Sometimes technology can be downright disturbing.

A few weeks ago, I was in the kitchen foraging for sweets when I heard my husband cry for help. After his fifth or sixth plea, I grabbed my cookies and raced to his aid. As I approached the scene of the scream, I was relieved to find his limbs were intact and he was not surrounded by an expanding puddle of blood. He was, however, yelling frantically at the speakerphone while a congenial voice reminiscent of a female version of HAL offered suggestions on obtaining information from Delta Air Lines.

"If none of these options apply," she cooed, "just say 'Help.'"

Mystery solved. My poor husband was trapped in a telephone torture loop (TTL). His pathetic cries for help merely returned him to the previous menu. His only choice was to hang up and try again, or wait for HAL-ette's shift to end. Or maybe she would develop an electronic version of laryngitis.

Though I empathized, I couldn't help thinking, "Better him than me." Since he'd appointed himself official travel planner for Chez Feldman, I rarely dealt with the robotic invasion of the airlines' phone systems. But I was deluding myself by thinking their quest for domination would end there.

This call may be monitored
My own encounter came while attempting to get a return-authorization number for a package of MiniDiscs I'd purchased from Sony Style. Their "rugged, ultrasonically welded shell" was actually a plastic prison that prevented them from being used in any player other than Sony's. But what did I expect from the company that brought us the Memory Stick?

I called the number on the packing list and was greeted by Max, my very own automated assistant.

I called the number on the packing list and was greeted by Max, my very own automated assistant, his plain-vanilla Midwestern accent a sharp counterpoint to my New York-ese. Max said "OK" a lot, which I found disturbing coming from a nonhuman, but he assured me he was here to help and asked for the model number of the product I was calling about.

"It's 8MDW80CLKIT," I responded, already feeling stupid. I can't explain it, but I feel embarrassed talking to a voice pretending to be human. I keep remembering, "This call may be monitored for training purposes" and thinking that real people are playing back the tapes and snickering at how ridiculous I sound.

Just how much training do you think Max would need before his superiors felt he was ready to move up the ladder, anyway? I only hoped his career path wouldn't steer him toward tech support. It's hard enough understanding the current crop of outsourcees, for whom English is a second or even third language.

"I'm sorry," Max said, "I can't quite make that out. Let me connect you to a member of your own species."

Anyway, not surprisingly, Max couldn't understand me. (It made me wonder how he'd do when pitted against a heavy Southern drawl.) He repeated a strange combination of nonsense words that bore no resemblance to what I'd said. I didn't want to attract attention by yelling at Max, so I repeated the number, this time trying to enunciate. He still didn't understand me, and a frustrating game of it said/she said ensued. "I'm sorry," Max said, "I can't quite make that out. Let me connect you to a member of your own species." Or something like that.

The humanoid Max transferred me to was indeed helpful, and the nice lady apologized that the MiniDiscs weren't what I needed, cheerfully gave me my RMA number, and instructed me to have a nice day. There. Was that so hard?

But after I hung up, a scary thought struck me. Sony couldn't be the only tech company employing this so-called interactive voice-response system. There had to be others. I called a vendor of such systems hoping to get some names, but the marketing rep was not forthcoming.

After only four random phone calls, however, my fears were confirmed. Hewlett-Packard has also gone over to the dark side. Like Max, HP's voice assistant--he didn't introduce himself--didn't understand me. After three attempts, he finally comprehended the words technical support and connected me to a department with real people.

I'm sorry, I can't do that, Dave
First, vendors subjected us to the electronic phone-answering system. Sure, it was frustrating, but we could push buttons instead of speaking. And we could take the express route to a human by pretending we didn't have touch tone. Now they've invoked a new form of customer humiliation that compels us to tell our tales of woe to noncarbon-based life forms.

Technology is a wonderful thing, but please don't force us to grow accustomed to entities like Max. While we could have some guilt-free fun verbally abusing them, we still crave the warmth and understanding of a flesh-and-blood customer-service person. If you're ever in a similar situation, you could just say "Help" and hope you don't fall into a TTL. Or you could just play dumb. If you remain silent long enough, HAL or HAL-ette will usually pass you along to someone real.