I am writing this column under the gun. I don't want to do it, but I must. The computer has told me it is now or never.

If I want to e-mail this column to my editor -- and I do -- I'd better do so quickly, or the computer says it won't be happening. In a cryptic message from my Internet server, I'm told my account is about to expire. The computer says my credit card that pays for said service must be out-of-date or over-the-limit. It is neither, I checked. But you cannot argue with a computer. And human beings don't factor into this equation at all.

Because I don't have all the information the computer needs within 24 hours or else -- credit-card PIN number, mother's great-grandmother's Social Security number, the whereabouts of Angelina Jolie's last tattoo and a copy of the Serenity Prayer -- I cannot re-enter my information as requested.

In other words, I'm dead meat.

The indecipherable messages that computers regularly deliver are the most infuriating things about the machines. With an urgency that should be reserved for terrorist attacks, the computer barks out silent orders that make no sense at all to me or any other normal human being.

"CHANGES HAVE BEEN MADE THAT ALTER THE GLOBAL TEMPLATE. IF YOU PROCEED IT WILL AUTOMATICALLY RELEASE YOUR PERMANENT RECORD CARD FROM HIGH SCHOOL TO ALL OF YOUR FUTURE EMPLOYERS AND AFFECT YOUR DENTAL HYGIENE INTO OLD AGE. A HORSE'S HEAD WILL END UP IN YOUR BED. NOW DO YOU WANT TO PROCEED?"

Simply from the tone of that message even the thickest of us can figure you don't want to proceed, though I have no clue in hell what a global template might be. It sounds, well, huge. So I try to back up, to un-proceed, if you will. But that leaves me at Square One with the work I'm trying to save on the screen in front of me, nowhere to go but into the abyss of permanent alteration.

Back and forth, back and forth I go, until finally I hit a box marked CANCEL. Nothing happens.

Some messages are so full of gibberish that even those with official geek degrees must scratch their heads.

"A FILE NAMED NORMAL ALREADY EXISTS. IF YOU ARE A STUBBORN TYPE AND WANT TO KEEP NAMING ALL YOUR FILES NORMAL, THIS ACTION WILL OVERWRITE ANY AND ALL WORK YOU HAVE DONE IN YOUR PAST LIFE, UP TO AND INCLUDING YOUR FOURTH-GRADE ESSAY ON THE MAKING OF 'GONE WITH THE WIND.' TO CALL THIS FILE NORMAL IS A LITTLE LIKE NAMING ALL OF YOUR MALE CHILDREN DARYL, BUT GO RIGHT AHEAD IF YOU MUST."

There's a certain snotty tone about a computer message that chaps me. I don't understand how a mere machine assumes such a position of moral and intellectual superiority, but it often does. It knows, for instance, whether or not you really want to open attachments to e-mails. It's as if you have a judgmental postal clerk who reads all your postcards before handing them to you.

"THIS ATTACHMENT MIGHT CONTAIN VIRUSES, BAD WORDS AND DIRTY PICTURES, OR IT MIGHT NOT. IF YOU DON'T KNOW FOR CERTAIN WHO SENT YOU THIS POTENTIAL FILTH, DELETE IT IMMEDIATELY, TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER AND RUN AND WASH YOUR HANDS! I MEAN NOW!"

When you're in the middle of writing an important e-mail and the Internet vanishes, usually a less-than-helpful message will tell you what you already know and what you can do about it: nothing.

"YOU HAVE LOST YOUR INTERNET ACCESS AND ANYTHING YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORKING ON. YOU SHOULD WAIT ONE MINUTE, RUN AROUND THE HOUSE THREE TIMES, TOSS SALT OVER YOUR LEFT SHOULDER AND THEN ATTEMPT TO RECONNECT."

I expect some punitive action from my computer for daring to complain about this, so enjoy this column if you can. It might be my last.