The Receiver

Many times in the past I've layed out in great detail the reasons why I am the owner of the worst cellular phone ever manufactured. More than a year ago in a sweatshop in China some 12 year old kid working for a buck an hour was responsible for the creation of this phone. I often wonder if after he had cranked out his 5,000th phone for the day and started off on his walk home, if a faint smile cracked on his face because he knew that the 5,000 items he just helped create will ruin peoples lives? For instance; mine?

Now in the past, I've gone into great detail about my hatred and deep loathing of my Nokia 3560 "suck phone", but I'm not going to do that today." Because the problem I'm currently having with my phone has nothing to do with the creator of the phone, but rather the operator.

The Weekend
It was one of those wild, drunken, blurry, tripping over your feet, hopping on Chicago elevated trains of various colors in different patterns in hopes of getting to random parties, pounding beers with those whom you tend to play games of ice hockey with, sometimes known as a team, and a crazy, out of control clown you knew from college kind of night.

And at some point I spilled my beer. This happens sometimes. You know? and sometimes it's unfortunate and heartbreaking and your friend says, "oh no, I'm going to need to wipe this up with a generic brand paper towel," or "I'm going to end your life for spilling that Michelob Ultra on my mom's designer couch, because that 2.6 grams of carbs will never come out of this priceless upholstery", or sometimes you just laugh and put a newspaper or a magazine over the spill hoping that maybe it will just magically go away, but it doesn't, and its sticky, and it's a mess, and it's only funny if it's not your apartment. But sometimes none of that happens and you spill the beer all over the face of your cell phone.

Yeah your phone. Which is great. Cause cheap plastic phones that didn't work well in the first place usually tend to work so much more effectively when they've been doused with a healthy splash of barley and hops. or not.

And my vote is not, based on the evidence I've collected as a result of being the owner of a phone which recently got it's first taste of booze.

The Morning After
I woke up the following morning and was introduced to my new phone, or shall I just call it a receiver. Three buttons were casualties. the "8" button, the "3" button and the "contacts" button. Yup, they no longer work. So what does this mean?

Well there was a number "3" in the password for my voicemail. so much for getting messages. The "contacts" button ceases to function. So that's the swan song for my address book. And pretty much 9 times out of 10 most people's phone numbers will likely contain an "8" or a "3." So what I now have is a receiver. People can call me, I can answer, that's about it.

The Girls
So, fuck!!. What do I do now? I mean with like 5 million girls all over the Chicagoland area scrambling to give me their phone number to go on dates or partake in summer flings, what's a entry level sales and marketing jackass with a beer soaked phone to do?

I hate to do this girls, but if you have a "3" or an "8" in your phone number, it's just not going to work out. It's not you, it's not me, it's my motherfucking cell phone. I know you are very heartbroken. My apologies in advance.