The Printer Must Die

I hate printers. I try not to hate too many things in life but for printers, I'll make an exception. I hate them with a passion, which is a bit of a blow as they're a necessary evil in my job like dealing with my tax return or non-paying editors. I've despised printers most of my adult life; certainly long before I got my tie stuck in one as an office junior.

It was way back in a year beginning with 19 and I was trying to change the dreaded toner cartridge on a huge old Hewlett Packard lazerjet. Anyone who had the misfortune to work with these behemoths back then will remember that this task was about as easy as performing dental surgery on a wide-awake and very hungry mountain lion, and twice as dangerous. It was also a filthy job so I, obviously, was wearing my best white work shirt.

As soon as I touched it the toner cart belched out a cloud of black dust, turning my shirt and any exposed areas of skin a dark grey colour. To make matters worse, as I leant in closer to dislodge the cartridge my tie got caught in the mechanism. The printer didn't try to pull me into its filthy depths (which even I could see would have been even funnier) but it refused to let go of my gaudy tie, surely the most useless piece of clothing known to man. What use are ties really, apart from for choking people with? The printer obviously agreed, as it kept a firm hold as I tried to pull myself out from its innards. So not only was my tie hideously miscoloured (even more than when I'd bought it), it was also mangled and, worst of all, the printer was trying to throttle me with it.

There's only so much of this kind of treatment that a man can take. I removed the tie from my neck and left it dangling like a severed line of entrails from the guts of the machine. It had clearly attacked me and I had an office full of witnesses, probably attracted by my vitriolic verbal outbursts. I quickly came to the obvious conclusion. There was nothing else for it.

The printer must die.

I know that the following will be a little difficult for some of you to believe but I swear that every word of it is true.

I picked the printer up. It was a hefty old lazerjet, about the size of a large microwave oven but several times heavier. And it was covered with disgusting toner dust. And it was still trying to digest my tie. It was more bulky than heavy but I managed to lift it to chest height and with a mighty roar hurled it, shot putt fashion, across the room.

At least, that was my intention. Unfortunately it was still cabled up and the cables were, even more unfortunately, securely fastened under the desk on which it stood. It didn't so much fly as plummet, hitting the table top with a dull thud. I'd hoped for it to shatter on the floor several metres away, spraying lethal dusty shards in all directions. Sadly all that happened was that there was a small and entirely non-serious crack in one of its paper trays. That's it. Apart from that, and having a tie mulched in its workings, the printer was entirely unscathed. I'd completely failed in my first task as a printer assassin.

So you'll understand that I was somewhat miffed this week when my own home office printer completely failed to print a manuscript that I sent to it. I have to concede that it made an effort, pulling in the paper and moving the print head backwards and forwards with the required chugging sound, but it made no attempt whatsoever to darken the sheet with its presence. The paper cane out as clean and white as it had gone in, totally unsullied by my words and ideas.

Seeing as my office is in the attic I knew that I could do a lot more damage to my own printer than I had with my employers' all those years ago. Sadly I also knew that it would be me who would have to clean the resulting carnage from my path if I flung it out of the window so instead I did the sensible thing.

I emailed the document to my Beloved. She printed it on our second in-house printer.

Safer. Cheaper. Less dangerous.

But I still hate printers.

© Shaun Finnie 2014