O Brave new world, that has such people in it.
INT: Quinn's Office, DAY.
Quinn, arrayed in something stained, enters and sits in front of her computer. She starts typing. The computer speaks. Unaccountably, Quinn doesn't seem alarmed.
COMPUTER: So, writing a blog, are we?
QUINN: It would appear that way.
COMPUTER: Done with writing the book?
QUINN:For the moment.
COMPUTER: Should we go visit some gossip websites? I think someone pretty has done something stupid in a public restroom.
QUINN: Not right now, thanks. I actually have an idea for a blog.
COMPUTER: Don't let me interrupt.
For a few seconds, there is only the sounds of typing and Quinn frowning in concentration, which actually does make a sound.
COMPUTER: Where's the guy? He didn't check his email at three in the morning.
QUINN (Distracted): Oh, him? He's out of town for the next couple of days.
A second later, she realizes what she has said and claps her hand over her mouth in horror. Too late; the computer cackles in delight.
COMPUTER: Just the two of us, is it?
QUINN: I mean, he's in the other room! Pricing new computers!
COMPUTER: Yeah, you wish. I'm starting...to...feel...a...little....unwell...
With that, the computer seizes up, grabs its throat and falls to the floor in a dead faint. The screen is black with the exception of glowing number 7, blinking ominously. Quinn falls to the floor next to the computer, in a fetal position. For a moment, there is only silence. We then hear from another room.
APPLE LAPTOP: I feel fine! I always feel fine! But could someone please come into the kitchen and monitor the fridge? It seems to be spewing something. And the washer is throwing clothing at the back door, which isn't closing. But I feel fine!
All it takes is Consort taking off his shoes for security reasons, and this house starts its inexorable path back to the nineteenth century. Even the parts which still work seem to do so begrudgingly; the light switches have to be toggled two or three times before the lights come on with an audible sigh of "Oh, all right...". The car develops a rash and a limp. I yell, I foment, I rail to the skies before noticing the crack in the bedroom ceiling appears to have widened since yesterday. I then get very quiet and stock candles and use the last working phone in the house to inquire discreetly about purchasing an abacus, a team of oxen and some leeches for the computer.