So you think you’re pretty chic with your nicely pressed shirt, cyclopto-strapped backpack and Supercut. You’ve got your friends, your style, your “popularity.” But let me let you in on a little secret, my friend: my cell phone is cooler than you.
Your frictionless social interaction earns you many an acquaintance, I’m sure. But the svelte image with which you mask yourself is as transparent as my genuine leather, hip-mounted carrying case’s glare-reducing window. Oh, in case you didn’t know (you didn’t) ‘svelte’ means smooth, slender, and refined. Like my phone. That’s why I named it Svelte.
People enjoy your company; you’re “fun to be with.” Next time you set out to entertain, just remember that your glowing personality is but flickering candle-light compared to my cell phone’s crystal azure backlit display. And while your luminescence fizzles pitifully as it peters out and dies, my display could signal distant aircraft on a sun-scorched day for thirty seconds at a time.
What’s that, another clever remark to your neighbor during class? My cell phone’s got an unlimited supply of pop superhits in its ringer bank eagerly awaiting the opportunity to drown out your pitifully stale witticisms. You hear that catchy tune? Sound familiar? That is the synthesized slap of my cell phone’s spring-loaded, button-action, Matrix-style face plate branding your forehead from a rung far beyond your reach on the social ladder. Metaphorically speaking.
That’s right, I purposely have one of my many friends with cell phones call me during lecture. So I’ll take my lunch box, take my books, take my teacher’s dirty looks. I’ll take my superior social standing too. You like that line? My cell phone came up with it.
Oh-ho! So you’ve got a cell phone of your own? Yours must be the one spewing out the cliche, preprogrammed retch that only the deaf have had the fortune of escaping. That “Ppffft” audible above your pathetically passe synthesized phone ‘mix’ was the sound of condescending air surging through my pursed lips in your inferior direction. Even now, my cell phone is text-messaging a scathing, expletive-laced transcript of my silent judgments to you. I didn’t even have to type it in. Svelte and I are tight like that.
I see you talking; physically interacting with people. God forbid one of your disease-infested friends sneezes on your face, thereby transmitting thousands of flesh-liquefying viruses to your quivering, feeble body. Bet you’d have lots of fun with your pals when your eyes are nothing but sunken cesspools of writhing viral death.
I don’t need anyone in my physical proximity. I have had a surgical procedure performed in which my genitals were replaced with a 2.5-millimeter, gold-plated audio plug. When I’m not safely conversing with Svelte’s invisible headset, we are locked together in an embrace sweeter than the succulent nectar of a spring flower’s bloom.
Let me put it this way: you are a unsuspecting, gazelle-like candy bar and I’ve got a ravenous Li-on battery with one hell of a sweet tooth. So if you’ll excuse me, you simpering Charleston Chew, I’m going to do you a favor and leave before Svelte ferociously devours his last bar.