That isn't funny, at all

Typing

“You just move your hands up and down as if you’re playing piano.” I was told.

Yes, but I don’t play piano. There was one song that I’d learned to play. It made the dogs whimper, hiding their heads under the sofa. It made babies cry. I could hear the neighbors slamming their windows down and swearing.

Yet, I’m told that typing is just like playing piano. I beg to differ. I can’t throw a piano. I can throw a laptop computer though, and they make satisfying breaking sounds when they land.

Regardless, writers should know how to type. I can type in two languages. I can type in English, but only with two fingers. Then there is this other language, Typlish. This happens when I try to type properly. I stink at it. The letters on the Backspace key are all worn out. It just says “ack” now.

So, I installed a typing app on my laptop. It seems there are little nipples on the “J” and the “F” key. If I can keep my index finger out of my navel long enough, I’m to place my index fingers on those keys to get my bearings for the rest of the keyboard. I guess I should put down the beer too, or finish it.

The lessons start out as simple repetitive exercises.

asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj

These are not words. Still, I quickly became a master of “asdf ;lkj”, typing as fast as 30 words per minute. Similar exercises followed, using  a mix of keys directly above and below the home keys. I was typing!

Then came the sentences. Well, they called them sentences, but they weren’t. They made no sense. I found myself arguing with whomever wrote these sentences as to why they would have ever written these sentences. My typing speed was falling dramatically; my error rate was astronomical. Each error was scolded by a honking sound.

Finally, I typed, “Fuck you! Your mother was a red-assed baboon!”

The app honked at me repeatedly, protesting each error.

“And your father was a toothless Chihuahua!” I typed next, leaving for the fridge to get another beer.

Then I typed this, using just two fingers.