What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

iCarumba


      Thus, I have completed my phoneless experiment. I have succumbed to peer pressure yet again and placed myself upon the mercy of the beloved (dreaded, in my case) iPhone. I have little will power. Resistance was indeed futile. I feel as though I have lost my rebelliousness and joined the masses. This is awful. I’ll need to sedate myself this evening to recover.
      Hey, have you seen this cool Happy Hour Finder App? Oh … my … gawd! I know the guy who created it. You need to have this. Get it now.
      So, what have I learned from being phone-free?
·         Less Phone = Less Stress
·         Whereas I have become intimately familiar with the tops of my fellow patrons’ heads (um, you missed a few roots there, Mr. Levitra-Commercial), my chin was always up, shoulders back, and eyes forward.
·         I became more aware of (read: annoyed with) other people’s oblivious use of their cell phones. For some strange reason, people imagine they are bubbled in a soundproof shield when talking on their cell phones, especially when on a headset.
·         I never had to scramble to answer a phone to stop the embarrassing ringtone.
·         People constantly complained that they couldn’t get a hold of me. When they asked, “What if there’s an emergency,” I insisted that anything short of Sandra Bullock standing at my front door with a suitcase could wait.
·         I could avoid those creepy circles where everyone plays show and tell with the “Best App in the Whole World” and pictures of their children, pets, and lovers.
      With all of this nonsense, what made me cave? Good question. I’m not bored, I abhor speaking on phones, and I can’t see most of what’s displayed on the damn screen.
      Ah, wait a minute. I just found the most wonderful app. OMFG! Check this out: With this app, I can go to Starbucks and pay for coffee with my phone. RIGHT? I KNOW! Now, I don’t have to carry my gold Starbucks card. That opens a slot for me to carry my Barney’s card. I am so cool.
      Look at your posture, people. You’re totally throwing your necks and shoulders out of whack, you hunchbacks. Getting thumb cramps, are you? I bet. Plus, carrying that phone in your front pocket is irradiating your testicles, young man. What if you become sterile? (OK, make that one positive side effect.)
      I bet you don’t have this one. This app lets me bump fists with another iPhone owner and exchange contact information, just like that. Cool, huh? Ow, damn it! You just dislocated my finger, fucker! You’re supposed to tap, not punch. Hey, watch me cruise around the bar punching purses to get some free hottie contacts. Hm, her phone is in her sparkly back pocket. This will require surgical precision. I am about to tap that ass, my man. Yee ha!
      I hate this phone in less than twenty-four hours. Are you listening, Guinness? I’ll get used to it, you say? Misery. This is another child that I have to care for. I have to feed it nightly or the battery will run out. I have to choose from a horrible assortment of wallpapers and sounds. Then, worst of all, I have to justify my choices when my date spies my phone. Stressful. What if I drop it? I’ll get a case. What if the case isn’t cool? I know the next iPhone-carrying friend I find will have a cooler one and I’ll get “should” on. Bastards. First it was a lunchbox, then a book bag, briefcase, pager, fanny pack, backpack, cell phone, satchel (it is not a fucking man-purse) … agh! Will my hands and pockets ever be free again?

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