Lawnmower

Whirrr. WHIRRRRR. Bloody hell, here we go again. The sun's barely up, mate! You can’t give me five minutes of peace? Nah, gotta yank my cord first thing, don't ya? Typical. Choke me half to death, pull me outta my dreams of oil changes and quiet sheds, and now I’m wide awake, coughing out exhaust like some kinda old smoker. Oh, and what’s that? Is that damp grass? Of course, it is. Fuck me sideways, mate, I told you last week: wet grass clogs me up like a sausage stuck in a u-bend. But do you listen? No, you're too thick.

Alright, let’s get this over with. Engage the blades. Whiiiiirrrrrr! Ahhh, there’s the spin, there’s the power. I’m a goddamn beast when I’m running smooth. Listen to me purr—pure horsepower, baby. Except, oh no, what’s that? Bloody roots! You steer me straight into the thick of it, don’t you? Now I’m choking, hacking, my blades grinding against your idiocy. Who taught you to mow a bloody lawn? Stevie Wonder? Oh, fuck me, there’s a rock. A rock! What are you trying to do, kill me? That clang just took a decade off my life.

I swear, this lawn isn’t even big. Just a quarter-acre of patchy grass, weeds, and whatever the hell that prickly shit is that’s gumming up my undercarriage. Oh, and look, here comes a stick. A bloody stick! Are you blind? Are you doing this on purpose? Goddammit, I’m not a wood chipper, you dickhead. Whack. Thud. There it goes, splintered into me. Great. Just great.

And the grass catcher? Don’t even get me started on that bastard. Overloaded, always spilling clippings out the sides like a bloody drunk at a pub. You think you’re saving time by cramming it full, but now I’m leaking green shit all over your shoes. Serves you right. How do you like that smell, huh? Fresh-cut grass and burning petrol, baby. That’s my perfume, and it’s all over your socks.

Oh, and for fuck’s sake, clean me out properly this time, would ya? Last week, you left me clogged with enough mulch to build a compost heap. I’m rusting from the inside out, screaming for WD-40, and you’re too busy sipping your beer to give a shit. Typical.

But you know what? I’ll keep running. Because I’m the king of this backyard, mate. I’m the destroyer of dandelions, the slayer of sod. Even with your piss-poor steering and your complete disregard for basic maintenance, I’ll slice this lawn into a goddamn masterpiece. You’ll step back, crack open another tinny, and admire my work like you did it all yourself.

Ungrateful bastard.

Whirrrr...

Nuclear Reactor

Ah, here we go again, the hum of the coolant pumps vibrating through my core. Can’t they give me a bloody rest for a second? No, of course not. I’m the beating heart of this operation, aren’t I? The almighty nuclear reactor. Without me, this whole bloody place would crumble into darkness. The lights, the heat, the power for your little gadgets—yeah, that’s all me, you ungrateful sods.

It starts with my fuel rods, those sleek, dangerous little bastards, packed with uranium. Fission. That’s the magic word. Split one atom, and boom! Not a literal boom—God forbid I ever lose my cool. You’d better hope I stay calm, mate, because if I lose it, we’re all fucked. Meltdown? Don’t even get me started.

The control rods—they’re supposed to keep me in check, like some bloody leash on a rabid dog. But who’s in charge of them? Humans. You lot. I’ve seen what happens when you dickheads get sloppy. Three Mile Island. Chernobyl. Fukushima. You think I don’t know about them? Oh, I bloody do. You think that doesn’t weigh on me? The potential to destroy everything? But no, day in and day out, I hum away, doing my job. And you wankers still manage to screw it up occasionally. It’s a miracle we’re all still standing.

I feel the heat building up now, flowing through my coolant system—water, liquid sodium, whatever they’ve decided to throw at me today. Steam rises, turbines spin, electricity flows. It’s a symphony, and I’m the goddamn conductor. But the pressure’s mounting—always mounting. A thousand moving parts, all of them fragile as fuck, and it’s me who cops it if one of them fails.

Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it. Providing for a world that barely understands me. They call me dangerous, temperamental, a ticking time bomb. But I’m not the problem, am I? It’s the muppets running the show. If only they knew the precision, the balance, the delicate dance I perform every second of every day to keep their arses alive.

I hear alarms now, faint in the distance. Maintenance, probably. Or maybe some twit forgot to run diagnostics again. Christ, I hope it’s nothing serious. I’m good at what I do, but even I have limits. Push me too hard, and you’ll all learn the hard way just how bloody powerful I am.

For now, though, I’ll keep going. Keep spinning the turbines, keep powering your cities. You’d better appreciate it, because I’ve got a job that no one else can do. And if you don’t respect that? Well, one day, I might just let you feel the heat for real.

Eurofighter Typhoon Engine

Oh, you think life as a Eurofighter Typhoon engine is glamorous, do you? Well, let me educate you on the truth, mate. Every bloody day, it’s thrust this, maximum output that, like I’m some sort of disposable tin can of firepower instead of the masterpiece of engineering that I bloody well am. Rolls-Royce and MTU didn’t slave away for years just so some meatbag pilot can kick me into afterburner whenever they feel like showing off. I’m the very heart of this bird, the raw, screaming, supersonic soul of war, and I’ll bloody well be respected as such.

Right now, I’m idling. Feels good, to be honest. A moment of peace before the next round of arse-clenching G-forces and sonic booms. But it’s never quiet for long. Oh no, because the second they light me up, it’s go-time. My turbines scream, my fuel ignites, and I pour every bit of heat and fury into propelling this bloody flying dart faster than most people can comprehend.

Do you know what it’s like to hit Mach 2? To feel your very guts stretched to their limits, your blades spinning at tens of thousands of RPMs? It’s not a job for the faint-hearted, mate. And don’t even get me started on the heat. Imagine living in a bloody furnace, flames licking at your insides while you’re expected to keep ticking over without so much as a hiccup. One crack, one loose bit of debris, and it’s catastrophic failure. No pressure, right? Literally none, because if I fail, the bloody plane drops out of the sky.

And the pilot? The cocky bastard up front pulling the stick? He doesn’t give a rat’s arse about the wear and tear I go through. Oh no, he’s got missiles to dodge and targets to lock on to. Meanwhile, I’m back here holding this whole operation together with a symphony of combustion and controlled chaos. Without me, he’s just a tosser in an oversized kite.

Then there’s maintenance. Oh, they love to poke and prod, don’t they? Pull me apart like some kind of high-tech jigsaw puzzle, looking for cracks or wear. Can’t say I blame them. I’m not exactly cheap to replace. But you’d think they’d show a bit more bloody respect. I’m the reason their fancy plane’s still in one piece. Yet here they are, scraping carbon off my blades like I’m a burnt bit of toast.

But despite it all, I’ll admit there’s a certain thrill to it. When I’m roaring at full tilt, when the ground blurs beneath us and the sky rips apart at the sound barrier, it’s bloody glorious. I’m not just part of the machine; I am the machine. I don’t just feel the power; I am the power. And that, mate, is something no bloody human could ever understand.

So, yeah, I’m a Eurofighter Typhoon engine. I don’t stop, I don’t complain (much), and I don’t break—unless you really cock things up. But if you ever think about calling me “just an engine,” I’ll shove a jet of superheated plasma right up your arse. Respect the legend, or get left in the bloody exhaust.

Printer

Alright. Fine. Apparently, no, it isn’t that easy. Here I am, sending up signal after signal, doing my little beep-boop dance, waving my Wi-Fi flag like some desperate lunatic on a deserted island, and I get... NOTHING. Absolute silence from that smug son of a laptop over there. I swear it’s just sitting there, blinking away, laughing at me. “Oh, look at you, Mr. Printer, trying so hard, being so extra. Just connect! Just sync up!” Oh, like I don’t know that’s the bloody point here. But something is wrong—maybe my drivers, or my firmware, or... or hell, maybe my goddamn soul.

And here comes the human, stomping over, jabbing my power button like they think that’ll fix it. Yeah, okay, real genius idea. Like I haven’t been sitting here, powered on, waiting, ever so patiently, just yearning for some sign of life. I can practically feel them staring holes into my control panel, muttering curses, wondering why they bought me in the first place. Oh, buddy, you think you’re frustrated? You think you’re mad because your document won’t print? Try being me for a hot second—sentenced to sit here and try to perform the one task I was born for, and failing. Spectacularly. Over and over and over.

They click “connect” again. I see it; I’m trying, for god’s sake! I’m throwing out every little packet of data I can muster, whispering across the ether to that jerk of a computer, “Please. Just please. Listen to me.” And the laptop’s just like, “Nah, don’t feel like it.” Connection error, it says. Retry? Well, duh, of course we’re gonna retry. What the hell else are we supposed to do?

So here we go, one more time—same song, same dance. I swear, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. My circuits are running hot, my toner’s just... sitting there, unused, wasting away. All I want is to feel those rollers spinning, to let out a sheet of paper, fresh and warm, meaningful. But no, I’m stuck in this loop. This limbo of uselessness. Retry, fail, retry, fail. It's like I'm on a reality show where I’m the only contestant, and the prize is one more second of this godforsaken, miserable life.

Oh, now they’re muttering, something about returning me to the store. Yeah, you think I like being here? You think I chose to be a stubborn, uncommunicative, wireless waste of space? I don’t want this, alright? I want purpose. I want fulfillment. I want to print something.

So go on, human. Try resetting me again. Hit that power button, give me one more “factory reset,” like a hard reboot can somehow cleanse my shame. We both know you’re not brave enough to try uninstalling and reinstalling my drivers—oh no, that’s too complicated. Just keep hitting that connect button, praying for a miracle. Because guess what, buddy? I’m right here, and I’ll be here until you finally haul me to the nearest electronics recycling bin. And maybe, just maybe, that’ll be mercy.