Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Printer FAIL

As punters know, I recently looted the desk corpse of a colleague who had dearly departed, soapie style, for QLD. And good on her, blessings on her future happiness.

Part of the loot was an older laptop. But it also had accouterments. Delicious, sexy accouterments.

To wit, it had a colour printer (A3 capable I believe) and a scanner.

Both of which turned out to be compatible with my computer.

Hooray! Many hats in the air. Of course, no drivers with them. But some quick googling soon sorted that business out.

All that was left was to test fire these bad boys.

Scanner - worked fine. Now, the printer.

Errrgghhh, horrid, horrid print result. Blotchy and gross. The pic I printed, Big Kev of all things, made it appear he had orange coins slotted in his eye sockets like a dead Roman. Then, I realised, the ink LED was glowering redly. It was out of the black. And bless her cotton socks, my former colleague had also given me replacement cartridges.

So there I was, trying to replace the cartridge. I followed the 'for stupid people' step by step hieroglyphics (Bird, bird, giant eye, pyramid, bird), but every time I pressed the fucking button they said to press, the cartridge slot holder would shoot out, zip back and forth along its track like that little wheeled box droid that runs away from Chewie in the Death Star, then snuggle back into its hidey hole.

'You fucker,' I shouted, pointing at the errant cartridge slot holder. 'Why won't you stop zipping about and let me change you?!'

I even considered grabbing it mid run and forcing it open and slotting in the box while it whined and struggled to free itself.

S came over to look. He saw me stab the button again.

'Um,' he said, after looking at the hieroglyphics for stupid people. 'You're pressing the wrong button.'

Indeed I was. Fucking Ramses II was saying press orange. I was pressing the little red one next to the out of ink LED.

Epic Printer FAIL.

S laughed and laughed. And indeed he was right to do so.

But now, in order to preserve my mild David O'Doherty-esq mystique of having above average IT knowledge, I will have to neutralize him.

S rides a motorbike to work. He's always complaining about near hits...

(Goes outside. Welds roo-bar to bumper. Adds spikes and an oil slick shooty thing. Presses red button to load oil and the fucking oil slot holder zings back and forth along the roo-bar, then hides in its fucking hidey hole...)

1 comment:

  1. To catch me, you'll have to get past my "very mild superpowers"...


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