You know, there used to be a time before cell phones existed when people took great pains to do two very important things:
a. Keep their noses out of their neighbors’ business, and
b. Keep certain aspects of their personal lives private.
Apparently, this is no longer true. I won’t go into the near-impossibility of keeping most facets of your life a secret when you actually want to, nowadays (technology has made this somewhat problematic if not damned near impossible). However, one would think that some things about most people’s private lives that should be kept secret would remain safely hidden if only cell phones had not become ubiquitous…
…and if the people who insist on using them in a public setting had the same sense you’re likely to find in a brain-damaged Irish Setter.
As an example, I’ll tell you a tale with which my girlfriend, the lovely Lady Tess Trueheart (names are changed to protect the innocent), regaled me with just this afternoon.
Tess was sitting in her doctor’s office this morning, patiently awaiting her turn to see her physician, when in came a type of woman that Lady Trueheart’s sainted mother used to aptly refer to as “low-grade ore”. You know the type; she only managed to get through high school because she had once been voted “Most Likely to Swallow...Often”. She’s probably had at least two husbands – both alcoholic and/or abusively deviant, no doubt – and in-between them a whole legion of hot-dog-and-a-hump dates. She’s rapidly approaching 60, but clings to 45 with a desperation that reminds you of the Boat People fleeing Vietnam after the fall of Saigon.
According to Tess, I would have known this type in an instant by her “ratty-blond hair”, and indeed, I unfortunately do. Without much more in the way of eyewitness description, I can tell you the rest by describing the vision that leaped into my head upon hearing the words “ratty blond”.
I picture someone in acid-wash jeans two sizes too small, which only serves to accentuate her two-tiered muffin top, which itself is further augmented when she tries to sit in a waiting room chair; the backrest forces all that extra, doughy flesh forward for full effect. One gets the impression that if you were to picture such woman sitting naked on the toilet, and having to scratch her belly button, you somehow know that she would have to lean forward and reach down between her knees in order to accomplish the task.
And then you wonder what the fuck is wrong with you that you pictured this shambling hulk of a human being naked and on the toilet.
But I digress…
Anyway, the point is that this is a person who apparently has no shame, no real notion of what should and should not be discussed in public, and who then probably has learned how to use a cell phone inside a sawmill. Personally, I incline towards her being clueless, but let’s not put too fine a point on it.
Shambling Hulk of Belly Fat gets on her phone, inside a crowded waiting room, and calls her girlfriend (who one imagines is pretty much a carbon copy of Jabba The Butt, only in rhinestone spandex and stiletto-heeled boots that clash with her walker), and begins one of those annoyingly one-sided conversations that we normal folk must suffer since the invention of the Mobile Phone and the advent of Facebook began the decline of Western Civilization. I’ll spell it out phonetically for you, just so you get the full effect of the New York Accent:
“Yeah…I wuz sittin’ here, an’ I remembah’ed dat I had a apperntment wid dis udder doctah dat I fergit all aboud. An’ you know, I hadda call ‘em back, because dat’s da doctah dat’s lookin’ at the cysts I got on my over-ees an’ fall-oh-bian toobs…”
Great. As if looking at the Human version of the Titanic was not enough to give you douchechills, you now have to be informed about the most intimate details of her plumbing. A pussy that no person in their right mind wants to know anything about; a snatch most men with a decent fear of STD’s wouldn’t even dream of fucking, even with a stolen penis. And that, incidentally, was not just for Lovely Tess Trueheart’s consumption, but apparently also for the benefit of the 17 or 18 other people in the room who were also previously woefully misinformed about the status of Ms. Titanic’s Toxic Twat.
Of course, the rest of the conversation (which went on for some time), naturally, was much the same, leading the (I’m told) usually-stoic male receptionist to sadly shake his head. Since he didn’t puke immediately at the mention of Lady Chattery’s Unmentionable, I’ll just assume he’s gay, and that feeble gesture was simply the best he could muster without throwing a heavy piece of office equipment in her direction and telling her to shut the fuck up about her Diseased Beaver, already.
Things could be worse, and of course, they certainly did get that way. For while My Beloved was waiting in the Eighth Ring of Hell where Dante apparently forgot to mention that they keep the Public Pubic People, I was suffering my own version of the Public Private conversation clear on the other side of the island.
I had occasion to pass through a certain section of the neighborhood on my way to the supermarket, where my ears were accosted by yet more public pussy talk.
Apparently you will find people possessed of just enough animal intelligence to eat, shit, and fuck without government assistance, and sadly, operate a cell phone, just about everywhere,.. So, here I am, simply walking up the street and minding my own business, when I heard…and then saw…It.
“It” is a very large black woman, and when I say “large”, I mean that I have hardly ever seen anyone who could wear size 52 pants, or thereabouts, who wasn’t already lying on a flatbed tow truck, strapped down like King Kong in order to keep their shifting weight from causing the vehicle to topple in a tight turn. Or having the Fire Department tear down the outer walls of their dwelling in order to affect a rescue with a backhoe and elephant chains. Why, it was a miracle that this woman could even walk; I could hear her thighs rubbing together from 20 paces, and was surprised that she hadn’t burst into flame from the intense friction. Had she worn corduroys, it’s entirely possible that upon hearing that sound of rubbing thighs, one might imagine that God was about to deal a hand of Texas Hold ‘Em, and was shuffling an enormous deck of cards.
I hate to belabor the point, but you know I'm compelled to; this woman is so fat that when she had her ears pierced, she probably leaked gravy for 72 hours. She is so fat that the blood bank classifies her blood type as “Ragu”. She has canckles: that combination of flabby calf and ankle that spills over the side of her shoes and has you wondering how she copes with the problem of unexpectedly finding that excess skin occasionally getting under her own heels while walking.
Anyway, It had a cell phone, too. And was screaming into it. I managed to overhear a snippet of conversation, which, frankly, wasn’t all that difficult to overhear from 25’ away, since she was literally screaming at the top of her, (obviously working overtime) lungs. Again, I shall spell it out phonetically for you:
“Oh no, Niggah, don’ go dare! You cain’t say dat when ya KNOW you wuz beggin’ me to suck yo’ dick two weeks ago! When you know ya wuz beggin’ ta hit dis shit! Oh no ya dinnit, Niggah. Niggah, pa-leeze, ya know ya said dat shit, ya know ya said dat shit, don’ go an’ deny it now, mothafuckah, ya wanna git wit me.”
I could listen to no more, a) for fear of bursting out laughing, and b) because the more I looked at It, the more I wondered just what sort of crazy-brave asshole took a run at THAT. You have to be either psychotically desperate or some kind of demented-super-horny to even consider potentially endangering your health and safety just for the slightest chance to pork Ol’ USDA-on-The-Hoof. Never mind “roll her in flour and aim for the wet spot”; this would be more like “Strap a board across your ass and have a length of rope handy because you otherwise just might fall in and never be heard from again”.
And this was just TODAY. You’d be astounded at the embarrassing (to normal people) conversations I’ve overheard – all against my will, I assure you -- on public transport on a daily basis. Usually from all manner of unhinged, baffled, unglued, berserk, screwball, insipid and vacant souls talking freely (and loudly) about their familial problems, addictions, sexual exploits, arrest records, deviant behaviors, recent criminal activities, all exposing their better-off-closeted skeletons.
Don’t get me started on what one is liable to hear in what were once considered more respectable places, like restaurants and offices. For sure don’t ask me about these sorts of conversations when they take place in the most inappropriate of venues – Men’s Rooms, Elevators, a department store changing room. It’s bad enough that the individual’s privacy is slowly being eroded by a combination of legislation, government interference, technological “progress’, and declining social norms (of which things like Facebook, MySpace, and YouTube are the visible pustules of a degenerative disease); now we have to have our personal space forcefully violated by the Rude and Stupid who insist on invading it with their own personal crapolla.
And human nature being what it is, you just know that if you asked one of these douchebags to simply have some courtesy and self-respect, and not air their dirty laundry in this manner you’re certain to get either a punch in the nose, or a sharp rebuke about “minding your own fuckin’ business”.
Honestly, I’d be more than happy to mind my own fuckin’ business, except that people who behave this way have made their business my business (and everyone else’s, too) because they lack a) manners, b) grace, and c) intelligence.
Some might say that the deadliest instruments ever conceived by man are Nuclear Weapons, but I beg to differ: the deadliest instruments ever created by man are the transistor and the several generations of complete retards who have inherited it’s now-questionable bounty.
I’m reminded of an old saw that goes something like this:
“If you try to teach a chimpanzee to write, one of two things happens -- he either learns, or he eventually gets frustrated and sticks the pen in your eye”.
Nowadays the chimpanzees don’t even have to write, mostly just speak, and in one of those Great Ironies of The Universe, Man utilizes his opposable thumbs (one of the few things that separates him from the Lower Primates) to text and cell-phone his way through the devolution back into Baboonhood.
Unfortunately, we’re unable to shoot people on sight whenever they make it perfectly clear that they’re drooling idiots, so another solution must be found. In another of those Great Cosmic Ironies, perhaps the Tree Huggers are right in advocating that we might be better off as a society if all progress were simply arrested by regulation, or starved of the energy that makes it all possible.
At least I wouldn’t have to hear all about what some rather nasty excuses for women are saying about and doing with their vaginas in the pubic…err…public square.