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2002-04-08 - 10:34 a.m.

I've got a bad habit. Alright, okay okay okay, I've got several bad habits. I know I smoke too much, how could I not know that with ya'll telling me all the time. And instead of one Bud Light, I usually drain the six-pack. But, except for Friday night, I've got that under control, and I don't miss the mornings after one iota. I sit around reading so much the house quickly goes to clutter. I like to eat, so in the presence of good food I eat to excess. But hey, I've never claimed to follow rules of moderation.

No, none of these are the bad habit I'm talking about. I'm talking about my tendency to treat inanimate objects like living, breathing things with a mind, things that, when they screw up, can understand me and miraculously fix themselves when I yell at them.

Take my television, for instance. I have one of those satellite television systems, beaming hundreds of channels into my family room. Mostly, my TV is off, but there are some programs I enjoy. Although no longer having the pizzazz and punchy one-liners of the past, I still enjoy Frasier, and I try to remember to tune in on Tuesday evenings. My favorite network is A&E; I especially like City Confidential, American Justice, Investigative Reports, special documentaries and the reruns of Columbo. However, sometimes during a heavy, clogging winter blizzard the satellite doesn't beam anything into my family room. And I start talking to it.

"You lousy sumbitch! You know DAMN well I wanted to see American Justice tonight!"

After this happened a dozen or more times I figured out the problem. The dish was packed in snow. To fix it I had to get into my heavy winter work coat, jam my Elmer Fudd hat on my head and tie down the ear flaps, put on my boots and gloves, get the broom from the garage, tromp through the yard, across the drive and up onto the south bank to the dish. The dish is positioned such that when I broom the snow off it all falls back on me. So I talk to it.

"Stop it, gawdammit! It's cold out here."

I also reprimand the remote when the batteries go south. I keep all battery sizes in my stuff, but finding them in the stuff is time consuming, so I put off the tiresome search by cajoling the remote box. I stab at the buttons and mutter: "You bastard, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon."

My automatic garage door opener heard me loud and clear one morning. I'm usually in a hurry and not firing on all pistons in the mornings, but that morning I was really rushed. I punched the wall control, raced to the car, turned over the ignition and yanked the shift into reverse....and backed into the door. I jumped from the car, ran back to the door, took aim and kicked another dent into it.

"You stupid, sumbitchin door! Now what the hell am I gonna do?"

The door, although not completely destroyed, was bent and knocked off track, so even releasing the little red cord and going to manual open wasn't going to work. I stood midst my garage stuff, occasionally talked to the door ("GawDAM you!") and stewed. I had two options: I could call in sick and get an overhead door man out that day to repair the door, or I could call someone at the office to come get me. I chose the latter alternative and let the door have it.

"Look at what the hell you made me have to do. Now I gotta explain this mess to my secretary!"

The Cherokee has one of those little computer gizmos up in the headliner. It tells me all sorts of stuff--when it's programmed, which it hasn't been for some time now. Because I don't know how to reset the controls, it's stuck on the Perform Service mode. Whenever I start up the Jeep, the little computer starts flashing "PerformServicePerformServicePerformService" and beeps (ever notice how every-damn-thing in modern society beeps? I don't trust things that go beep, but that's another story). While it flashes, I yell: "Shutthehellupshutthehellupshutthehellup" until its notification time runs out and it goes off.

What really sends me over the edge is computers. They are the bane of my existence, and I have a litany of oaths for them. PC buffs and MAC detractors say the source of my problem is Macintosh. But I have a PC at the office, and my work PC laptop is stowed in my study closet as backup for when I completely crash the iMac, which I do on the average of once every six months. No, I'm nondiscriminatory in my loud, obscene abuse of computers. I yell and kick and cuss and smack at them all.

When the PC in my office fizzles and sputters, I go into a fit of ill temper, bang on the monitor case and scream: "You damned worthless pieca junk. Boot, damn ya. What the hell ya mean, hit any key? I already did that, ya stupid sumbitch." Over the intercom my secretary asks: "Do we need tech services?" If, in her office across the hallway, she can hear me berating the computer, yes, dammit, we need tech services!

It's all out war at home when the iMac fails to perform. I pace the study, stop and glare at the machine hissing on the desk and fly, out of control, into a tantrum. "You, sorry-assed little shit. I'ma gonna take your worthless hindend to the lake and throw you in. You're good for nothin but a boat anchor, and you'd probably *&^% that up, too!" Then, head cocked, brow raised, I stare at the blank screen, and wait for it to compute what I've said and quickly fix itself, thus saving itself from death by drowning.

Rarely does that happen, but sometimes the iMac does talk back to me. Under certain conditions, it does give verbal explanations of the problem. When I've been disconnected from the server, for example, the lady tells me: "You.Have.Been.Dis.Con.Nec.Ted. It.Is.Not.My.Fa.Ult."

I slam my palm on the desk, get nose to nose with the machine and snarl: "Oh, bulls&%#, then whose GawDAM fault is it?"

Gregg and Velda have that OnSat or OnStar or whatsit thing in their Escalade, and every time I get in the vehicle, Gregg turns to me and says, "Don't you say a word. Just keep your mouth shut," then activates the system. A lady comes on, real time, and greets him: "Hello, Mr. Doughtery, how may I assist you this evening?" Whoa, far out!

My talking iMac and Gregg's real-time driving assistant support my belief all modern technology is living and breathing and has the ability to understand what I'm saying. So, despite censure from others, I'll continue talking to all my gadgets, hoping one day soon they'll obey my verbal commands.

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