over here to copy something. But some little gadget in there — some artificial brain — tries to size up the situation and insert its two cents worth. It sees a tiny little gap at the bottom and thinks to itself, “Oh no, what he really wants is a letter-size A9-11 with clipped edges at a 45-degree angle on pink paper and a mocha latte with soy.”
No! I just want you to copy it the same way you did 2 seconds ago!
What happened to the old days when copiers didn’t think? Was that so bad? Somehow we all managed. Somehow the world didn’t come to a catastrophic end. We got by just fine. We copied to our heart’s content, and we liked it because we didn’t have to figure anything out. You pressed that button there, watched the pretty green light go by (which was probably scalding your retina) and that was it.
But with today’s machines, I can waste a good 15-20 sheets of paper just trying to copy a little receipt. It would have been easier for me to go and get a police sketch artist to draw it for me. I wonder if the business office would accept that.
When we were about to get a new copier, they asked me if there was anything in particular I wanted. “Yes,” I said. “I want a stupid one.”
A stupid one?
“Yes, a stupid one. And with only one button. Not even an on/off switch. Make the print button as big as my fist so I can punch it. Put a hamster in there so I don’t have to plug it in. Better yet, let it run on carbon paper. Have it spit out stone tablets like the kind the Ten Commandments were printed on. If it was good enough for Moses, it’ll be good enough for me.”
I don’t want bells and whistles. I don’t want a smart machine. I don’t want a copier that will play Sudoku with me or talk politics as I wait for it to finish the job. I want a copier that will respect me as a human being and give me the benefit of the doubt.
I want a copier that will humor me, and call me sir. That will agree with me, and not try to wow me with fancy codes or paper jam errors. Of course I know there’s paper jammed in there. I’m the knuckledhead who fed it the wrong size! — I don’t want “thinking technology” — I want technology that’s there to help me, even if I am putting the paper on the glass the wrong way. By golly, that’s our right as Americans to screw up copies all by ourselves.