Can You Hear Me Now?

Nick Brown
2 min read
I never get cool phone calls like "Hey, I think I caught a live eohippus.”
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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.
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