Patrons would have preferred a hook on the wall and stall door to keep their purses and coats from being de facto floor mats (hello?) or soaked from the counter's sink puddles if the library wanted to upgrade. They would have preferred working locks on stall doors so they weren't holding the door with one arm and their coat, purses and packages with the other while the toilet went through its status flushus.
And how about those delightfully anticipatory web browsers? Saving the "effort" of three key strokes at the price of the wrong search?
Try to look up the Miranda decision for a paper you're writing and the "helpful" wizard presumes to enter for you... Michael Jackson. Similar, right? Try again and the browser supplies...Miley Cyrus.
Search for cancer symptoms in the state of mind such a search might engender and the perky web browser pitches Carrie Underwood? Carrie Prejean? Close?
What if you want to warn someone about a web site that is swarming with malware but obviously not go there--or send the person there--yourself. In philosophy this is known as the symbolism problem--not mistaking the finger for the moon when someone points. Raise your hand if your text editor fashions a hyperlink and whisks you--and the person you're writing--to the site you fear, just like pop-ups commandeer you to their site before you can stop them. Just being helpful.
How about email programs that remember and recreate a 2-year-old address typo you entered when you were in a hurry like "assfist" instead of "assist"? Like a cyber version of the old diet dictum--a moment on your lips forever on your hips? There must be a way to delete this error-in-perpetuity feature (and the one that hyperlinks anything with a dot) if you weren't still in a hurry.
Finally, there are the smart web sites that have profiled you and know you drink Grey Goose, follow Oprah and strive to be a size 5. What they don't know is people who buy a "sleek black indoor rowing machine" that "replicates actual rowing feel" aren't likely to do so every week.
"Need an indoor rowing machine, today?" serial emails from the site ask you anticipatorily, ready for another $900 this week and every week.
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