A Typewriter's Roll

Why doesn't anyone care about me anymore?"

Herbie, the typewriter, sat glumpily in the corner on a bookshelf while the computer gloated at him across the room from a desk. The computer's annoying tickety-tak could not compare to a Coronamatic's trilling key taps. 

A typewriter didn't have to be "booted up" - Herbie was always up. Primed and waiting, he could sprink up pages of a story, poem, a letter, envelope or even a label. A computer needed a printer to do all the work Herbie accomplished.

"HRRRMPFFT!" Herbie would glope and the dust would lift a bit. How willingly he absorbed abuse to his keys when her fingers carumbled along. Forever, with a kind heart, he remained dedicated and true. Perhaps his R typed lower that the others and occasionally his o, e, a, and other letter loops would glop with ink. A speedy jaunt to the repair shop for cleaning solved it.

"GRRROMMLNK!" It was time to run away from this room. Herbie mumbled, "Oh platen, karol me like you do paper."

Obediently his planten tworled and catapoppled him off the table. Herbie, with newly found energy,  clomped onto a forgotten skateboard stored beneath his shelf. Frightened but determined he kerplanked out the door.  

Bumpily bump down the hill to the ocean, Herbie klerked and treetered poised for adventure.

Screeleeshing to a halt the skateboard's found his voice, "YAHOWEWA!  I'm also overlooked these days. Thanks for your encouragement and getting me going. Now, we're free," the skateboard sprung wheelie after wheelie. "Let's cruise some chicks."

Onward they farwheeled, friendshipping in search of adventure.