The happy little elevator in the building in which I live has one of those push buttons which automatically calls 911 when you are in need of assistance, like say bleeding to death or vomiting a lung, while in the elevator. Once pushed, ahem, a prerecorded voice emits, in a very computer generated manner, that sooner or later an actual 911 operator will call back and talk to you over the little speaker phone in the elevator. Hopefully, during this time, the murderer, nightmare spawned demon, Joan Rivers, or whatever, in the elevator with you has not finished eviscerating you and begun dancing around wearing your entrails as a stole, and you can gurgle out through the blood flecked foam coming out of your mouth a garbled message to be aired on the news the next day to shocked and frightened viewers.

The other day, I walked into the elevator and heard an automated and scripted telemarketer speaking through the phone is what was obviously a robotic dial of the elevator's phone number. I must say, I stood quite stunned at such a scene.

The drumming of hatred in my brain for that telemarketing company was so great, I lost my memory for the next 5 minutes. There is simply a hole in my memory now patched with a vast and incalculable rage.

End of Line.