I want a washing machine, not a fucking computer.
Every appliance is now ridiculously over engineered.
I am in the market for a washing machine, and it brings me to great frustration. My long standing appliance repairman, and every other repair person that shows up at my doorstep parrots the same phrase.
“They don’t make these (insert appliance name here) like they used to. The parts are all poorly manufactured, and they don’t last.”
Bla, bla, bla. It’s the same story for washers, dryers, refrigerators, dishwashers, air conditioners, water heaters, and even automobiles.
Being a shrewd student of human nature, I can read between the lines. This is what I hear the seasoned repairmen saying after I translate.
“I miss working on appliances instead of computers. When these things break down, you should just throw them away. At some point I won’t be able to repair this damned crap anyhow.”
I agree my friends.
Look, I’ve got better things to do with my time than to navigate the 376 different features on the washing machine. Seriously, I do not want to spend a day and a half navigating your instruction manual just to dump my soiled socks in soapy water.
Where is the start button? That’s all I want to know. Fill up, agitate, spin, and stop. Easy right? Where’s the damn start button?
Now I have to navigate step after step after step after step, through electronic obfuscation, just to wash, rinse, and spin my fucking socks. I have black socks and white socks. That’s it. Do I need 50 software choices to wash them?
Look Whirlpool, LG, GE, and the like, I don’t equate the color, price, WiFi capability, voice commands, or other fancy trim of your washing machine with my self-esteem or social status. I don’t need to show friends my appliances to impress them or make me feel superficially special.
I don’t need and don’t want a fancy washing machine that looks like a mash-up prop from the Jetsons and Better Homes and Gardens magazine. I don’t want your appliance to text me updates or send me images of my spinning socks, ever. If I ever desire such a fancy contraption in a washing machine, I will know that my life is an empty, vapid, pathetic existence.
I don’t want mauve, lime green, toasty orange, or stainless steel trim on my appliances. Stainless steel? I don’t’ eat my dinner on the damned surface. I don’t care if it doesn’t match the color scheme of my pantry, dishwasher, stove, or meet the American Society of Interior Designer’s latest fashion standards.
I have better things to do with my time than pour through 300 pages of instructions on an appliance that I only need to do three things: wash, rinse, and spin. I have books to read, stories to write, and a list of one million things to accomplish more important and meaningful.
I don’t want to pay 500 dollars to replace the mother board on my mechanical device when it no longer functions because it’s cheap silicon circuit board fries from a one volt power surge. And I don’t give a shit about the 30 different settings to fluff, plump, water-save, sanitize, color-preserve, or delicately handle my socks.
I know when the damn thing flashes the ubiquitous error code, and even if it does dial-up the service center by satellite, that the technician that responds must be a computer network technician and mechanical expert to troubleshoot it. That’s great and fine, but now I must also pay for the additional training and certifications for someone who heretofore was just a mechanical dude.
But my impatience is not directed at the enterprising repair person. I am always impressed by the techs that stay current with the now washing-machine-cellphone-personal-computer-network-hub-multimedia-entertainment device.
And now I have to pay the expense of the additional training necessary for these multi-faceted, truly amazing repair techs. It’s similar to auto mechanics, who are now more computer technicians than mechanics, but don’t get me started on that issue.
Everything is becoming an electronic Rube Goldberg contraption now.
The Drill Sergeant
Now drop and give me twenty!
Copyright © 2JAN18 by Steven A. Schwab