THE
WORLD’S MOST DANGEROUS BUTTON
I learned this
the hard way.
Right next to
the red button that the president uses to begin setting off an atomic bomb, there’s
another one, innocently called SEND.
Don’t be fooled. It’s not innocent.
I found this out
the time I received an off-color book cover from my editor. The hue was awful,
nothing like I’d agreed to. Here it was,
my precious book, its background shade some kind of purplish tint when I’d
agreed to a gorgeous blue.
Problem was, it
was night. The artificial light made dark blue lean hard toward purple. The
lateness also made my judgment lean dangerously toward stupid. Without much
thought, I sent what was for me a “blast”—decrying the foreign printer, and
somebody I can’t remember, and whoever else had a hand in turning my precious
book . . . well, ugly.
The next
morning I realized what I’d done. For starts, in daylight the book looked pretty
good. And second, my disappointment had gone out unfiltered. But you can’t
“unsend” a “send.” In effect, I’d insulted my editor, the book designer, and a
whole lot of foreigners I can’t now name.
I’d done
myself in.
Cutting to the
chase, it took humble apologies, flowers, and a two-pound box of Sees Candy to
partially undo the mess . . . if, in fact, the deed was in any way modified. Had
this been a letter--not sent until the next day--I could have re-written it.
Too bad for
all of us, Send is forever. There’s no second chance.
I hear there’s
a computer program that puts a delay
on that button. Well, hey, we all need it. Especially the guy that included me today
in his blast of a girlfriend. He said all kinds of derogatory stuff, calling
her names (practically a slut), describing her misdeeds in detail, spewing out
that she wasn’t good enough for him. (Only to convince us, naturally, he wasn’t
good enough for her.)
Twenty minutes
later the guy sent a second e-mail, begging us in big letters not to read the
first one. Which of course inspired EVERYONE to read it immediately.
I trust that
fellow has now learned what all of us eventually figure out. First, that such a
message to the world means he’s forever killed his chances with that woman. Humiliated
publicly, she will never forgive him.
But second, he’s
suddenly and permanently aware that the Send button is lethal. If he didn’t
know it yesterday, today he does. The most dangerous button ever created is
right there on his computer. One little tap and he’s had it . . . he’s wiped
out . . . destroyed. And all he did,
really, was type fast and furiously, committing his momentary anger to a
screen, letting his venom carry the day.
And then,
without further thought, he tapped the fatal button.
With that,
“Send” finished him off.
