I think we've got the wrong droid

Luke Skywalker always seemed to have such wonderful conversations with R2-D2. So why is it that I cannot manage the same feat when I am conversing with cyber-creatures?
I was thinking about this after a recent bout with Emily, the cyber-receptionist at Bell. My frustration was augmented by whoever the robot girl is who handles customer calls at Disney... let's call her Mini. And then there was the digital woman who fields calls for the circulation department of a local daily newspaper.
All of this came about because we are planning a vacation. So we had to suspend our newspaper subscription, buy some American plan minutes for our phones, and confirm a short stay at Disney World, because I happen to share my life with a Disneyphile. Who has demonstrated to me, by the way, that Disney can be a tonne of fun for two silly adults, and we certainly meet the full quota in that department.
First call was the Bell Mobility, to buy the minutes. Thus, the conversation with Emily.
"Conversation" is not really the right word, is it? It's more, "battle of wits," which I am perennially doomed to lose. I know, when I make the call, that I am going to have to talk to a real, live human being. This person may well be somewhere west of the international date line, but no matter... Emily ain't gonna sell me American minutes.
But she doesn't know that. She also knows she is supposed to engage me in sprightly conversation, point out many wonderful opportunities for me to purchase services, and basically try to keep me well out of the way of real human Bell employees, wherever they are positioned on the globe.
Eventually, after hitting the 0 key a number of times, I got to a real person. But it took effort and ingenuity on my part, and I suspect Emily won, on points.
After that battle of cyber-wit vs. nitwit, I called Disney to confirm our two-day stay, and encountered "Mini: -- my choice of name, not hers ­-- who is right up there with the holographic doctor on Voyager in terms of conversational ability. I actually fell into the trap, and had a long talk with Mini ­-- we didn't discuss politics or religion, but her questions and well-programmed answers lured me into a false sense of confidence. False, because I could not actually get the information I needed, and eventually Mini gave up, passed me along, and I was transferred to the front desk of the Disney resort where we have our booking. The delightful woman there confirmed the booking for one Paul Knowles and his companion, whose name is "Unknown." She read it aloud, expecting a human name, and collapsed in giggles when she realized what she had done. I assured her my companion was certainly known, and that she is my wife, Nancy. She appreciated the information, but with great glee continued to refer to Paul and "Miss Unknown" Knowles.
That's my kind of telephone correspondent. I liked her instantly.
Then came the call to the newspaper. I loved the sequence. The digital voice ­-- let's call her "Lois" ­-- first informed me that "there will be a 15 second wait for a representative," and then took much more than 15 seconds to offer me sundry cyber-choices, so I could register a holiday break in my subscription without dealing with an actual human. There were a couple of other announcements, too, before I made it to a human being. Who took care of the cancellation in about 12 seconds.
These digital beings -- most of whom appear to be female, probably because they are designed by cyber-geek males who can't get dates ­-- are nothing like R2D2. But wait a minute --­ they certainly do bear an uncanny resemblance to the annoying, cloying, and verbose C3PO. I've got a bad feeling about this.