They don’t curse back, which makes any possible ensuing altercaation much less likely unless I start it.
I mean, really. What’s an errant plastic bag going to do, bleed on me?
I curse myself, does that count? 
Yes, and I don’t think it makes me crazy. If they ever yell back though…
I do. On days when my computer is being particularly disfunctional, not only will I curse at it, but I’ll occasionally launch into a very calm, five+ minute tirade informing it of how inadequate it is, and how much I wish I could replace it with something that actually does the one thing it was purchased to do.
Weirder still…when it eventually comes back around after I’ve let loose on it…I’ve felt a little bad for being so harsh. :eek:
I’m a techie, which means I am sometimes dealing with computers in a location where it’s not advisable to use vicious and creative profanity. (Say, outside the section director’s office.)
I’ve taken to counting at the computer in a menacing tone à la The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
I hate yard work and the lawn mower knows this, fucking piece of shit…I hate you lawn mower, I hate you!
It even tripped me one day and I still have the scar on my knee to prove it.
That lawn mower is possessed.
It’s not inanimate, it’s evil spawn of Briggs and Stratton.
My washing machine got stuck yesterday on the “rinse fill” cycle and kept pouring water in without going on to the next step.
For five hours. (I was out.)
Since it’s already standing in a corner it now has to wear a little sign that says, “I am a bad, naughty, evil, water-wasting, money-burning piece of soulless machinery and I deserve to be sent to the landfill to rust and flake until the end of time.” It has to wear it until I decide it’s going to be a good washing machine with the next couple of loads.
But no. I wouldn’t curse at it. That would be silly.
I do that with the computers at work. Exactly one customer has got the referance in the five months I’ve been there. (I gave them a pen for being so clued up)
At home however, the computer is a number of things. Demonic crackwhore, mostly. And the ever-faithful ‘fuck you, you fucking fucking fuck’ has been directed at the printer.
Detailed unflattering descriptions of the object’s ancestory is always an inventive way to spend five or so minutes.