Captcha'd

The ravages of old age haven't fully set in and already I'm having trouble. Like when I buy a pair of scissors and I need a chain saw to open the package. Note to Fiskars: If I could open your triple-wrapped bomb-proof package, I wouldn't need your scissors in the first place.
And my eyes and ears! How many times I cannot make out the "captcha" symbols I have to decipher to prove I'm human. This frailty alone should prove I'm not a machine.
The other day I tried to send a friend a link to my blog and fell into the captcha trap yet again. I asked for an alternate one and still, no luck. What is wrong with me? But click here, it prompted, for a "handicapped" audio version. I was so relieved.
Until I heard, "Ummgowbageee 3 2 1 gowatcheeskoolagarp 4 3 2 yikesadowskiscrewbob 2 1 2." It sounded like fifteen intense Paul Harveys all talking at once, enunciating important nuclear codes through deafening white noise. I scrambled to write the numbers down but there was no way I could captcha' them all. The tension, the stress. My physical faculties get tested enough.
I'll go to a Wendy's drive-through before I go through that again.
Me: Yes, I'd like one small chocolate frosty, a Wendy's hamburger, and a small fry. But NO mayonnaise on anything, okay?
Big box with booming voice: HOOD LIKE garbeldygoochie piesloggruffield whatchatata pith at?
Me: Um, I'd like one small chocolate frosty, a Wendy's hamburger, and a small fry. But no mayonnaise on anything.
Box: OKAYOID, thatearl BE ern smell chalky forstery, one end-up ermburger, and a temple shry with no mazing?
Which, come to think of it, is probably how the banks' stress test results will sound. Audible, but completely unintelligible.

Labels: Old Age, Ridiculous Packaging