RING RING! That is the only sound I desire to hear from my phone.  It is the classic sound to alert me when I am getting an incoming call.  I don’t want to hear a 20 second clip of the new Shakira song, telling whether or not her hips tell the truth.  I am sure that young Johnny will get all of the chicks when he whips out his phone and plays a tenth of his favorite Justin Timberlake song, or maybe he’ll get laid if he shows everyone his contacts list, just to show how important he is to the world.

 When I was 16, the only phone I had, was a Dixie cup tied to a damn string. Do you know how many contacts I had? Well I have no idea, the only people in my contacts list were the people who pitied me enough to pick up the other cup and talk back to me.  One day someone cut the string and I thought I went def!  The next day after I realized that I hadn’t gone def my mom just got sick of talking to me.  

Soon, I met a cute little gal named Sally.  She climbed up into my tree house and I sat in my room as we chatted across the lawn with our phones.  And ya’ know what was really awkward? Phone sex, because right afterwords I’d have to talk into that thing.  And the worse part was the damn telemarketers still got a hold of me.  I’d be sitting at the dinner table with my parents, and my cup would ring.  I usually didn’t answer, because, of course, I didn’t have caller i.d, and I always thought some woman named Dixie was calling me.

That was life back then and that is how it should be now.  Oh crap, I have to go, either I’m getting a call, or someone tied the other end of the string to the cat again.