I-phone = Broken Toe by The American Storyteller Oh how I long for the good-old-days when the phone was bolted to the same spot on the wall for the past umpteen years. Callers extended the common courtesy of ringing ten times so that you could leisurely answer. But Now! The landline is gone, replaced by the five rings of the I-phone, and located conveniently where it was last misplaced. A mad dash is made and of course my little toe will be broken, again… When I hear a phone ring, it is necessary to first distinguish the owner of the phone, and only then, where it is in the house. Three people live in my home and we have five cell phones, a mystery to me that comes with an even more mysterious bill every month. The torture of the broken little toe was once reserved for midnight raids on the refrigerator, plotted spontaneously, with little planning, in the dark of the night. However, the horrific, face scrunching, expletive laced, pain of a swollen, broken, black-n-blue little piggy has a new master, the I-phone. “Jane, can you call my cell phone? It was ringing and I can’t find it!” “No I can’t.” “Why not, Jane?” “Because I can’t find my phone!” ~
Posted on: Sat, 02 Aug 2014 14:56:38 +0000
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