R
Richard Steinfeld
It is my burden to share an awful experience with you, my pain and my
suffering.
I bought refilled Hewlett-Packard cartridges for my printer. I am
ashamed to say that the seller would not tell me whose ink is in the
cartridges, but I threw caution to the wind and bought them anyway,
seduced by a price that I could actually afford and the promises of
complete compatibility and excellent results. I also bought cartridges
for my brother's printer. I mean, the cost of the printer manufacturer's
supplies would put me in the poorhouse, right? It's either my brother's
life-saving medications or printing. We're already buying his drugs in
Mexico just to pay for our gasoline just to get back and forth from his
many doctor visits. It came down to either aftermarket ink, applying for
charity, or just not printing at all. What else could I do?
I installed the refilled cartridges in my machine and then put a pair in
my brother's. I then sent a print job to my printer. In less than a
minute, the printer began to make an unusual squealing sound which
quickly became a loud, angry screech. I smelled a hint of smoke. I went
to the printer to see why it was making the noise, peering closely
through the paper exit at the print heads. Just then, the printer
exploded, assaulting my face with hot ink and shrapnel. I'm lucky that I
can still see!
I had to go to the emergency room. My face was bruised and blotched with
four colors. My injuries rapidly became infected, swelling up with
subcutaneous pus and ink. As I entered the emergency department, people
looked at me with a mixture of disgust and horror, moving away. One
woman made the sign of the cross; another attempted to protect herself
from me with her crucifix. Some of my hair was burned off by the
explosion, and I have blisters on my scalp.
But I was not able to immediately tend to my wounds. Just after my
printer exploded, my brother screamed and I heard a muffled roar. His
printer was half way through one of his most cherished photos: a picture
of former FBI director J. Edgar Hoover in high heels and a dress as
Tolson looks on admiringly (you can just make out Roy Cohn in the
background), when his printer, too, exploded in a blast of ink and
parts. Fire and smoke poured from his computer, caused by the printer's
outraged feedback through his universal serial bus cable. Not being so
close to his machine, he was spared the same injuries with which I am
now so desperately afflicted. His only regrets are for his ink-spattered
walls and papers, and himself -- now without a printer or a computer.
Luckily, a shower and soap took care of his skin, although for a while
there, I was worried about him: he looked like he'd been
paintball-hunting with Dick Cheney. Sadly, his collection of Hoover
photos has been ruined forever.
After a six hour wait, the doctor treated me. He lanced my abscesses,
which released a foul-smelling steaming swill of hot pus and ink all
over the examining table, the floor, and the doctor's clothing. The
doctor turned his face away in disgust at the smell. An orderly came by
with a mop to clean it up. The doctor told me that I was his third case
this week with injuries caused by patients who had been seduced by the
low price of their printers, now desperate to use them in the only
affordable way possible: by buying aftermarket ink. They had told the
doctor that the cost of gasoline was a blessing compared to what they
had to pay for authentic printer-brand ink. If only they could afford to
fill their printers with gasoline! Perhaps that was what was in the ink
cartridges they had bought. The doctor wrote me a prescription for
genuine Hewlett-Packard cartridges, but I don't think that my health
insurance will cover them.
My face is a hideous mixture of scabs and colored blotches. My scalp is
just an awful mess of patches of burned hair and ink splotches. Despite
the antibiotics injection that the doctor gave me, my wounds are still
oozing residues of the foul mixture. I look like the customer of a
crazed, drunken tattooist.
I urge your support of house measure HR-2957, The Universal Help America
Print Act, which will fund a program for the elderly, the poor, and the
disabled, to buy original ink for their inkjet printers. No aftermarket
ink will be allowed. This program is modeled after the hugely-popular
Medicare Part D, so generously sponsored by the pharmaceutical industry.
If passed, tax revenues will be allocated to help buy genuine ink for
the disadvantaged, who will contribute a fair co-payment of $49.95 per
ink cartridge regardless of ink quantity. Private companies will
administer the program. Individuals will be allowed to select an
administrator, after reading 30 pages of close-spaced contract terms.
The Government, too, will be one of the ink providers. However, the
Government will be prohibited from negotiating for the best purchase
terms (one of the program's most beloved features). It is expected for
this measure, so generously supported and written by the printer
industry association and their K Street lobbyists, to enjoy the same
universal appreciation and acclaim with which Medicare Part D has been
showered. This Act is just as easy for the beneficiaries to understand.
Don't wind up like me, or worse: you could become the only resident of
the morgue who looks like he'd been killed by a graffiti artist.
Only buy genuine ink from your printer manufacturer, no matter how
expensive. Original ink is precious, the elixir of true life and faith
of your printer. It is worth it to be charged more than Chanel No. 5 for
a tiny amount of ink, to be ensured that you'll never wind up like me.
Learn to take pleasure in your personal contribution to Carly Fiorina's
severance package. Smile at the thought that you are back-subsidizing
the acquisition of Compaq with every ink purchase of genuine HP ink.
Smile when you pay $2.50 per minute for product support and a man with
an Indian accent says, "Thank you for calling Hewlett-Packard; my name
is Bubba." Your purchases will also help fund future mergers and
acquisitions, combinations that our Great Leaders of Industry always
tell us leads to better competition, just like we've now got in the oil
industry. Smile when you hand over $65 for 80 CCs of ink. Smile as you
count your pennies left over; feel gratitude after reading your own
foreclosure notice at helping HP's new CEO with the down payment on his
sixth mansion. Feel the tears of gratitude running down your cheeks.
But also, hear my message of fear, my stern warning. When people see me,
they cross the street. Women hide their children in their skirts when
they spy my face. Some day, a horror movie will be made about me and my
printer. This would never have happened to me if I had only bought
genuine HP ink. I am wretched. I appealed for Salvation to The Reverend
T. Beauregard Clampett, but he turned me away. Whatever will I do? I
hate myself. Don't let this happen to you. Heed my warning!
An Inkjet Sinner and his Brother
suffering.
I bought refilled Hewlett-Packard cartridges for my printer. I am
ashamed to say that the seller would not tell me whose ink is in the
cartridges, but I threw caution to the wind and bought them anyway,
seduced by a price that I could actually afford and the promises of
complete compatibility and excellent results. I also bought cartridges
for my brother's printer. I mean, the cost of the printer manufacturer's
supplies would put me in the poorhouse, right? It's either my brother's
life-saving medications or printing. We're already buying his drugs in
Mexico just to pay for our gasoline just to get back and forth from his
many doctor visits. It came down to either aftermarket ink, applying for
charity, or just not printing at all. What else could I do?
I installed the refilled cartridges in my machine and then put a pair in
my brother's. I then sent a print job to my printer. In less than a
minute, the printer began to make an unusual squealing sound which
quickly became a loud, angry screech. I smelled a hint of smoke. I went
to the printer to see why it was making the noise, peering closely
through the paper exit at the print heads. Just then, the printer
exploded, assaulting my face with hot ink and shrapnel. I'm lucky that I
can still see!
I had to go to the emergency room. My face was bruised and blotched with
four colors. My injuries rapidly became infected, swelling up with
subcutaneous pus and ink. As I entered the emergency department, people
looked at me with a mixture of disgust and horror, moving away. One
woman made the sign of the cross; another attempted to protect herself
from me with her crucifix. Some of my hair was burned off by the
explosion, and I have blisters on my scalp.
But I was not able to immediately tend to my wounds. Just after my
printer exploded, my brother screamed and I heard a muffled roar. His
printer was half way through one of his most cherished photos: a picture
of former FBI director J. Edgar Hoover in high heels and a dress as
Tolson looks on admiringly (you can just make out Roy Cohn in the
background), when his printer, too, exploded in a blast of ink and
parts. Fire and smoke poured from his computer, caused by the printer's
outraged feedback through his universal serial bus cable. Not being so
close to his machine, he was spared the same injuries with which I am
now so desperately afflicted. His only regrets are for his ink-spattered
walls and papers, and himself -- now without a printer or a computer.
Luckily, a shower and soap took care of his skin, although for a while
there, I was worried about him: he looked like he'd been
paintball-hunting with Dick Cheney. Sadly, his collection of Hoover
photos has been ruined forever.
After a six hour wait, the doctor treated me. He lanced my abscesses,
which released a foul-smelling steaming swill of hot pus and ink all
over the examining table, the floor, and the doctor's clothing. The
doctor turned his face away in disgust at the smell. An orderly came by
with a mop to clean it up. The doctor told me that I was his third case
this week with injuries caused by patients who had been seduced by the
low price of their printers, now desperate to use them in the only
affordable way possible: by buying aftermarket ink. They had told the
doctor that the cost of gasoline was a blessing compared to what they
had to pay for authentic printer-brand ink. If only they could afford to
fill their printers with gasoline! Perhaps that was what was in the ink
cartridges they had bought. The doctor wrote me a prescription for
genuine Hewlett-Packard cartridges, but I don't think that my health
insurance will cover them.
My face is a hideous mixture of scabs and colored blotches. My scalp is
just an awful mess of patches of burned hair and ink splotches. Despite
the antibiotics injection that the doctor gave me, my wounds are still
oozing residues of the foul mixture. I look like the customer of a
crazed, drunken tattooist.
I urge your support of house measure HR-2957, The Universal Help America
Print Act, which will fund a program for the elderly, the poor, and the
disabled, to buy original ink for their inkjet printers. No aftermarket
ink will be allowed. This program is modeled after the hugely-popular
Medicare Part D, so generously sponsored by the pharmaceutical industry.
If passed, tax revenues will be allocated to help buy genuine ink for
the disadvantaged, who will contribute a fair co-payment of $49.95 per
ink cartridge regardless of ink quantity. Private companies will
administer the program. Individuals will be allowed to select an
administrator, after reading 30 pages of close-spaced contract terms.
The Government, too, will be one of the ink providers. However, the
Government will be prohibited from negotiating for the best purchase
terms (one of the program's most beloved features). It is expected for
this measure, so generously supported and written by the printer
industry association and their K Street lobbyists, to enjoy the same
universal appreciation and acclaim with which Medicare Part D has been
showered. This Act is just as easy for the beneficiaries to understand.
Don't wind up like me, or worse: you could become the only resident of
the morgue who looks like he'd been killed by a graffiti artist.
Only buy genuine ink from your printer manufacturer, no matter how
expensive. Original ink is precious, the elixir of true life and faith
of your printer. It is worth it to be charged more than Chanel No. 5 for
a tiny amount of ink, to be ensured that you'll never wind up like me.
Learn to take pleasure in your personal contribution to Carly Fiorina's
severance package. Smile at the thought that you are back-subsidizing
the acquisition of Compaq with every ink purchase of genuine HP ink.
Smile when you pay $2.50 per minute for product support and a man with
an Indian accent says, "Thank you for calling Hewlett-Packard; my name
is Bubba." Your purchases will also help fund future mergers and
acquisitions, combinations that our Great Leaders of Industry always
tell us leads to better competition, just like we've now got in the oil
industry. Smile when you hand over $65 for 80 CCs of ink. Smile as you
count your pennies left over; feel gratitude after reading your own
foreclosure notice at helping HP's new CEO with the down payment on his
sixth mansion. Feel the tears of gratitude running down your cheeks.
But also, hear my message of fear, my stern warning. When people see me,
they cross the street. Women hide their children in their skirts when
they spy my face. Some day, a horror movie will be made about me and my
printer. This would never have happened to me if I had only bought
genuine HP ink. I am wretched. I appealed for Salvation to The Reverend
T. Beauregard Clampett, but he turned me away. Whatever will I do? I
hate myself. Don't let this happen to you. Heed my warning!
An Inkjet Sinner and his Brother