I am one of technology's lackeys. We all are. Granted, technology is generally a benevolent boss, understanding and patient with me, and for that I am grateful, but there is something vaguely troubling about the great swaths of life I squander these days jumping at the commands of inanimate objects—and, at least as of this writing, I continue to stubbornly contend that computers are inanimate.

U-Scan is one of my favorite techno-superiors. For the bachelors out there who haven't entered a grocery store in the past five years or more, U-Scan is the grocery industry's now-ubiquitous tool for getting more work out of those damned lazy customers of theirs.

As the name implies, you, the paying customer, under the supervision of a computer, now scan your purchases so as to determine the amount you must pay the store, thus allowing the store to add your purchase—minus that pesky employee overhead (a cost decreasing with every Twinkie you scan)—to its daily revenue and profit computations.

All the while, you must try your darnedest to avoid annoying the store's flesh-and-blood employee by asking her to intervene with the computer on your behalf in any way. They call her a "cashier," but really now, isn't that what you've become?

You'll recognize her—stationed at the front of the U-Scan area like a prison guard overseeing a prison yard—by her nametag, the magazine in front of her face, and the paycheck she gets at the end of the week. Her general deportment screams, "The computer has already told you what you must do in short, declarative commands. Are you unable to follow simple instructions, you idiot?" I must admit, though, that I do feel a bit sorry for her, as I do all those in imminent danger of losing their income to a few lines of code.

You'll recognize a paying customer—let's say a 70-year-old paying customer—by her pleading glances in the direction of the oblivious employee as her brittle bones bend under the 20-lb. bag of dog food she rolls, drags, and pushes this way and that in an effort to scan the barcode, thus pleasing U-Scan, which will then tell her how much of her fixed income she must insert in the proper receptacle.

You'll recognize your taskmaster—U-Scan—by its pleasant, synthetic voice and a distant demeanor common among programmable machines. After a perfunctory welcome, it immediately prods you to get your butt a-scannin'. After all, it's got a business to run!

You are expected to perform to U-Scan's exacting expectations for speed and accuracy, lest you suffer the indignity of testing the computer's patience to such an extent that it surrenders to your ineptitude and instructs you to "Wait for the Cashier" (in essence saying, "I can't work with this one anymore! Mobilize the other human to help it!").

U-Scan's purview goes well beyond performance-related issues, however. It's equally concerned with your—how to put this delicately—integrity.

After you've scanned your purchases but before U-Scan directs you to pay and sends you on your way with a hearty, chip-felt "thank you" for a job well done, it tactfully accuses you of, at the very least, contemplating shoplifting. U-Scan tells you to check under your cart for any items you may have "forgotten" to scan. Now, a thinly veiled accusation like that may seem unnecessary, judgmental, and perhaps even a tad bit intrusive, but we must concede what U-Scan already knows: that some of our kind (homo sapiens, that is) are, indeed, prone to thievery. And though U-Scan would like to trust us, it can't be expected to know all its employees. Did I say employees? I meant customers, of course.

It's possible I'm not being entirely fair. After all, paying customers are, in fact, given a choice of either submitting themselves to U-Scan or planting themselves and their six items in one of the store's two "full-service" lines. Of course, should you opt for full service, you will inevitably find yourself behind a harried mother lugging two packed grocery carts, oblivious to her screaming kids as she digs through reams of coupons to chisel a few bucks off the cost of a mountain of groceries. And a sleepy cashier will pick his way through that mountain...package...by...package, progressing like a sloth chipping away at K2 with an ice pick. Having been schooled by U-Scan, you will silently mock him for his sloppy scanning technique.

U-Scan will be there, just a few cash register lines over, mute but scolding you nonetheless for being a "full-service" customer. Deflated, like a circus-trained lion being led back to center-ring for another performance, you'll shuffle to the smart-screen and set your basket down, where U-Scan will welcome you and put you back to work.

Michael Stuhlreyer is a business writer, a graphic designer, and president of Stuhlreyer Business Instruments, LLC, a Nashville-based firm specializing in the creation of marketing and sales support materials, as well as articles, case studies, and product profiles for technology companies. Email Mike at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. or visit his Web site, www.bizinstruments.com.