A young guy is out on a Saturday night in his best shoes, talking to a girl he’s met in a bar. She’s nice, he likes her. But he’s got this sort of confession, see. There’s something she ought to know about him. And he’s never told this to anybody. You see, on the inside, deep on the inside, he isn’t really a guy at all. He’s an Olivetti electric self-correcting typewriter. And he can’t even type!

–”A Singular Kinda Guy” by David Ives