Friends, this is the dawning of the Age of Communication.
Cell phones are no longer a phenomenon only to be witnessed by watching "Clueless," and people are depending more and more on the immediate, electronic means of accomplishing everyday tasks such as illegally acquiring music.
Fortunately, and I believe I can speak for society as a whole, we are without psychedelic, cosmic lyrics written by The Fifth Dimension.
But, as is the case with any modern convenience, the Age of Communication has its drawbacks, such as the modern inconvenience of being excruciatingly annoying.
According to Gilbarco, Inc., "pay-at-the-pump" technology was introduced in 1986. I have always been a fan of this technology because it does not require one to actually interact with other people.
This means that, while the poor cash-carrying saps are waiting in a line largely made up of non-English-speaking minorities who have to run out to their 1977 Chevy Suburbans to retrieve more change because they do not understand that a nickel is worth less than a dime even though it is bigger, I am whistling Dixie with receipt in hand making my way to my destination.
Sometimes you just have to appreciate the simple things in life.
Apparently, though, some locations have learned that speed and convenience are no match for hassle and aggravation, so they programmed the pumps to ask the on-the-go gas station customer of today approximately 4.3 billion questions that can only be answered with the colored buttons near the credit card reader or explosives in large quantities.
Last week I was on my way back to my apartment after a long day of psychological trauma commonly associated with being a college student, and I thought that I "deserved a break today" in the form of "Weird Al" Yankovic's new compact disc.
Meanwhile, the needle on my gas gauge was heavily flirting with the "Empty" mark, so I thought that I'd stop at Village Pantry, nurture my vehicle with some sweet fuel, and then head to Wal-Mart to nurture my own life with some sweet accordion polka medleys.
Everything was falling into place until I swiped my debit card at the pump. First it asked me the standard "Credit/Debit?"
At most gas stations the customer does not have to go through this charade, but because I was in a particularly frazzled mood I pushed the "Debit" button and keyed in my PIN just to move the process along.
The pump detected my distress and continued to ask me questions to keep me alive, almost as if I had just suffered a concussion.
My theory is that the gas pumps are becoming jealous of the customers' general dedication and attentiveness toward ATMs. They obviously do not know the truth: Customers only put up with the incessant questions from ATMs because they give us money.
This is the same reason people will tolerate mind-numbing drivel from their bosses, but not from their mothers.
As an epilogue to my specific case, I eventually escaped from the gas pump and fought off the unruly mob to obtain my Weird Al CD.
I'm afraid I can offer no advice to customers with the same dilemma because I'm afraid the Age of Communication is turning the "pay-at-the-pump" experience into a "lesser of two evils" situation.
I don't know about you, but next time I think I'll pick the explosives.
Write to Aleshia at aahaselden@bsu.edu
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