Today, I visited the men’s room at my local Starbucks and “sat down.” I began to fumble with my phone and wish people Happy Birthday on FB. Unfortunately, one of my big manly thumbs unknowingly hit an app that took a movie of me sitting on the throne. The other big manly thumb of mine accidentally hit the “send” button to the Birthday-ee. Now, if this was sent to one of my lug head friends, like Bo Montague, an incurable reprobate, no big deal. But alas, this was sent to an elderly lady friend of mine, a fine Christian woman to boot. She’s on the Altar Guild! No doubt, all the ladies at the Westminster Canterbury senior center are talking about what a sick puppy Rob Smith is. Sorry ladies……
I would say my reputation is in the toilet, but in order to ruin one’s reputation, one has to have a reputation to lose. I lost mine years ago through various acts of chicanery and pettifoggery. Then I turned 8. Ahh, what the hell, water off a duck’s back. No penitence for me, I’ve done worse.
One such technological foible happened in 2004. I had gotten divorced and moved into a newneighborhood. A tall blond, who I didn’t know brought me a casserole. Since she fed me, I felt obliged to be nice for a short spell. One night she came over and read me poetry ( high brow stuff, it barely rhymed) and another night we went and watched a foreign film at one of those places where little wispy guys smoke clove cigarettes and wear turtlenecks. Oh, the poetry reading. Let me clarify. It was not nekid poetry reading which most guys can stomach, but just plain old poetry reading. So she emailed me a few times, and I of course being a mature man, completely ignored her missives. Suzanne Apple who is a fine and upstanding lass from Memphis would often coach me via long distance on how not to be a boorish pig. Apple told me I needed to respond. I emailed Apple and told her how I was afraid that Miss fully clothed “Emily Dickinson” was going to boil a rabbit on my stove. As I recall, I used the quaint Elizabethan word “shrew” a couple times as well as every woman’s favorite descriptive noun, the dreaded “B” word. I was really just “funnin” with my pal Miss Apple. Then when I hit the send button,….., ooops,….the email went to Miss Dickinson. Oh well, I’ve done worse……..
Ever had 2 or 3 people text you at the same time and you text one of them a text meant for the other? You know how girls text each other little smiley faces and red little hearts to convey how much they love their friend. Well, guys don’t do that. We are incredibly juvenile. We say outrageously rude and vulgar things, often with references to female body parts, farm animals and diminutive male members. I had a super wealthy muckety muck from Dallas call me out of the blue one day. I solved a vexing tax problem he thought had no resolution. He had spent millions trying to solve it. I solved it over the phone. He loved me. He praised me. The next Monday he was coming to visit me in Richmond. No doubt, I thought, he will exhibit his appreciation by bringing me a suit case full of $100 bills. Over the weekend, I had one of those multiple texts moments. Mistakenly, while he was on the 18th green of his fancy Dallas club and about to putt to win the match, he got a text from me telling him he had a tiny penis and an affinity for little boys. I immediately
realized my faux pas. Sh–, there goes the suitcase full of $$. An hour later, he called. Here it comes I thought…..and then he spoke; “got your text, I laughed my ass off. It relaxed me and I made the big putt!”
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Real men, the go-getter, hunter gatherer types, the types that make the world work send crude, juvenile and vulgar texts to their buds. This is what makes us men. The type of men who are offended by these types of texts drink cucumber water and have ugly wives and girl friends.
In fact, it is fair to say, western civilization owes its very existence to men sending crude, juvenile texts to one another. Caesar would have never conquered Gaul and Gutenberg would have never invented the printing press without the comforting support of their buds accusing them of having sex with farm animals. Verizon just discovered text messages from 1776 indicating that Washington would have never crossed the Delaware without Ben Franklin texting him to tell him he had a little weenie (no doubt true on that evening).
Hi there! Such a wonderful post, thanks!