The Day I Declared War on a Printer

Let me begin by saying that I am not a violent man. I’ve never been in a fight, never yelled at a stranger, and I once apologized to a chair after bumping into it. But every man has his limits, and mine was reached on a Tuesday morning by a budget printer named the “LaserPro 2000.”

The LaserPro 2000 had been a silent tenant in my home office for nearly a year. It never truly worked, but it never entirely didn’t work either. It lived in that infuriating gray area of functionality where it would print sometimes, usually when you didn’t need it.

That Tuesday, I had an important document to print. A contract. I had told my client, with foolish optimism, “I’ll have it signed and sent over in five minutes.”

Those five minutes stretched into the kind of eternal struggle usually reserved for epic poetry. I hit “Print.” The printer made a noise—somewhere between a sneeze and a laugh—and then stopped. The paper sat untouched in the tray, as innocent as a napkin at a salad bar. I checked the screen. No error message. Just a smug, glowing message: “Ready.” I hit “Print” again. This time, it coughed out a blank sheet of paper as if to say, “Here’s what I think of your contract.”

I stayed calm. I rebooted my computer. I restarted the printer. I even whispered gentle encouragements to it, like, “You can do this, buddy,” and “Think of this as your big moment.”

The printer responded by flashing a new message: “Paper Jam.”

There was no paper jam.

I opened every panel and door. I peeked inside like I was inspecting a safe for hidden gold. Nothing. I even used a flashlight and the kind of hopeful optimism usually reserved for people searching for missing socks in the dryer.

No jam. Just an empty, cavernous void and a tiny plastic roller mocking me from the shadows.

I closed everything, hit “Print,” and the printer now claimed: “Out of Toner.”

This was a bold lie. I had just changed the toner the previous week. But the LaserPro 2000 had developed a personality by this point—vindictive, bitter, and passive-aggressive. Like a grumpy cat that occasionally throws up in your shoes.

I called the support hotline.

After pressing “1” for English, “3” for technical support, “2” for printer support, “4” for printers that are actively lying to you, and then waiting on hold for seventeen minutes while listening to a loop of piano music that sounded like someone sighing into a flute, a human finally answered.

“Have you tried turning it off and on again?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to cry.

“Have you checked for a paper jam?”

“Yes.”

“Have you checked the toner?”

“YES.”

There was a pause. “Well, then it must be a software issue.”

I thanked them politely and hung up.

Then I did what any rational man would do. I declared war.

I stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a fork (because I couldn’t find a screwdriver), and marched back like a budget-level action hero.

I pried open the back of the printer and found… more nothing. Just plastic gears and something that looked suspiciously like a toy fan.

I poked something. The printer made a loud noise, beeped angrily, and then—miraculously—started printing.

The page came out slowly, like it was reluctant to prove me right. But it was there. My document. Glorious. Black text. Sharp lines. A single perfect sheet of paper.

I stared at it, victorious. The printer blinked innocently, now showing the message: “Ready.”

Ready. After all that.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t gloat. I simply unplugged it, carried it outside, and placed it gently in the trash bin. Then I ordered a new printer. A simple one. One without personality

And as I returned to my desk, I realized two things.

First, I had finally printed my document.

Second, I had forgotten to sign it.