Faxed

I've been thinking how many days lately I've been spending in worshipful servitude to electronic appliances. The office I work in has an amazing collection of plastic boxes dedicated to copying, stapling, scanning, faxing, and punching holes in paper. There's a particular shrine area in which we congregate and receive instruction. The red light flashing portends deified wrath; the indignation of paper jams, a fall in ream offerings, or simply the need for a wandering saint, Mr. Contract Serviceman.

There's even a little ergonomic prayer mat on which you may stand and request that your wish be granted. There are little screens to lead the ritual chants, and reminders on the timing and sequence of the button pressing. Correct living will eventually lead you to that holiest of grails, Toner Bottle O'rflowing.

The problem is that you have a small core group of office skeptics, of which I am a part. I have a secret heretic yearning for the digital messiah to gain acceptance in her own land of energetic images. Iconoclasm, anyone?