Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Can you hear me now? GOOD!
Hello. You’re the obnoxious ass who couldn’t put your cell phone down long enough to tell me what you wanted to eat tonight. How do I know you’re an obnoxious ass? Call it a guess. I bet you drive a Hummer, I bet you spend $100.00 a week just hauling your ponderous bulk to and from work, and now you gotta “circle back” with your “man in Chicago” on this “paradigm shift” while the “iron is hot” and you can’t put your fucking phone down for one minute and 35 seconds, to tell me what (or, indeed, even if) you fucking want to eat.
Because, sir, you’re an ass.
“Are we ready,” I ask as I approach your table.
“Yeah, hang on,” you say, without looking up.
“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” you say to your phone, “that was wrapped up at the conference a week ago.”
Was it a week ago? I think. How time flies….
“Yeah, see if you can get Karen or Hal to re-compile,” you say, then you look up at me as if I will confirm this.
I nod, yes, damn good idea. Get Hal on it, pronto.
I start to walk away.
“Yeah,” you say to the phone, and then look up. “Hold on – [to me] hey, hon, just a sec?”
I turn and come back and smile. “Ready to order?”
You order: “KCspecialmedjumrareandanotherMGD,” and then you go back to your phone call, “No, I mean with the fimmer on the uplink…”
“That comes with fries or a baked potato?”
“Hold on – [to me] It does what?”
I give up. “OK, that’ll be right out…”
He doesn’t notice.
I have a great idea for you and your phone. Stay with me here. I want you to take that phone, and I want you to place it under the left rear wheel of your Hummer, and I want you to drive over it - forward, backward, and forward again - until you’ve pulverized it into a mound of tiny cherts, each no bigger than a nickel. Then, I want you to put the pieces into a blender and, adding a little WD40, grind them into a smooth paste. Then I want you to pour the mess onto a fireproof surface - the driveway that leads into your gated community home will do - and I want you to set it alight and burn it and I want you to scrape up the ashes with a putty knife, and I want you to bury them.
Because, you, sir, are an obnoxious asswipe.
And you must never, ever speak on a cell phone again.
“But,” you reply, “I am an asswipe, and this is the source of my power and my glory.”
Yes, it will be hard for you. For a while you can deal with your painful withdrawals by speaking into your cupped hand, which you will hold against the side of your head while you imagine that you are talking to Karen or Hal. For a while.
“But,” you ask, “will I still be an obnoxious asswipe?”
I’m thinking, yeah, you will.