The other night at the bar, I dropped my iPhone in the toilet.
This is a public toilet, mind you, and the piss-infected toilet water was such a deep shade of yellow that it was almost orange. That’s a shitload of mixed stranger’s piss and who the hell knows what kind of STDs, but I didn’t hesitate for a second to plunge my hand in after it. I was able to pull my phone out before any serious damage was done and then very quickly ran it under the faucet in order to wash off the AIDS. Then of course I washed my hands, put my dick back in my pants, and joined my friends back at the bar, where I immediately told them what happened. The women of course are like, “Ew!” but the males said, “Fuck yeah, I would have done the same thing!” Dudes understand that $400 is a lot of money. I have insurance, but it doesn’t cover cracked phones and I’m guessing toilet piss is out of the plan.
The point is how addicted to this phone I’ve become, because it wasn’t money that crossed my mind when watching my lifeline fall in the piss. It was more like, “HOLY, FUCK! MY FUCKING PHONE!! MY WHOLE LIFE!!!”
It was pure panic. I probably would have dived in if it had been a pool of piss. Floating turds, I wouldn’t have cared. It was as if watching the child I don’t have drown in the ocean and here’s the thing: I don’t get a crazy number of emails. I’m not one of these Instagram models that gets 5,000 likes every picture, and only a very select group of people text message me on the reg. My phone isn’t really a “lifeline” at all. I just think it is. Anytime I’m away from it for any period of time, I expect my home screen to be flooded with notifications, which it usually isn’t rare.
My iPhone activity breaks down like so:
15% – Text messages.
5% – Facebook.
5% – Instagram.
30% – Twitter.
30% – Games.
10% – Email.
1% – Phone calls.
2% – Voice mails.
2% – Flashlight.
It’s pathetic, I know. Why am I so attached to this fucking thing? 13% of my iPhone use is actually worth a fuck. Everything else is bullshit, but somehow I’m convinced I can’t live without it. Maybe next time I can drop it on the sidewalk, watch it bounce in the street, and be killed by a Mack truck while trying to save it.
—JESSE ANDREW
Commenting? Commenting is for ADHD-riddled narcissists whose parents didn’t fill their attention quota growing up. But I guess that’s pretty much everyone nowadays. Still, people who think they’re current when they say stupid shit like “Voltaire would have been a heavy commenter had he lived today” need to have their ass kicked, and told why.
AH, PISS ON IT! HAHAHAHAHA
Voltaire WAS a heavy commenter. Also, haven’t you seen those graffiti scribbles around the walls of Rome talking about how huge the swords of all the gladiators were? Plus you can’t kick my ass; I’m on a computer. Toodles.
This had more gayness than Greg Louganis. That rhymed. BOI-EEE!!!
why did he have his phone out while he was pissing?
That’s as nice as the ‘restroom’ in Trainspotting. He dove for a suppository/pill, though.
To Brock Samson:
If graffiti is typically of the lower classes, it makes you wonder how all that Roman graffiti was written, and who would read it, if, as our history lessons teach us, almost everybody at that time was supposed to be illiterate.
And to Mr. Belvedere:
If you are a phone-bot, when it rings, you answer. Even if it doesn’t ring, you check it anyway or maybe just look at it.
touché, fucker.
Urine is sterile