deus ex machines

(this one's great! :-) )

The Appliance Wars (gods rise up from machines)

Once there was a large oven turned up high on 'broil' in an appliance warehouse, and there were several microwaves sitting beside it on a shelf. And one of the micros said to the oven, “Turn off your burners and give yourself over to the technological sweep of progress, Señor O-O,” which was a basic insult to the oven's whole way of life.

The latter was enraged. “I could pick you out of a lineup pretty soon," the oven said, "because your temerity is downright criminal!” and things were all hot. And the microwaves were cocky. The other appliances on the wall started bleeping after their respective fashions, with their dials and diodes all flashing and so forth--all which made a lot of people nervous, because appliances are supposed to serve mankind not fight these internecine battles and cause a fuss. A lack of trust was what it was rooted in, which led to a lack of oatmeal (yes, oatmeal) and it was quite a bit of stupidity that made everything go haywire.

So for several long minutes the mayor pondered the matter. “How are we to allow these silly appliances to fight these wars, Bronson” he said to his chief advisor, called Bronson, “it’s sheer impudence and malignancy!’

But Bronson was just back from his facial massage in the centre of town, and he was quite relaxed and in no mood to become all tensed up over a few microwaves, so he shrugged, saying “I know boss, but what can you do? It’s the fiscal new year.”

“Fiscal new year?” said the mayor, “I think we better head to the Cayman Islands then.”

The was a big bank in the Caymans where all the mayor’s tax bills were, but more important there was sunshine and carefree reclusiveness.

So while the mayor and Bronson were sitting on a beach, the appliances in his house were acting up unfettered. There were hot coils never extinguished, there was the setting on broil which melted all peacefulness, and there was the threat of blown fuses and tripped breaker switches.

The chief of the microwaves, MicroUno, wheeled over to the nearby lodge and said, “Lodgemaster Tomassicchio,” which was the lodgemaster’s name (and, indeed, there was a lodge nearby), “we have a bit of a problem: there is trouble at the mayor’s appliance warehouse; please arrive with a few cartfuls of your famous solution. Time is essence!”

So the lodgemaster hopped in his pickup truck and carried his solution with him, which did not fit all in a regular cart so that’s why he placed the solution in back of a truck. And lucky thing he had a truck. He sped away to save the day in that truck, and truly, time was essential.

MicroUna, the wife of MicroUno, was satisfied with this ruse, and she greeted her husband when he arrived back home with much satisfied love. “Well done, my love, I am satisfied; it is time you shut your door and cook these carrots though,” she said. “For remember we are a couple of microwaves, and cooking things is what we ought to do.” So they cooked the carrots, which were floating in water in a plastic casserole dish; all the while the microwaves harboured a keen loathing for the recalcitrant oven and his entire upstart oven-family--there was still a lot of negativity.

Just then however Lodgemaster Tomassicchio opened the door to the mayor’s warehouse (before he did so he knocked, for he was polite), and he dragged his solution inside.

“I have the solution,” he exhaled, weary from his solutioneering, “and it’s called deus ex machina;” he posed and flexed in front of a warehouse mirror like that great lodgemaster-mannequin, Diophantes of the Fundamental Diophantine equations (for let it not be said lodgemasters are not also a bit vain).

And Lodgemaster Tomassicchio poured his solution all over the warehouse, and the microwaves had their wish, because the oven which had so vexed them suddenly acquiesced in all matters that heretofore had caused consternation among the appliances; now all was made right by the lodgemaster’s deus ex machina. And the microwaves exulted, whereas the oven, previously all hot, had ceased to realize there had even been a problem!

Then a phone rang in the warehouse. It was the mayor.

“Hello, good Mr. Lodgemaster,” said the mayor, “things are fine down here in the Caymans; how are things in my appliance warehouse?”

“Why, fine, Mr. Mayor,” said Tomassicchio, “we were just thinking about you. You know what, you should stay down there—we manage fine by ourselves.”

“All right,” said the mayor, “fine by me and Bronson,” he was cheerful in tone. “After all, it is the fiscal new year,” he said, “and I’m nothing if not a diligent economizer.”

And in the warehouse a microwave bell dinged, and somebody in the Cayman Islands popped a cork. The carrots were done cooking, and it was time to party.

END