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Short Story. . . (standard:humor, 1200 words)
Author: Charles Reap, Jr.Added: May 16 2006Views/Reads: 1971/1100Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Humorish gibberish.


By Charles Reap, Jr. 

Here I sit, quietly. I meditate. I hear the wind sounds from the noisy
air conditioner, and  yes, there's the slight and occasional drip from 
that darn thing onto the so-called drip pan. And, as I turn my unshaven 
face towards the grimy window, I see two silly birds trying to build a 
nest on the window sill. They make a lot of noise. Actually, they sound 
happy. I wonder what they are saying to each other in bird-speak. And, 
who's boss? The darker one? Or the other? I now find myself fronting my 
computer monitor and its keyboard here on my dusty desk. The small 
green light on the big gray box stares relentlessly at me. The black 
keys are winking up at me. . . daring me. . . threatening me. I want to 
type, but yet, nothing evolves. I hold my trembling fingers over the 
keyboard, but they don't respond. It's almost as if the keys are saying 
to me, “Go ahead, dummy. Type something intelligent. What's the matter? 
Are you dim-witted or something?” Maybe I am. Although, I am not 
certain those ominous objects are directing their intimidating 
influence at me. Maybe others have had their turn at this inane 
keyboard. Maybe these other folks have already used up all the 
information contained in this black ogre. I wonder if that could be the 
problem. Maybe the manufacturer would know. However, I don't have the 
desire to investigate. There is a name printed on the top, the same as 
the one on the face of the screen staring angrily at me. I wonder if 
the two silent pieces of machinery are in cahoots with each other. Are 
they saying to each other, “Let's have some fun with this idiot.” I 
think. I saw a fantasy movie once where some fellow was somehow 
absorbed by a computer and it controlled him; made him speed along 
various undesirable microscopic pathways. I wonder if this machine 
could do that to me. I hope not. After all, in reality, all I have to 
do is walk away from the darn thing. However, that might make it mad at 
me. Maybe I had better try to keep it friendly to me and peck away at 
something. After all, presumably, I'm here to write some intelligent 
gibberish. I wonder if it knows what I am writing. Somewhere I heard 
that bad guys (no, I have to be politically correct—bad people) can 
send viruses, worms, Trojan horses and the like into your computer and 
obtain a record for themselves each time you push down on a key. That's 
not a nice thing, if you ask me. Occasionally, I wish I knew more about 
this confounded machine. Not always, however. Actually, I suppose I 
could go somewhere and take a course, but I don't really want to do 
that. Too much trouble. Does that mean that I am lazy? Maybe so, but at 
the moment, I don't care. The heel of my right hand caroms off my 
sweating forehead. However, the jarring only seems to increase my 
tension and begin a headache. I wonder. . . I wonder if anybody else 
has used this keyboard. That is to say, was it put through some magical 
series of trials before it was transferred to the store where I bought 
it? Was it tested for supreme precision? If so, which keys did they 
press? All 104 of them? 104? Now that I look down at them, I astutely 
distinguish that many of them have more than a single use. In addition, 
even though I don't understand all there is to the inner, tangible 
workings of a computer keyboard, I have learned over time that if you 
push specific ones of these dark-side buttons, and then a second one, 
you can get yet another result. Well, Heaven's to Betsy, I surely don't 
know how many results a person could have in such an instance. 
Infinitesimal? Nah, I think not. Surely, there must be a finite number 
of combinations in there somewhere. I think I'll leave that up to the 
monkeys. I recall reading somewhere that if you place several million 
monkeys in front of several million typewriters (remember those?) and 
left them alone for several million years, they would finally type out 
some glorious and spellbinding piece of literature. Could that be? No, 
I think not, because you would have to feed all those “cousins” in 
order to keep their fingers working. Furthermore, who would feed them? 
Another million monkeys? Maybe a million or so humans. Then, what would 
be the purpose of all that folderol? Just to be able to prove it could 
be accomplished? Seems somewhat pointless to me. I wonder if this 
magnificent computer keyboard has built-in memory. If so, which button 
should I push in order to recall any previous messages? Or, which 
several buttons? Or, would it be the space bar? Or, maybe, just maybe, 
a defined combination of several keys simultaneously. But, here I am, 
not a member of the monkey tribe (I don't think so, anyway) and I am 
finally pounding on these semi-worthless keys. But, am I saying 
anything worthwhile? Am I composing the latest great American novel? 
Will this make me independently wealthy? I think not, but what do I 
know? I ponder. . . will some motion picture producer want to make a 

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