(no subject)
Adventures in Philadelphia
I had to make copies tonight.
23 copies, 23 copies of a non-fiction piece I'm writing. 23 copies of 5 pages, the piece is only 5 pages.
Yes.
At Kinkos:
Firstly, I didn't expect the copy store to be open on the account of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. But copy stores apparently do not celebrate national holidays. So hazaa to me.
I walk into the establishment ready for anything. No one but a single, lonely clerk inhabited the packaging/coping place. As I approached the counter a strange feeling washes over me; no longer a man, I had become a packaging peanut lost among the rolling printers, computer screens and mountains of paper. Dear God, what have I done...?
"Sir?"
Gasp. What speaks?
"Can I help you?" It was the clerk. He stood behind the counter with a puzzled look upon his brow.
"Yes?" I retorted. "I would like to print out a document and copy said document 23 times. Is this possible?"
"Of course," he says "but... how would you like to pay?"
Shit, so it's come to this.
"Cash," I say.
Apparently, I'm behind the times. No one uses cash these days. Everything is done through digital exchanges. The clerk hands me a blue and white credit card type thing and says to use 'this' and pay when you're finished.
Am I to wip my ass with it, I wonder?
I retreat to the back wall of the store where 5 computers line the wall. The words -Please Insert Card- flash on a small device to the right of the machine. I do as it requests and pay dearly for it. I discover about 5 minutes later that I am being charged by the minute to use the computer. Bastards. So I retrieve the card and venture toward the copy machines.
By this time I had worked up a sweet. Still wearing my backpack, scarf and flight jacket I set forth to print my 23 copies.
Two sided, I'll copy the paper on both sides. That seemed like a good plan. I'll just lay the first sheet onto the scan bed and let the screen tell me what to do next. -blank- All right. I'll hit the Start button. -Inquision Window- All right. 2 3 and Start. Nice, 23 copies of page one, but how do I put page 2 on the back? Crap. Well, I'll put page 2 in the scan bed and copy that one with page 3. Start.
One page prints. OK. I'll just print all 5 pages on their own seperate pages. (Sorry trees)
At this point I'm very hot and quite frustrated. Another patron enters and parks himself at the copier next to me. He's been here before. He's printing the same document many different times without hitting start over and over again. I curse him under my breath, then curse the copier accordingly.
Start, print,(yourat) Start, print,(bastardmother) Start, print, (fuckinhunkofsh...)
That's it!
I drop my bag, remove my scarf, slide off my jacket and roll up my sleeves...
"Are you going to fight it?" a voice remarks.
I look to my left and see the new patron smiling at me. He's a man in either his late 20's or early 30's.
I smile with half my mouth, "I just might."
He askes if I need any help, he gives it, I pay at the counter for my labors and I leave for the night.
Kind of anticlimactic.
I'm tired of typing. 'Til next time.
Laid
I had to make copies tonight.
23 copies, 23 copies of a non-fiction piece I'm writing. 23 copies of 5 pages, the piece is only 5 pages.
Yes.
At Kinkos:
Firstly, I didn't expect the copy store to be open on the account of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. But copy stores apparently do not celebrate national holidays. So hazaa to me.
I walk into the establishment ready for anything. No one but a single, lonely clerk inhabited the packaging/coping place. As I approached the counter a strange feeling washes over me; no longer a man, I had become a packaging peanut lost among the rolling printers, computer screens and mountains of paper. Dear God, what have I done...?
"Sir?"
Gasp. What speaks?
"Can I help you?" It was the clerk. He stood behind the counter with a puzzled look upon his brow.
"Yes?" I retorted. "I would like to print out a document and copy said document 23 times. Is this possible?"
"Of course," he says "but... how would you like to pay?"
Shit, so it's come to this.
"Cash," I say.
Apparently, I'm behind the times. No one uses cash these days. Everything is done through digital exchanges. The clerk hands me a blue and white credit card type thing and says to use 'this' and pay when you're finished.
Am I to wip my ass with it, I wonder?
I retreat to the back wall of the store where 5 computers line the wall. The words -Please Insert Card- flash on a small device to the right of the machine. I do as it requests and pay dearly for it. I discover about 5 minutes later that I am being charged by the minute to use the computer. Bastards. So I retrieve the card and venture toward the copy machines.
By this time I had worked up a sweet. Still wearing my backpack, scarf and flight jacket I set forth to print my 23 copies.
Two sided, I'll copy the paper on both sides. That seemed like a good plan. I'll just lay the first sheet onto the scan bed and let the screen tell me what to do next. -blank- All right. I'll hit the Start button. -Inquision Window- All right. 2 3 and Start. Nice, 23 copies of page one, but how do I put page 2 on the back? Crap. Well, I'll put page 2 in the scan bed and copy that one with page 3. Start.
One page prints. OK. I'll just print all 5 pages on their own seperate pages. (Sorry trees)
At this point I'm very hot and quite frustrated. Another patron enters and parks himself at the copier next to me. He's been here before. He's printing the same document many different times without hitting start over and over again. I curse him under my breath, then curse the copier accordingly.
Start, print,(yourat) Start, print,(bastardmother) Start, print, (fuckinhunkofsh...)
That's it!
I drop my bag, remove my scarf, slide off my jacket and roll up my sleeves...
"Are you going to fight it?" a voice remarks.
I look to my left and see the new patron smiling at me. He's a man in either his late 20's or early 30's.
I smile with half my mouth, "I just might."
He askes if I need any help, he gives it, I pay at the counter for my labors and I leave for the night.
Kind of anticlimactic.
I'm tired of typing. 'Til next time.
Laid