More Like Cell Bone

For the past year, I have been fighting an unwinnable war with my cell phone. The son-of-a-weinerbiscuit won't ring if I'm at home or at work, leaving me to hold most of my conversations at Arby's or in the bathroom of the bingo parlor. It's completely understandable that the phone won't work at my office, since it's not so much of an office as it is a folding chair and some crayons in a drainage ditch. That's probably not prime cellular territory. But my apartment? I pay a lot of scrap metal to live in such a swankdified, hip-happenin' place. You'd think with the amount of handsome, rich people in the joint (including me, the maintenance dudes, and Octopussy), they'd move the coverage area just for us. Not only that, but the few times I have stumbled into a neighbor's place on accident, the inhabitants have made it very clear that their cell phones do indeed work, and that they won't hesitate to call the National Guard if I don't vacate the premises. I've called their bluffs enough times now to know that the service probably works here, and if anything is to blame, it is the phone that I made out of twigs and mucus.

Since I am poor and lazy, for the past year, I've had to make due. After trial and error, I came up with a system where I could almost use my phone. I discovered there was an 8 inch rectangle on my windowsill where the service was just strong enough that it might ring if someone were to call. I outlined that area with tape so that anytime I was inside my apartment, I could set the phone exactly inside the hallowed rectangle of reception. Then, once it rang, I would grab the phone and run for the parking lot, shoving aside all old ladies and children who got in my way. While this method was effective roughly 60% of the time, it was highly inconducive to my life of sloth and obesity, and thus needed to be replaced.

Last week, I finally reached my breaking point. After dropping yet another call from Carlos Jacott's attorneys, I karate chopped my phone in two and marched inside to order a new one. After a thorough search for what was cheapest on Sri Lankan eBay, I made my choice and sent in my bag of pennies. It just came in today. My new phone is much bigger, less cool, and doesn't have any Kenny Loggins ringtones, but I can almost sorta talk in my apartment with it. I can't tell you how excited this makes me. It's enough to make me want to run down the street testifying, but it's kinda muggy outside, so I may just save that for later. Nevertheless, you can now be sure that when you call and I don't answer, it's either because I dislike you or I fell down a well. Then, either start preparing the death threats or call the fire department immediately. Many thanks for your understanding.