I’m thinking about redrawing the couch, since it’s kind of become a staple in so many strips.  I’m also thinking about learning patience and appreciating the little things in life.  Basically, until I figure out how to turn thoughts into reality, I can think any damned thing I want.  We all know that fuck all’s going to come of it.

I actually own 2 or 3 cell phones right now.  Remember that.  That’s important.  Why is that important?  Go fuc… wait.  Sorry.

I hate cell phones.  Well, to be honest the list of things that I DON’T hate could probably fit in my pocket whereas the inventory of the things that fill me with different degrees of loathing could conceivably congest the Library of Congress.  But still, I hate cell phones.  In the ancient days before the second rein of the Bush bloodline, when out of state telephone calls would cost extra and teenagers were forced to actively hunt for porn, if one witnessed a car lolling to and fro on the freeway in a Mr. Magoo-esque fashion, the odds were pretty solid that the person driving was drunk, stoned, or possibly just Asian.  Just sayin’, is all.  At present day you would most assuredly look over and see the sporadic vehicle pilot’s open mouthed gaze fixed upon their electronic leash, thumbs pecking away while they barrel straight at a stalled church bus full of Down syndrome nuns at 75 mph.  To exacerbate my irritation is the fact that this dangerous correspondence is an indication that the art has devolved from dignified communication between lettered acquaintances to the shorthand digital equivalent of grunts and farts.

The classic correspondence:
“Beatrice,
          So tickled was I at the thought that Lady Cocksuckery had entangled herself in the briar patch of her own syphilitic lies and drudgery that I find that I must sit and take a breath each time the memory returns to entertain me.”

The modern correspondence:
“Rotfl… Dat bich iz stupd!  4 reelz!  Dumass!!!!”

This shit makes me want to become a Bond villain.  4 reelz.  This… Ok, listen:  This. Isn’t. Reading.  It isn’t even SPELLING!  I happen to suffer from a severe spelling affliction, so I could forgive ‘stupd’, but the nesting of imaginary words flanking both sides of it was once recognized as a symptom of mercury poisoning.  I understand that most of these people have limited understanding of things like grammar, sentence structure, pronunciation, and English, but there is no excuse for the pure lack of any sort of evolution of this… texting.  Look, if I wrote 20-30 notes to people a day, I am fairly confident that my spelling and word usage would show a moderate level of improvement.  Makes sense, right?  Right!  Instead of improvement, texting seems to settle the languid population into the lowest common grammatical denominator.  It’s spelling where parties involved put forth just enough effort to be understood, and not so much as a thin sliver more.

Compound this barbarity with the imbecilic practice of performing these actions while poorly controlling a 2 ton vehicle with your knees in a crowded thoroughfare.  What we are left with is one more justification to separate these idiots from the rest of us (or just from me… whatever) and introduce a bullet to the back of their heads while they imagine where they’re going to put the rabbit stables.  There are things that you should not do while driving:

Texting
Origami
Cunnilingus
Defuse a bomb
Sleep
Build a bomb
Fellatio
Texting
Heart surgery
Poop

I hear tell from the old timers that in the days of way back, in the long long ago people would rely on a mystical power called ‘Common Sense’ to tell them these things.  Then man rose up and killed their Gods.

4 reelz.