Rage Against The Machine

There is a vending machine in the building where I work that surely belongs in one of the nine circles of hell. No amount of coaxing can convince this stubborn device to accept paper money.

Oh sure, there's a slot with a picture of a smirking George Washington and it will even tease me by taking in the best bill I can find in my wallet, but then this capricious pile of scrap metal invariably rejects my hard-earned money. I stand there, my dollar on the floor, my face pressed against the glass mere inches from my prize.

I could take a brand new one-dollar bill, hot off the press at the US Mint, and feed it directly into this machine and I guarantee it would spit it out like a bad piece of gristle.

Don't these vending folks understand the torture of the rationalization I had to go through just so I could be standing in front of their stupid machine? "Yes, it's OK to get a snack. You've been working hard this morning and it's a long time until lunch. Go and have a small treat. You're not really that heavy."

If nothing else, I am a patient man and so I waited. Days on end I huddled in a darkened corner of the break room waiting for the vending man with his precious key. Once he arrived and opened the glass-front door, I clubbed him on the back of the head with a sock full of quarters.

With full access to the treats inside I gathered my spoils. Reaching to the back (that's where they put the fresh candy) I clutched the bright white wrapper of a pristine Baby Ruth candy bar. Then, I took a crumpled dollar bill from my pocket and dropped it on the chest of the prone vending man writhing on the tile floor. I took the exact change from the machine's receptacle then checked the bin for dollars bills. Not a single bill had been accepted since his last visit. Madness!

Back at my desk , I was finally able to relax with my candy bar and enjoy the rest of my day.