Job, o job, why art thou so jobby?

Lately I've been recording the amount of trips per day that I make to the copy machine/fax/scanner/printer which, heretofore will be referred to as Geoff. No, don't call it Jeff! It's Geoff, motherfucker! Got it? Geoff is a very angry machine.

Today, for instance I have only made ten trips to see Geoff. Geoff is in fine working condition on this day. Of course, it's not always Geoff's doing that requires me to make extra visits. Often times Toaster, my computer, somehow does not register the fact that I have pressed the return key in order to send a document to Geoff (twice yesterday). In these cases, there is loud sighing and much stomping, after extended periods of standing in front of Geoff, hoping that what I think has happened has not actually happened.

On other occasions, it is entirely Geoff's fault. Faxing and scanning are Geoff's least favorite things to do and he takes every opportunity to exact his inky revenge by swallowing two, three, and even four pages of my precious documents at a time, effectively rendering my fax as useless as a high school diploma, and then, beeps at me as if to say: "That was so your fault".

People say that rivalries with inanimate objects are ridiculous. I couldn't agree more. Geoff, however, is extremely animate and probably, sentient. How else can you explain the Machiavellian efficiency with which he controls my emotions?