Printer Hell

I don’t know exactly where Printer Hell would be located in Dante’s Inferno, but I imagine it’s in a little side room off of Computer Hell, which is located in a cubicle in Office Machine Hell, a large department in the level of Business Hell, a corporate entity inside of Work Hell. Work Hell has to belong in the Fourth Circle with greed, or as it’s known in the classics—Avarice. That is, of course, if logic holds up in Hell.

Even though I’m not sure exactly how I got here, I am currently residing in Printer Hell. Printers have much more power than we give them credit for. A printer on the fritz can radically upset a person’s life. My printer has had me on the floor, my arms outstretched to the current bane of my existence, doing my impression of Nancy Kerrigan. “Why...Why...,” I wail, knowing all the while this hunk of technology is not moved at all by my obvious distress. You’d think they could sprinkle in a little Artificial Compassion to go with the Artificial Intelligence. Would a little “I’m sorry,” sound effect when the error light goes on be too much to ask for?

I find it interesting how the non-operation of a mechanical device I never even imagined owning in my youth could so completely bring my life to a standstill now. I come from the age of the mimeograph machine in grammar school. I used to love the smell of a freshly mimeographed handout, and wondered why they always felt cold for no apparent reason. Kids nowadays don’t even know the wonderful sense memories associated with printing and copying they are missing out on. High school had the gunshot report of the Selectric Typewriter and if you needed a copy, the slick feel of the carbon paper and the purple smudges it left on your fingers. Ah, memories.
My printer now fulfills my print and copy needs, plus more, quietly and odorlessly. I’ve using an HP three-in-one that also acts as a Fax machine. So far I’m thinking the more conveniences they can build into one machine, the further it leaves you up $%#& Creek when it malfunctions. I have tried all the simple fixes recommended by my computer guy. I’ve unplugged the USB cable and left it for between 2 minutes and overnight before re-plugging. No joy. I disconnected the power cord for like intervals and the printer ignored it. I’ve even tried holding a screw driver in full view and making threatening statements: I’m going to wrinkle every sheet of paper you ever see again, you’ll never get a new, full ink cartridge when you ask for it, and printers have been gutted for less. Not even a bead of sweat.

I tried bribing my computer guy to come deal with the demon component. He flatly refused. I tried every fix I found on the HP website and elsewhere on the Internet. The only development was an intermittent freezing of the fix-it programs I downloaded. Insult on top of the injury technology had already dealt me.

I have never been anything, but kindness itself to that dratted machine. I feed it a diet of uninterrupted electricity. I give it only brand-name professionally-loaded ink cartridges to use in its work. I unplug it on days when weather threatens its health with lightening strikes, blackouts and the like. It is as spoiled and pampered as an inanimate object can be. Does it make sense that it wants to hurt me?

You know, the weather conditions in Hell aren’t ideal: there’s the heat, the humidity from the boiling water and oil, the dust kicked up by the various dirt tortures, etc., etc.—not at all conducive to the operation of delicate, mechanical devices. The paperwork has to be overwhelming, making sure all those sinners are getting their just desserts. They can’t afford breakdowns. I doubt the devil suffers excuses.

I wonder how I can find out what kind of printer Beelzebub is using.