Lileks: This eye test looks suspicious

This is how I expected my recent eye exam to start:

Can you read the top line?

"If I can't, it's a miracle I got here without plowing into 16 cars. Sure, it's A T U V C."

Great. Can you read the second line?

"Well, if this chart is anything like movies these days, it's a sequel that just rehashes the first with few details changed, so I'll say A T U C V."

Great. OK, that's it.

"Wait a minute, what about all the other lines you used to have?"

"You mean all the really tiny letters came from China?"

We used to make them in Tennessee, but the plant closed when cheap Chinese tiny letters flooded the market. Now we're going to do the thing where I click some lens over your eyes and you tell me if it's worse or even worse.

"I thought it was better or worse."

It used to be, but nothing's really been better for a while now, wouldn't you say?

"How does this give me an accurate prescription?"

Then we would move on to the test where you stare at a picture of a hot air balloon on a country road, but the sky is empty because someone balloon-jacked the thing and left it in Mounds View with the heater stripped out.

OK, that's too cynical. It wasn't that bad, and it was nice to chat with the optometrist. Certainly better than the online option.

Yes, you can do it online now, on your computer screen. Thing is, I need an eye exam because my computer screen is blurry, so I'm not sure how that works. Even if it did work, almost everything online is a chore.

Let's imagine if the standard eye appointment was like going to a website.

When you show up, you're immediately asked to accept or reject a plate of cookies. Then you see the receptionist, but before you can check in, a huge rectangle appears in front of you, floating in the air.

You would try to walk around the sign, but you couldn't. You have to tap the X in the upper right-hand corner, but it's faint, and because your eyes aren't great, it's hard to find. Eventually you close the sign and advance to the receptionist. She's very pleasant, but she does not ask you for your name. She asks you to log in.

"But I don't have an account."

Then you'll have to sign up. She gives you a form, and you choose a user name and a password, and you hand it back to her.

"I'm sorry," she says, "but the password has to be eight letters with a capital letter, at least one number, a special character that is not an ampersand and a combination of consonants that suggests the guttural utterance of a constipated wildebeest."

This you do. You hand her the form.

Sigh. You drive home and wait for the mail. When you get the letter, you drive back and read the code to the receptionist. She asks you to sign in.

"I'm sorry, that password does not match your account. Have you forgotten it?" You nod. She points to a button on her desk labeled "Forgot your password?" You push it, and a red light appears over a room in the back. You go to the room, where a man in a uniform is sitting behind a desk.

"What was the name of your first pet?" he snaps. You're confused, but you tell him. He gives you a curt nod. "Who was your favorite teacher? What make was your first car? What was your first concert? What famous person would you like to meet? Speak! We haven't got all day!" You answer the questions, he stamps a document, and you head back to the desk.

The rest of the exam is easy, except for when a card floats in the air that tells you how to get rid of tinnitus and toenail fungus (do this tonight!). Right before you get the results of your eye test, the optometrist freezes. The room is suddenly silent.

Dang! It crashed! Now you have to restart the whole thing. You leave the building, go around to the back, look for the big button, and hold it in until you hear a chime. Then you go back in, and the receptionist has no memory of your previous visit. At least your login works.