Today, we gather to honour an old, dear friend, who has lived to a ripe old age, and is ready for the next stage of his existence: to be disassembled at a recycling factory of some description. A day that we all soon shall meet.
This is my old typewriter. Magnificent, he was. You may call him Aragog, if you'd like. He would tippy-tappy-type with such expedience, and he even came with a built-in dictionary, and when you dared test him with a word he didn't recognise, he'd beep angrily, and flash a fierce green light, either in an effort to warn you, or to blind the illiterate.
Then, one day (circa 1998), his stores of eraser fluid ran dry. And suddenly, I was confronted with the realisation of what a horrible typist I was. I had resisted the computer movement for long enough, it was time to continue my great American (Canadian) novel in a new medium. It was a novel about a family of cats who went on excellent adventures. It's still awaiting a revision.
So thank you, Mr. Smith Corona. I would drink a Corona in your honour, but I can't afford that shit, and I'm working later tonight. I don't think they'd accept alcohol in the breath in honour of a typewriter I threw out.