Has anyone ever noticed that not only do most humans rush around the planet now like collective housewives late with dinner but, even the machinery in our lives seems to be in a hurry? Said machinery also talks to us in its own very special and delicate manner as I shall explain.

(I'm sure I'll be taken to task for my use of the word “housewives” but, stay at home moms sounds goofy to me and there is no shame whatsoever, no matter what anyone says, in being a housewife. It's a noble and oft thankless job—so there. This is a record as I've already veered over the stay-on-subject-cliff at about 93 words in.)

Moving along to the actual topic of this piece, from gas pumps to checkout-line-computerized- gizmo's, there appears to be a 'hurry-up conspiracy' running through all modern public electronic jazz.

My first example of such is pumping gas at any local station/convenience store. The card is swiped and straight away the beast alerts the user to remove the card quickly.

After which, a decision must be made—pronto, as to whether to utilize the car wash or not, if one is available at that particular venue. Once the “no” button is found, after a private eye is called in to locate it, the hose must be removed—post-haste. A grade has to then be selected with a great sense of urgency and pumping must begin promptly to avoid the meddlesome “reminder.” The reminder takes the form of a beep or a series of beeps and that is that wonderful language I mentioned at the beginning of this piece.

The very second—and I mean second, after one has finished placing gas in the vehicle and has feverishly placed the nozzle back in the proper slot, the noise begins.

As the gas cap is returned, with speed and agility, the warning signal starts again. There is absolutely no time from hose replacement to lid tightening allowed. The great machine wants the customer to get the heck out of there and makes no bones about voicing its opinion on the most pressing matter.

To avoid the harsh words of the gas pump, an assistant is highly recommended. I suggest using the above mentioned private investigator to stand by, ready to whip the cap violently in place as the hose is returned simultaneously. Anything to avoid the hideous, ear-splitting beep.

We now pick up the epic journey at the local ATM, located at any bank drive-through.

After weaving in and out of traffic like a rabbit on steroids in an attempt to make it to the bank lane before anyone else, finally, the journey ends. “Person in Need of Cash” has, at last, come to rest behind at least 15 cars.

No matter what time of day, Person/People in Need of Cash generally end up waiting for the car ahead to slowly and methodically finish up the business at hand.

(Interestingly enough, this is one of the only places in the world where people are not moving at the speed of light. The grocery line comes to mind as well.)

The money machine, known henceforth as “Mr. Fund Man,” really cracks the whip and uses a cattle prod to get Person in Need of Cash moving out of that lane NOW. (Mr. Fund Man is set to the tune of Mr. Sand Man so kind of hum that while reading further if you'd like.)

Once the card is inserted, the marathon begins. Straight off, a selection MUST be made, with no time to spare, as far as what language will be used for the transaction.

Quick—enter that pin number and select an amount of money to be removed. MOVE IT, THIS INSTANT.

The moment the cash comes spitting out, the horrendous sound effects come rushing forth. Little Christmas-style lights flash wildly around the mouth of Mr. Fund Man as he spits the dough out and cues Person in Need of Cash to “please take the money out of my mouth.”

First of all, who on earth would go through all the trouble of aging in the ATM line and, in the end, forget to remove the money? Wait—my mother would do such a thing but, I digress again.

I can see leaving a card, but the money? Is it really necessary for Mr. Fund Man to blast out a reminder to remove the cash? Wasn't that the reason for the visit? Come on, get a grip, Mr. Fund Man.

Anyhow, as Person in Need of Cash desperately tries to locate a resting place for the cash—a wallet, purse, back pocket, car seat or any other type of holder, a slip shoots out of Mr. Fund Man's eyeball region with a beep thrown in for good measure.

As Person in Need of Cash struggles to reach the slip, another “gentle” reminder in the form of, you guessed it, a series of &%$# BEEPS, emits from Mr. Fund Man. Once said slip is removed and the decision is made that there is no way in H.E. double hockey sticks that another transaction is desired, more disco lights throb in unison, a card shoots out of Mr. Fund Man's nose and beeping ensues.

I'm done. I can't go any further with this and must end it abruptly. Make the inanimate objects stop the incessant beeping, buzzing, screeching and siren blaring. It's driving me to the brink of insanity. (I know what you are thinking and stop it.) Help! Hold me.

OK, I'm calm now but am a bit warm due to the subject matter of this column. I'm going to simply turn on my air conditioner and relax—Good gravy! Not the air conditioner too. I just pressed the “on” button and guess what?? It beeped at me. Lord help me. I'm outa here...