I hate talking on the phone. It makes me feel like I’m missing something more important like, for example, not talking on the phone. I can feel my brain rotting where the handset touches my ear.My dad has a great way of getting off the phone. He sort of chuckles and says “Yeah, ok. Mm hmm, bye-bye.” The person on the other end, of course, is desperately clutching for him but helpless against his finality. The phone call is fucking over.I never get cool phone calls like “Hey, I think I caught a live eohippus.” It’s always just some dude trying to sell me a toilet. I hate talking to that guy.Naturally, I was tickled when my wife got me a cell phone last week. It was like Christmas, Hell and Applebee’s all rolled in one. Finally, I can experience the shallow pleasure of a phone call while merging onto I-40. It feels filthy. I guess that’s why it’s funny.Most people just step out of life when the cell phone rings. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. No, I don’t have a regular toilet supplier.” I wonder if I’ll turn into that. With each clown who gets my number it becomes more of a certainty than chance. I will be assimilated but they can’t keep me from dancing. Now I just have to learn to work the buttons. I’ve programmed in some of the more important numbers like Men’s Warehouse and Steak on a Bun, but I haven’t figured out how to play the Shakira video. Shakira is really talented. She’ll be so surprised when I email her a picture of my turd.
Can You Hear Me Now?
2 min read
