THE TYRANNY OF BLACKBERRIES, CELLPHONES & LAPTOPSWritten by Theolonius McTavish
Copyright The Quipping Queen 2005.
THE TYRANNY OF BLACKBERRIES, CELLPHONES & LAPTOPS --Or, when will God of Chaos, Calamity & Cataclysm strike again! --
Everywhere you go these days, chaos reigns disguised as “state of art wireless technology”. It seems that happiness has been reduced to having a newfangled whatchamacallit that does absolutely everything but clean kitchen sink.
Speaking of scruffy sculleries, your best bet would be to a visit your local "Tabernacle of Tetrachloride" and request a private audience with "Wizard of Washbasins". Failing that, consult "The Diva of Drudgery" living next door for quick answers to western world's biggest household conundrums!
Sadly, my days as a professional cherry-picker in Peach Bottom, Virginia are over ...which brings me in a round about way to my favorite comfort food ..."passion fruit" and plums. Besides consuming far too many succulent seeds for my own good, I also enjoy occasional shopping-spree for trendy “fruit of loom” drawers in "Big Apple". And frankly, that doesn’t leave me much spare time to pursue happiness unless you count such delightful diversions such as a fruitless game of tiddlywinks or a toe-wrestling tournament in "Old Country".
As for those backlit, "Bluetooth" byters euphemistically called “BlackBerries”, they do not impress me in least. For one thing these "robust" packages of tutti-fruit technology are worth a king's ransom. And for another, hanging them on your lapel makes you look like a dork, or worse yet a loon. So, unless you enjoy low-impact digital workouts with your thumb and index finger…take my humble advice, be a dweeb and forget about them!
Celluar telephones, smallest of these dastardly digital devices, are a melodious menace to mankind. Besides making their owners look divinely self-important in a world of wannabes and winners, they also lurk surruptitiously about in bottom of pockets, packsacks, and purses offering melodrama at its best for bystanders. Needless to say, anything that vibrates, sings, and is capable of snapping photos when you least expect should never be operated by anyone who's never been properly potty-trained.
Quirk WarsWritten by Ed Williams
We all have ‘em.
In one form or other.
Some quirky writers write one sentence paragraphs...
Okay, okay, I’ll stop! Y’all gotta admit I had ya there for a second. I thought I’d take a shot this week at writing about people’s quirks because it’s one of those topics where all women who read this are going to look over at their menfolk and say, “Ha! Quirks! He doesn’t know half of it! You must be only man in America that has to scratch himself “down there” twenty or thirty times a day! Nothing can possibly itch that much!” And all menfolk who read this will then look over at their ladies and say, “Ha! Quirks! I don’t even have to talk about your quirks, I can just talk about how your hair smells right after you get a permanent!” The potential for causing all this mischief is just too fun to walk away from, so I‘m not. I think I’ll get ball rolling by talking about some of my own quirks, which should set table for some good “after column” conversations this week. Here be a few of them:
“I like to be naked.”
Look, I know y’all might be laughing, but I‘m being sincere, I enjoy being naked. I like freedom, I like feeling of air touching me from all angles, and I like not being trussed up in a bunch of starchy clothes. Frankly, being naked is a luxury for me these days, as with having a child still at home I can’t just doff my threads any old time that I want to. At heart, though, I’m a nude dude.
“Hiccups drive me crazy.”
You know, y’all can’t tell me that most people who have hiccups can’t get rid of them if they just use a little will power. The sound of a hiccup drives me insane, and someone having them for a lengthy period of time must simply enjoy having hiccups. I’d rather listen to Amway promotional tapes or watch videotaped surgical procedures than listen to someone hiccupping.
“Long winded preachers make me mad.”
Y’all gotta admit, this is true for just about all of us, we just don‘t like to admit it. I’m lucky because my current preacher, Jerry Dingmore, understands that message has to be both interesting and to point. The problem is that for every preacher like him there‘s five who’ll preached for seventy-five minutes and don’t care that Falcons kick off in another fifteen. Too much of anything, excepting Elvis music and Nu-Way hot dogs, is just about always a bad thing.