Cell Phones And That Very Special Hug   The world better hope that I never win the lottery. The first thing I do is get a medical doctor to write a note, because you can find a doctor somewhere that will write anything if you give them enough cash, stating that I have a rare nerve/muscular condition that causes me to grab cell phones out of other people’s hands and throw them.   Let me explain. The other day I gave some college kid a ride to his place rather than let him freeze. I tried to engage in some light conversation and all I got was grunts and “un-ha’s.” I look over and he is texting somebody. I wanted to ask him if I could see his phone, then roll down my window, toss the thing out into the road, and say, “There is this thing called being polite. I just saved you from three frostbitten toes and a ride on a bus that probably smells like vomit and pee. You can at least act like I am a human being. Here are some Benjamins for the phone.  The lesson is free.”     When cell phones were fairly new, I told friends that I was going to snap the first time I witnessed a homeless person talking on a wireless device. Since then various friends have taken delight in sending me pics of the homeless fishing cans out of dumpsters while talking on the great-grandchild of Thomas Edison’s invention.  In fact I have read several articles about how some homeless people can now take credit cards and even have their own websites.    At first I was in denial about it. I pointed out that the individual pushing the shopping cart filled with cans, eating what looked like rancid cheese, was probably a hipster. The only way to tell the difference between those down on their luck and hipsters is the homeless bathe more frequently and would not be caught dead drinking PBR, Keystone, or Schlitz. [Hey! I like PBR and Schlitz! – pub.]   Like global warming, Nickelback fans, and exciting soccer games, I have had to accept that the homeless do have mobile phones. I am at peace with the fact that they probably have Facebook pages and Instagram accounts filled with selfies of them posing with the other voices in their heads. Again, kind of like hipsters. I am reserving my right to have a conniption fit when I have concrete proof that they are sexting. It would just confirms the homeless have a better chance at love than I do.   I have had my rants about cell phones in theaters. I cannot go to movies anymore, especially when the place resembles a Christmas tree lot with all the cell phones flipped open and texting going on. Unless there is a heart on a table somewhere and you are the surgeon, I think Misty with the barstool attached to her backside can wait on your opinion on what dress she should wear when she goes out tonight.   I know you think you have ninja moves and can cover up the glow of your cell phone screen before anyone else can see it, but you don’t. You really don’t.  If you cannot go two hours without looking at your phone, pretend that a movie theater is like church and don’t go.   Respect your fellow movie patrons. Stop glancing at it. Giving a “thumbs up” to your friends’ Facebook status can wait. That amazing picture of lettuce on Pinterest will still be there in twenty or thirty minutes.   (In league with this, if your grandfather has just dropped dead at your feet, don’t make it a Facebook status. I have a fear that the last thing I will see, after clutching my chest, before entering the tunnel of light, is some loved one taking a selfie of themselves next to my prone, growing colder body.)   Give those around you a little respect, even the cashier at the checkout stand that is trying to make ends meet on a salary that your five year old would have a hissy fit if the tooth fairy left it under their pillow. They have to look at your Lean Cuisine and bottle of Mogen David. They don’t need to have you wave your hand at them as you try to talk to your friend Cindy about her foot fungus as you fish around in your purse for your debt card.   Multi-tasking just means doing two or more things badly.   I have lost my cool over young people on dates looking at their cell phones instead of each other. I know this is the era of yoga pants, volleyball shorts, riding boots and backpacks from Victoria’s Secret, and young women don’t seem to ask much out of a prospective boyfriend and have to give a blow by blow account of their date to their friends.   I come from a generation of kids that came into their hormonal prime with teachers and headlines screaming that you were going to die if you had sex, the era of AIDS.  A girl in overalls or sweatpants was as sexy as you were going to get.    Do you know how hard you had to work to convince a young woman that you might be worthy of death? You would stand on your head, juggle three balls, and play a trumpet with your backside, all at the same time, to garner a girl’s attention.   So guys, at least, make an effort to make her think she is the most important thing in the world to you.   I have ranted about all these things, but, America, you have gone too far.  To use Ghostbusters’ terminology, you have crossed the streams. It is one thing to use your cell phone while driving your car. It just means your smart phone is smarter than you and Darwin’s survival of the fittest is probably still at work. But Americans are now using their cell phones while having sex.   Nine, almost ten, percent of Americans admit using their cell phone while in the midst of that very special mommy and daddy hug.  That percentage doubles among the age group 18 to 34. Okay, first, if you can text your neighbor about who is going to bring apple slices and juice boxes to your kid’s soccer game tomorrow, one of the two of you are not doing something right, probably both.   It is also not the time to take a selfie.  Again, at best, you are going to have a facial expression that resembles something akin to having just licked the bugs off the front grill of your vehicle.  If you are in a long term relationship, there comes that moment where you beg and plead to have a romantic evening and they get the look in their eyes like it is another day in the coalmine, like they are Cool Hand Luke on a chain gang and you are the man with no eyes.   While it might seem like an amusement park ride for one person, just think what it does for someone’s self-esteem if they are pretending they are Don Juan and their partner is emailing their grandma’s apple pie recipe to a friend or watching cat videos on YouTube. It just adds insult to injury.   I already refuse to touch someone else’s cell phone because I know most people text and surf the Internet while sitting on the toilet. This just adds another layer of germs and things that go bump in the night that a flamethrower could not kill. Cell phones are already people’s personal Walmart grocery cart handle. This just adds another layer to why I don’t want my mouth near it.   I once had a girlfriend that carried her cell phone everywhere. One time when we were making out on the couch she accidently rolled over on it and speed dialed her mother. Nothing kills the mood faster than a hearing a mother scream out of nowhere, “What is going on? Why are you breathing so hard? Are you okay, baby? Are you okay?  Talk to me, baby. Mommy is going to call 9-1-1.” Try looking your girlfriend’s parents in the eyes after that. For the love of God, people, enough is enough… Wait, I got a text.          
Cell Phones And That Very Special Hug   The world better hope that I never win the lottery. The first thing I do is get a medical doctor to write a note, because you can find a doctor somewhere that will write anything if you give them enough cash, stating that I have a rare nerve/muscular condition that causes me to grab cell phones out of other people’s hands and throw them.   Let me explain. The other day I gave some college kid a ride to his place rather than let him freeze. I tried to engage in some light conversation and all I got was grunts and “un- ha’s.” I look over and he is texting somebody. I wanted to ask him if I could see his phone, then roll down my window, toss the thing out into the road, and say, “There is this thing called being polite. I just saved you from three frostbitten toes and a ride on a bus that probably smells like vomit and pee. You can at least act like I am a human being. Here are some Benjamins for the phone.  The lesson is free.”     When cell phones were fairly new, I told friends that I was going to snap the first time I witnessed a homeless person talking on a wireless device. Since then various friends have taken delight in sending me pics of the homeless fishing cans out of dumpsters while talking on the great-grandchild of Thomas Edison’s invention.  In fact I have read several articles about how some homeless people can now take credit cards and even have their own websites.    At first I was in denial about it. I pointed out that the individual pushing the shopping cart filled with cans, eating what looked like rancid cheese, was probably a hipster. The only way to tell the difference between those down on their luck and hipsters is the homeless bathe more frequently and would not be caught dead drinking PBR, Keystone, or Schlitz. [Hey! I like PBR and Schlitz! – pub.]   Like global warming, Nickelback fans, and exciting soccer games, I have had to accept that the homeless do have mobile phones. I am at peace with the fact that they probably have Facebook pages and Instagram accounts filled with selfies of them posing with the other voices in their heads. Again, kind of like hipsters. I am reserving my right to have a conniption fit when I have concrete proof that they are sexting. It would just confirms the homeless have a better chance at love than I do.   I have had my rants about cell phones in theaters. I cannot go to movies anymore, especially when the place resembles a Christmas tree lot with all the cell phones flipped open and texting going on. Unless there is a heart on a table somewhere and you are the surgeon, I think Misty with the barstool attached to her backside can wait on your opinion on what dress she should wear when she goes out tonight.   I know you think you have ninja moves and can cover up the glow of your cell phone screen before anyone else can see it, but you don’t. You really don’t.  If you cannot go two hours without looking at your phone, pretend that a movie theater is like church and don’t go.   Respect your fellow movie patrons. Stop glancing at it. Giving a “thumbs up” to your friends’ Facebook status can wait. That amazing picture of lettuce on Pinterest will still be there in twenty or thirty minutes.   (In league with this, if your grandfather has just dropped dead at your feet, don’t make it a Facebook status. I have a fear that the last thing I will see, after clutching my chest, before entering the tunnel of light, is some loved one taking a selfie of themselves next to my prone, growing colder body.)   Give those around you a little respect, even the cashier at the checkout stand that is trying to make ends meet on a salary that your five year old would have a hissy fit if the tooth fairy left it under their pillow. They have to look at your Lean Cuisine and bottle of Mogen David. They don’t need to have you wave your hand at them as you try to talk to your friend Cindy about her foot fungus as you fish around in your purse for your debt card.   Multi-tasking just means doing two or more things badly.   I have lost my cool over young people on dates looking at their cell phones instead of each other. I know this is the era of yoga pants, volleyball shorts, riding boots and backpacks from Victoria’s Secret, and young women don’t seem to ask much out of a prospective boyfriend and have to give a blow by blow account of their date to their friends.   I come from a generation of kids that came into their hormonal prime with teachers and headlines screaming that you were going to die if you had sex, the era of AIDS.  A girl in overalls or sweatpants was as sexy as you were going to get.    Do you know how hard you had to work to convince a young woman that you might be worthy of death? You would stand on your head, juggle three balls, and play a trumpet with your backside, all at the same time, to garner a girl’s attention.   So guys, at least, make an effort to make her think she is the most important thing in the world to you.   I have ranted about all these things, but, America, you have gone too far.  To use Ghostbusters’ terminology, you have crossed the streams. It is one thing to use your cell phone while driving your car. It just means your smart phone is smarter than you and Darwin’s survival of the fittest is probably still at work. But Americans are now using their cell phones while having sex.   Nine, almost ten, percent of Americans admit using their cell phone while in the midst of that very special mommy and daddy hug.  That percentage doubles among the age group 18 to 34. Okay, first, if you can text your neighbor about who is going to bring apple slices and juice boxes to your kid’s soccer game tomorrow, one of the two of you are not doing something right, probably both.   It is also not the time to take a selfie.  Again, at best, you are going to have a facial expression that resembles something akin to having just licked the bugs off the front grill of your vehicle.  If you are in a long term relationship, there comes that moment where you beg and plead to have a romantic evening and they get the look in their eyes like it is another day in the coalmine, like they are Cool Hand Luke on a chain gang and you are the man with no eyes.   While it might seem like an amusement park ride for one person, just think what it does for someone’s self-esteem if they are pretending they are Don Juan and their partner is emailing their grandma’s apple pie recipe to a friend or watching cat videos on YouTube. It just adds insult to injury.   I already refuse to touch someone else’s cell phone because I know most people text and surf the Internet while sitting on the toilet. This just adds another layer of germs and things that go bump in the night that a flamethrower could not kill. Cell phones are already people’s personal Walmart grocery cart handle. This just adds another layer to why I don’t want my mouth near it.   I once had a girlfriend that carried her cell phone everywhere. One time when we were making out on the couch she accidently rolled over on it and speed dialed her mother. Nothing kills the mood faster than a hearing a mother scream out of nowhere, “What is going on? Why are you breathing so hard? Are you okay, baby? Are you okay?  Talk to me, baby. Mommy is going to call 9-1-1.” Try looking your girlfriend’s parents in the eyes after that. For the love of God, people, enough is enough… Wait, I got a text.