The Importance of Reading Directions

"So," said my supervisor, "I thought I'd give you a break from those manuals and let you do a product test for me."

"Oooh," I said. I had been sitting in an office surrounded by electronic devices since beginning my work at You-know-where, but as of yet, I had not actually been permitted to touch any of them. "So, you mean, I can play with all these great toys?"

"Sort of," he said. "I'll be right back."

A moment later, he returned and deposited an alarm clock on my desk.

"This is an alarm clock with iPod docking station," he said. He pulled an iPod from his pocket and handed it to me. "This is mine, but you'll need it to test that the dock works. Just go through the manual, one step at a time, and do all the setup and basic functions."

"No problem," I said, and immediately turned to page one in the manual, which read, Connect the power supply cord to the device at one end, and to your power outlet at the other.

I did.

This was my first mistake.

See, many years ago, my fourth-grade teacher gave my class a worksheet which was created with only one purpose in mind: Fucking With Children's Heads. (The makers of this worksheet will tell you that it was designed to Teach The Importance Of Following Instructions. They are liars.) I'm confident that mine was not the only class to be given this exercise -- in fact, I was given it a total of three times since I skipped from one school system to another between the ages of 8 and 13, so it's obviously a great favorite among teachers of all types, who probably cannot believe their great luck at discovering a worksheet which is designed specifically to Fuck With Children's Heads.

Anyway, as I'm sure some of you will remember, the worksheet was set up thusly: It featured a long list of instructions, the first one of which was, "Read all the instructions before beginning this worksheet." This was followed by a few logical next steps, such as "Write your name at the top of this worksheet," and "Write today's date," but soon descended into complete madness as the instructions became more and more bizarre, complex, and physically demanding. And as people completed each task and moved on to the next, it wasn't long before the entire class (save for one or two smug bastards) would be -- per the directions -- hopping around on one foot while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance backward.

And then, in what I am sure the creators of this worksheet believed to be the GREATEST PUNCHLINE OF ALL TIME, you would reach the end of the worksheet and discover that the final instruction was, "Now that you have read all the directions, complete the first one ONLY, and write your name at the top of this worksheet."

Ha! Ha!

And so, we humiliated children all learned the Importance Of Following Instructions. And also, that you cannot trust anyone, ever.

I remembered this exercise well enough that the second and third times I received it in school, I was able to be one of those smug bastards who read all the instructions and then watched amusedly while my naive classmates jumped around and folded their worksheets into paper airplanes.

I did not, however, remember it well enough to peruse the alarm clock manual in totality before beginning to test its functions. I did not consider the possibility that, as with the infamous worksheet, there might be a similar punchline in store.

Like oh, say, the complete absence of any instructions on how to turn off the alarm.

Which is how, when the alarm clock roared to life and began playing my supervisor's iPod-- which, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, was set to ODB's "Die Uncle Tom" skit-- I was left futilely beating at it while my coworkers stared and the sound of Michael Richards screaming, "HE'S A N*GGER! HE'S A N*GGER!!!!" blared from the speakers.

"What the hell is going on over there?" said one of the designers.
"The manual is incomplete!" I said, frantically pushing buttons. "I can't turn off the alarm!"
"Oh," said the designer.
"HE'S A N*GGER!" said Michael Richards.
"Shit!" I said, diving under my desk to unplug the clock.
Michael Richards stopped screaming.

"Jesus, that was awful," I said, climbing out from beneath the desk and wiping sweat from my forehead.
"So the manual didn't say how to turn it off?" said the designer.
"No, it said how to set the alarm, but not how to turn it off," I said.
"Wow," he said. "I guess you should have read all the directions first."

So I stabbed him.

The end.