Monday, April 25, 2005
“I’d put the extra money toward a posher phone now, so I won’t regret it down the road,” said the cute Verizon saleswoman with irrefutable reasoning. Unbeknownst to her, I’m immune to wily sales logic and the siren song of “posher,” simply because I can evoke the twin beasts of misanthropy and indifference at will. I nurture them. They’re grazing in my barn. This is why I left after a smile and a thoughtful nod.
You know what isn’t cute? In a few months, even the slickest of cellphones will resemble the leavings of the Tin Man. Your Razr V3, the one that couldn’t be bothered with extra vowels? Yeah, it’s going to sit by the Yellow Brick Road, stashed under a peppermint bush and a flying monkey corpse. Stagnant. Festering with antiquity. But with its 27 factorial wallpapers intact.
Now that I’ve gone and emoted all over the floor, let me show you my new pet:
“Do it. Lose me.”
There it is, in all its excessive glory, the Motorola V265. It boasts a camera, which is about as useful to me as a legless ballerina. People once believed cameras confiscated souls and, judging from the young couple trapped in the screen, they were right. Some features–the ones most important to me–were missing, however, and poring over the instruction booklet yielded no answers. Perhaps Cingular can better furnish the robust features I crave.
Anytime Domestic Slavery
So my last phone, we had a gig going for two years, and right from the beginning things were strained. I would lock it in my bathroom for hours on end, promising to release it after it cleaned my tub, only to be sorely disappointed. My phone would sit on the floor, still and pathetic.
Then there was this other time I wanted breakfast, see, but my damn phone wouldn’t deliver. I looked into its telescopic, panaromic 24-bit viewfinder and screamed at the top of my lungs.
“I wanted browned toast, not charred toast!” I yelled. “Damn it, are these supposed to be julienne fries? I could do a drive-by in Idaho, stick my hand out the window, pluck the fruit from a potato tree, and I’d still be a better cook.”
Things got weird, so I swooped in with a quick save.
“I yell, hit, and drop you out of love, pooky.”
I’m a modern guy, and accordingly I expect my phones to COOK AND CLEAN, or so help me the beatings will commence. Now, I understand the models of old could barely manage polyphonic ringtones, they just kinda grunted, but we’re in the 21st century. The age of liberated technology. Do I ask for too much?
Unlimited 1-Way Service
A tree falls on a mime, who falls on a deer in an enchanted forest somewhere. Who cares? The mime cares! Since solitude plays a critical role in this philosophical mindbender, whom could the mime call? Himself, of course.
Too often we’re concerned with conference calls and whether certain friends are double-teaming us, when really we should look–and talk–to ourselves. Remember, you’re your own best party. And guess who’s invited?
The Call Anybody, Even Complete Strangers Network
The allure of contacting “friends and family” wears thin all too quickly, so your cellphone should have a button stamped with a red question mark. Hit the button and you’ll be instantly transferred to one of several million network members, each one caught in a candid moment.
“Oh, so you’re collating copies? Fascinating.”
*click*
“Charmin is softer.”
*click*
“Buy, buy! Sell, sell! Actually, why don’t you hold and…”
*click*
“You ate what?”
*click*
“No, really. You’re one in 3.5 million.”
Sometimes genius is exhausting, dear reader. What a patently awesome idea, though, and it’d be perfect for our ADDled lifestyles. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to talk to anyone else.