It all started when my boss called me into his office. "Thisby," he said, "you're an important man to this operation; absolutely indispensable. But there's a problem: It's those times when you're not in the office…"

"They're called evenings and weekends, sir."

"Yes, so I've heard. Well, we've found a solution. IS is testing out a new all-in-one communications solution, the Locator Electronic Address Searching Host (LEASH), by ConstantIrritant.com. It handles e-mail, voice mail, fax, pizza deliveries, and smoke signals through a single gateway, and forwards all messages to any Internet-aware or telephony device in your house. With the LEASH, every client we have can get you 24/7!"

Before I could comment on my new availability, I was whisked over to IS, where Sandra greeted me with the benevolent look of a crocodile. Spinning around to her computer, she brought up an HTML form and started asking me questions.

"What time do you leave the house in the morning? What's your cell phone number? Where do you eat lunch? Are you closer to your kitchen phone or your computer when you and your wife are making love?" When she was finished, she had my whole standard daily schedule down. "Now, when someone calls, faxes, or e-mails you, the LEASH will know exactly where you are."

"But what if I'm not there? What if I go out for the evening or otherwise alter my work habits."

"No problem. If that happens, the LEASH will automatically notify the Police Missing Persons Unit."

"When does it go into effect?" I asked.

"As soon as I click this 'Submit' button and the info is uploaded to the ConstantIrritant.com server. And that means right…" She paused as she clicked the button. Then she sat waiting. She checked her watch. She sat some more. She drummed her fingers on her desktop. "Now."

I was driving home when my cell phone rang. Unfortunately, my cell phone was in my briefcase at the time. With one hand on the wheel, I got my briefcase out of the back seat with the other hand and opened it with my teeth. Spilling papers all over the floor, I managed to dig out the cell phone.

"Hello?" I cried.

"You have one e-mail message," a mechanical voice proclaimed. To see it on your phone's one-inch screen, press 1. To hear me read it to you in a dead, flat voice, press 2. To have me transmit the message to your car's computer, so that it can be displayed on your windshield while blocking out any potentially distracting view of traffic, press…"

I managed to press 2, and the mechanical voice continued. "There is no sender on this message. The subject is Naked…teenage…Girls. The body of the message is Hi…there…my…name…is…"

I shut off the phone when it rang again. "Cindy…and…I…want…" I almost threw the phone out the window. But in the nick of time, I saw a cop and didn't want to get ticketed for littering. Of course, I didn't see the cop until after I had rear-ended his car, so I guess the nick of time had already passed.

Not surprisingly, I got home late that evening. "I'm so glad you're home," my wife said as soon as I walked through the door. "The phone has been ringing off the hook for the last 20 minutes. Not only the phone, but also the computer, the radio, and the toaster oven. Here…" She handed me a roasted chicken with an advertisement burned into its side. "They've got some new technology at work," I explained. "It finds the best way to contact me no matter where I am."

Just then the phone rang, relieving me of the need to hear her reply. I was stunned to hear a human being on the line. "Hello. This is the police. We're checking up on a missing person's report on a Sam Thisby."

"It's OK, officer," I replied. "I'm not missing."

"So it's a false report. We'll have to fine you $200 and post your name on the Internet, right next to the names of people who rear-end police cars. Have a nice day."

By the time I'd hung up, my wife had returned to the kitchen. I wandered into the den, where I can always rely on finding my 10-year-old son, Thurston, busy with his video games.

"How ya doin', kid?" I asked in a friendly voice.

"Shh. I'm in a ninth-level battle with CementHead. It took me five hours to get this far."

I hung back. I figured I could interrupt him with small talk later--maybe when he was doing his homework.

Suddenly, he cried out a word that 10-year-olds aren't supposed to know. His view of the concrete monster was blocked by the words "E-mail for Sam Thisby. Your options are: 1) Read it now; 2) Have CementHead read it to you; 3) Transfer the message to your Internet-aware hair dryer." In the background, CementHead was pounding the virtual Thurston into dust.

I used my hair dryer to get the message, which was from my boss: "Thisby, how are things working with the LEASH? Isn't it wonderful to be so hooked into the world?"

Neither my wife nor my son will tell me exactly what happened then. The next thing I knew, I was in this hospital bed, hooked up to this gadget that measures my heart beat and blood pressure. It also handles my phone calls, faxes, and e-mail.

Lincoln Spector writes about the absurdities of life with computers.