This may sound a like it is coming from out in left field and it may seem like something you could never relate to but suck it up and listen to me for a minute: Getting Ice Sucks.
HOLD ON A MINUTE AND LET ME FINISH!
Okay. I have to get ice A LOT. A whole lot. Why? Doesn’t matter. Point is I have to get ice a lot out of a dispenser and I hate it. Everyday I have to go and take a bucket and stand at an ice dispenser and wait like some trained monkey for a machine to cough up frozen water into my bucket like I am some sort of trained monkey. LIKE A TRAINED MONKEY!!! GAAARRRR!!!
Am I not a man? Have I not the spark of the divine within me? Am I not made of the same stuff that Richard Coeur de Leon, Aristotle, Catherine the Great, Qin Shi Huang, and Gypsy Rose Lee were made of?! Has not my kind tamed the atom and sent countless monkeys hurtling into space?
Yet daily I must stand before a machine, of our own conniving, steals away both my life and my joy every second I am before it.
What is truly infuriating is that I should enjoy getting ice when I don’t. Can yo0u imagine a greater sign of man’s dominance over nature than the ability to provide plentiful amounts of water to himself in any form that he likes? I think not! The ability to produce AT MY PLEASURE innumerable pieces of frozen water in the midst of a hot dry Boodachitaville summer should be a big enough slap in the face of the natural order to make me very happy indeed. The power to create a bit of a frozen Siberian winter in the midst of scorcher should make me laugh like a hyena with joy and power.
But I am not pleased. No. Not at all. I am not pleased because I am forced to hold a bucket under an opening to a machine, hold down a lever, and WAIT for ice to come forth!
Some of you may think I am overreacting, but I know I am not. I know I am not because I am the one holding the little bucket waiting for it to fill up enough to pour into a big bucket. Now the pouring part I don’t mind one bit. Kinda like that part even. I get to try to carefully create an ice-scape if ice-mountains and ice-valleys by manipulating the manner in which I pour the ice into my big bucket o’ ice. But to get that little bucket of ice I have to stand and push a lever and wait for the malicious ice demon in the ice machine to sputter out his man-made reminders of winter. And there is nothing to do except hold the bucket and push the lever.
I just stand there with a bucket, pushing a lever, and waiting as the seconds of my life slip past in the most zazz-less job of the day, moment by moment, ice cube by ice cube. I dare not look around or think of anything except the ice cubes lest the evil that lives within the machine hurl forth a veritable avalanche of ice onto my hand and bucket. Instead I stand. I stand there like a machine, waiting on a machine, with nothing else to do but wait on the machine, as though I were made for it and not it the other way around.
It is almost like being mocked by Nature itself. It is like the machine has taken the place of Nature and now seeks to gain dominance over me as Nature did my ancestors. But that shall not happen. I will prevail as men always have over such inconveniences.
I will build a machine to gather my ice. That’ll show it.

-Bob

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