Call Me. I dare you...

I'm pissed. And when I'm pissed, I'm motivated. So shut the fuck up and read a second.

Mobile phones are now the lifeline of people with somewhat of a life. A leash, a tether to things you MIGHT need to know, but probably don't. There's nothing I have yet to hear shouted into a cell-phone that needed to be said at that moment. NOTHING.

That means nobody important is talking on the thing.
Not the President.
Not the Commander of the Bomb Squad.
Not the guy who makes love to the girl who makes your latte.
And no... not even you. Sorry, you're not important, either. At least not important enough to be stammering directions to a shabbily-attended party down... down by... go... go 2 blocks ARE YOU THERE... go 2 blocks...

No, not an exact science. It's a large system of invisible rays of sound and radio and gamma, boncing on our ears and brains. And yet I cannot stop phutzing with my phone on a reg'lar. I look at thinking that something may have happened, as if a message from (IMPORTANT PERSON) will have finally come in, and I can finally rest in the knowledge that my ship has come in. That means I can turn around to the lady behind me yelling into her phone and take it out of her hand and throw it against the wall.
These phones are proof of evolution, that we have evolved... just not that far.

I set the ringer to something that I know I will hear in case somebody calls me. And then... EVERYTHING sounds like a horse whinny.

I set it to vibrate, then my pants always feel more lively. And right now there just ain't THAT MUCH going on that I need to know what's going on. If something was going on, I would be in the middle of it. But nothing's goin' on, and I'd bet your behymen that it WON'T be going on while I'm hearing a one-sided barrage of whatever that Armenian dude was blarrrrriddidiaiddian into what's left of my ear drum. Close the borders.

If you really want to put your phone or earpiece to good use, take photos of people sneering at you while you yammer on about, what? Can... go ahead... yeah, so... I knooooow... The par.... The party? Fuck you and your phone.

Cell phones should only have minutes equal to your credit score... PER YEAR.
After that, $2 a minute. If you really wanted to talk to somebody, they would be RIGHT THERE WITH YOU on the other massage table, getting yelled at in Austrian. Something about a hot griddle and a naughty spietzle.

Otherwise, it, the F, can wait.

Mom, sorry about the F words.

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