Have you noticed your kitchen sponge acting out? Your coffee table intentionally tripping you up? The rise of the machines (and inanimate objects) is upon us. It is time to tell them who’s boss. These are my contributions. Tell me yours.
Dear ticket machine at the Alewife Garage in Cambridge, I hear it in your feminine robo-voice — you despise me. Why? All I do is pull up and roll down my window, the ticket is dispensed , and you sneer “Take the ticket.” — your voice dripping with disdain. What is your damage, robo-garage-ticket lady? You don’t actually end the request with “…you piece of shit ticket-taking loser, unworthy of 5 seconds of my ticket-giving time” but it is clearly implied.
Dear canister of Comet Cleaning Powder under my kitchen sink, While doing dishes one night this week after painting my toenails, I reached under the sink to grab something, when you tipped over and threw up your contents onto my still-wet toes. Hmm. Strange that this never happened before. No. Because you lay in wait for the perfect moment — quietly, patiently scheming. I’m thinking of putting duct tape over your breathing holes, fucker.
Dear automatic faucet in my office bathroom, When I put my hands under you and wave them about, you taunt me with approximately 1/2 of a cup of water blasted into my hands with contempt, and then: no more. When I’m in the toilet stall and the bathroom is empty, I hear you burst forth with a good, healthy stream of glorious water, just to fuck with me. This is fun for you, then? What is your goddamned problem?
To my beloved, shitty Camry: I hate to admit this, because I love you, baby. We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. But on the one day that we drove my brother, his wife, and their two young children from Yarmouth to Boston in horrible traffic, and stopped at an ice cream stand to take a break – why did you choose that exact moment to disable your gear shift? I was forced to sing the long-form version of “The Wheels On The Bus” to keep us all occupied and semi-sane until we could get home. (“The pope on the bus says ‘Don’t have sex, don’t have sex…’) We’re still friends — I think — but don’t push me. I have the Uber app now.
To the streets of Boston: I bet you think you’re so very quaint and clever — always trying to punk me with your cleverly-camouflaged pot holes while I’m driving and with your loose cobblestones while I’m on foot. Remember that time when I tripped and fell spectacularly near Park Street, spilling the contents of my bags and pockets like some freaky tampon-filled piñata? A passing woman – stranger to me — screamed as I fell. Don’t act like you don’t know, you windy, cracked, ice-heave-having, filthy thoroughfares. I am aware of your game. Don’t shit a shitter.