"Did I ever tell you what I don't like about that machine?" Bart asked as the therapist draped a heavy towel around his head.
"Nope. Didn't know you had any gripe. What is it?"
"You can't gloat after you beat it. You can't walk over and pat it on the shoulder and say, 'Well, better luck next time, old man.' It isn't a good loser, and it isn't a bad loser. The damn thing doesn't even know it lost, and if it did, it wouldn't care."
"I see what you mean," said the P.T. man, chuckling. "You beat the pants off it and what d'you get? Not even a case of the sulks out of it."
"Exactly. And what's worse, I know perfectly good and well that it's only half trying. The damned thing could beat me easily if you just turned that knob over a little more."
"You're not competing against the machine, anyway," the therapist said. "You're competing against yourself, trying to beat your own record."
"I know. And what happens when I can't do that any more, either?" Stanton asked. "I can't just go on getting better and better forever. I've got limits, you know."
"Sure," said the therapist easily. "So does a golf player. But every golfer goes out and practices by himself to try to beat his own record."
"Bunk! The real fun in any game is beating someone else! The big kick in golf is in winning over the other guy in a twosome."
"How about crossword puzzles or solitaire?"