"If you'd like to hear this post in Swahili, press 4."

One day this past week, I called a local branch of a bank in our area to determine where my son could exchange dollars for euros for a trip he and some friends are taking.

Mind you, this is a small branch operation and I fully expected to speak to a real person who could respond to my question inside of fifteen seconds.

Instead, I got a recorded voice. "Welcome to Big Honkin' Mega Bank, Podunk branch," it announced. "For service in Spanish, press 2. To learn about online banking, press 3. To get directions and branch hours, press 4. To speak to a loan professional about business loans or home equity lines of credit, press 5. To speak to a branch associate, press 6."

I pressed 6 and was subjected to several hours of Barry Manilow's new fifties CD. (It may have only been thirty seconds, but thirty seconds with Barry is like at least ten years of root canal.)

As I listened to the "options" and the auditory torture on my phone, I had a thought: None of this is really for me or for any other customer, in spite of the fact that the recorded voice assures me that that's the case. "For your convenience," the voice lies. In fact, the automated switchboard is designed to foist the work that formerly would have been done by bank employees onto the hapless customer (in this case, me).

In former days, a friendly, if somewhat harrassed "associate" would have answered my call after three or four rings. He or she might have asked if I could hold, but most of the time they would have asked me something like, "How may I help you?"

I could have explained the reason for my call and shortly, the employee would have told me the same thing which the bank associate with whom I ultimately spoke did tell me: "Dollars can be exchanged for euros at our main office downtown." "Thank you." "You're welcome."

Instead, I was forced to make decisions about the best way to direct my own call. I was doing the job of sending me to the right desk, a task that in former times (and I think rightly) was done by an employee. It's the moral equivalent of being sent into the Pentagon with a blindfold and told to take a request to the widget procurement office. (Well, maybe not that bad. But you get the idea.)

I frankly hadn't thought much more about my phone call revelation until I read the following in British humorist Lynne Truss' new book, Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door:

...modern communications technology contributes to the end of manners. Wherever you turn for help, you find yourself on your own...In the age of the automated switchboard...we are all co-opted employees of every single company we come into contact with. "Why am I doing this?' we ask ourselves, twenty times a day...

Of course, this stuff is only going to get worse as the years roll by, as technology becomes more sophisticated and the labor shortages resulting from lower birth rates take hold. But I felt a sort of vindication as I read Truss' words. I'm not the only one this bothers. There might be others, too. Maybe we could form a support group. If you feel this is a good idea, press 1. If you feel this is a bad idea, press 2. If you have no opinion but find automated switchboards annoying, press 3. If you'd like to hear this post in Swahili, press 4.

UPDATE: Thanks to Reader I Am at Either End of the Curve for linking to this post. I liked her thoughts on this subject over at her blog.