cell phone vs. phone booth (part 2)

This post is Part 2 of “cell phone vs. phone booth” by our (vastly misunderstood) contributor, “Jurassic Jim” Fleetwood, embattled host of the U-turn Time Machine Show. Jim’s first post can be found here.

Why Bees & Telephone Booths are Disappearing

by Jurassic Jim Fleetwood

The news is not good.

Each day, over two billion cell-phone addicts are exposed to electromagnetic radiation. True or false? You decide. Here’s a happy customer who just bought an iPhone and is calling his girlfriend as his brain explodes. Does this look like a health hazard to you? Did you ever see the movie, The Fly, starring Jeff Goldblum? Watch it again. Two minutes into the movie, Jeff calls Geena Davis on his cell. Shortly thereafter, he turns into a fly. Coincidence?

Health hazard? What makes you say that? 

“Bees are the most important pollinators of our fruits and vegetables and flowers and crops...More than one third of the world’s crop production is dependent on bee pollination.” – Marla Spivak, American entomologist, and Distinguished McKnight University Professor at the University of Minnesota

Remember this guy?

“A dial tone sounds like a buzzing bee. Coincidence? Or a warning of environmental collapse?” - Jim Fleetwood, Distinguished Host of the U-turn Time Machine Show

What's the difference between this and a polar bear?

No difference. They're both screwed.

Be honest. A phone booth is a cozy, sidewalk meditation-center where you can close the (admittedly filthy) glass door, shut out the ceaseless tumult of passersby, and collect your deranged thoughts before buzzing your soul mate, moms, pops—or the loathsome leech who spotted you at a club last week. Yes, you had made the mistake of standing still by the dance floor for more than three seconds. The leech detected you by scent (a $2 bottle of amber romance mist) and sound vibrations (your cell phone buzzed). The leech dropped from a bar stool, splatted onto the floor, and slithered toward you like an inchworm with (egads!) a strawberry daiquiri. 

Good grief. How many times have you seen this horny dude on the dance floor. Imagine this puny putz oozing your way, and sucking on this pathetic drink? He's the Daiquiri Desperado. Imagine him holding up his cell and taking an unapproved picture of you, while lisping, "Yo, baby, my name ith Thlick. Ya wanna danth? Ya wanna kith me? Wanna thlither to my car and take a thelfie with my thell phone?"

The best protection against a leech is to cover up and use insect repellent. Or call the stalking, bloodsucking worm from a phone booth, and say, “Get the ***k (heck?) outa my life! I got a quarter in my pocket. You are one coin away from me calling the cops.”

Be honest. Ambiance is key. Holding a Samsung Galaxy S6 (the name alone may trigger incontinence) jammed into your ear while surrounded by perverted eavesdroppers in a corporate elevator doesn’t cut it. When you need to get your groove on, to knuckle up the leech and threaten his life, nothing beats a booth. Nothing. You know it. I know it.

We all know it.

If a phone felony is your game plan--verbal assault, homicidal threats--head to the freakin' booth and dial up the leech on a trusty landline with zero Caller ID. Let leech know who's calling the shots, running the show. His stalker days are over. Move from booth to booth, street to street. Threaten his life. Threaten to kick him right square in the daiquiris unless he disappears. In no time he'll be a puddle of pee. And you will reclaim your life.

Thanks to the booth. How do you spell "justice?" B-o-o-t-h. How do you spell "freedom from perverts and stalkers?" B-o-o-t-h. How do you spell "Zen Meditation Temple for Stratospheric Consciousness?" P-h-o-n-e B-o-o-t-h.

Then the 21st century reared its ugly head. Clinical depression skyrocketed. And basically Satan got to check one in the win column.

Once cell phones arrived, the booths, like dodo birds, were easy prey. Dodos once thrived on the island of Mauritius. Booths once thrived on the island of Manhattan, New York. According to the United Nations Environmental Assembly, phone booths, which were endemic to urban areas worldwide for decades, now face imminent extinction. In Manhattan, once mottled with booths on the street, was down to four by 2010. By 2014, two booths were snuffed out by drunk drivers who were texting, and one was attacked with a tire iron by an overzealous Samsung cell phone employee.

One booth remains. One. Tick tock. Once that goes, that’s it. Booths cannot breed, folks.

Who’s to blame? Start with these Four Horsemen of the Phonapocalypse: Samsung, Apple, Huawei, Lenovo. Cell phone assassins. Enablers of global blather that leads to Social Climate Change. Peace and Quiet extinction. Telephone Tourette’s.

It gets worse. Nature abhors a vacuum. As the booth vanishes, what takes it place? What’s appeared across the urban landscape? Same size, same shape. Dear God…this:

How depressing is this?

Porta-Potty. Looks like a booth (occasionally smells like a booth). Gosh, what progress. Hurray for cell phones. What an improvement. It uplifts me...I soar, I sing, I text. Even astronauts are in on it.

One small potty for man,

One giant leap for mankind

Depressed yet? Here's another. I hope a loaded gun isn't within reach of your armchair.

Do Porta-Pottys breed? 

What's your best guess?

Bees, food chain, phone booths, privacy. Going, going, gone. Replaced by genetically modified crops, nonstop blather, exploding brains, and Porta Johns. Grim? Duh? Fortunately there’s a way out. You can get this new app for your smart phone. Here's what it looks like.

Place beside smart phone, pull ring, run.

Well, I mean, doesn't this just say it all? Pictured below, five psychopaths attacking a phone booth. Who are these thugs? Samsung's team of hitmen caught in a covert op. Mission? Destroy the few remaining booths. Predatory capitalism at its worst. Total disregard for our culture's treasures. A triumph of mindless aggression. The uglification of our world. Thanks, boys. I no longer have a compelling reason to get up in the morning. Gracias. Sincerely. Thanks for turning my world into a massive eyesore.

Is there no shame?

You'd think someone with a shred of decency and a cell phone would've called the police? But...no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o. The Thugocracy reigns supreme. So, let's get back to our little flying friend. The one we don't see anymore. Let's get completely depressed. Let's get so depressed that we collapse, and are forced to drag our numb bodies across the floor by our elbows, while chanting: "We live in the best of all possible centuries. Hurray for the 21st century."

Who's the genius who told these guys, "Buzz off?"

This is what happened. The horrendous Law of Unintended Consequences.

The advent of cell phones put phone booths on the endangered species list. Booths are nearly extinct now. Cell phones and cell towers are everywhere, emitting radiation. Brains are cooked, minds destroyed, dreams trampled, which may explain the widespread celebrity status of the Kardashians. Unfortunately, the radiation also KO'd the bees. Honey bees are disappearing at an alarming rate. Zillions. Every freaking time someone makes a call on their cell ("Yo, Brenda? It's me, Joey, the hunky hunkster..."), a bee gets radiation poisoning and drops through the air like a rock. Bang, gone, see ya. So, you may ask, "Holy shit, Jim. What will happen to our food chain?" This: bang, gone, see ya.

It gets worse. See this guy here? The guy who hasn't had a date in 20 years?

Obscene phone caller working his magic.

This asthmatic weasel spends each night calling orphanages, convents and convalescent homes, sharing his breathy objectives with orphans, nuns and the elderly. Each time he picks up his cell phone, a bee dies. Each time he asks a nun, "What are you wearing?" -- another link breaks in the food chain. Global hunger spreads like an Exxon oil spill in coastal waters.

What nerve. The obscene phone caller lives to see another day. The bumble bee takes the hit. Are you serious? Each time you hear a dial tone buzz, think of a bee pleading for its life, begging you to use a landline.

Yes, bees and booths, together, over the cliff. We're all going to get snuffed out, one call at a time. Why not call the local funeral home, make an appointment, get it over with. Cause of death: "cellicide." Or: "I was diagnosed with incurable Nokia."

Wait. Stop. I'm not a buzzkiller. Here's the good news. What priceless treasure have we moderns gotten in return for the mass execution of bees?

This:

Inventor of iPhone at Apple Headquarters

Progress. Oh, yippee.

Bring back the booths.

Later,
Jim Fleetwood

[to be continued]

cell phone vs. phone booth - by Jurassic Jim Fleetwood

Here at The Museum of Sudden Disappearances, we would like to thank "Jurassic Jim" Fleetwood for today's guest post. 

Jim sent this impassioned plea from "parts unknown," his whereabouts still a mystery. We are always delighted (relieved) to hear from him. As readers of the Jurassic Jim thrillers already know, Jim is a bit out-of-step with the times. Not that he cares. Among other concerns, Jim doesn't understand why so many wonderful and beautiful things must fade and disappear from our world, and be replaced by things of lesser value. Perhaps he has a point. You decide. 

Posted is the initial salvo of his lengthy dispatch, pictures included. The rest will soon follow. What's it about? It's a heartfelt celebration of phone booths, and their unwarranted disappearance. Some say Jim occasionally values passion over logic, heart over head. No argument here. Stay tuned for the next installment. 

Herewith, his spirited missive--a celebration of the obsolete telephone booth.

Sincerely,

Tom Davidson
Museum Blog CEO (janitor)

* * *

MUSEUM READERS...WARNING: I urge you to turn off your phone before reading this. This is a cell-free zone.

Phone booth...or meditation chamber?

Going, Going, Gone.....the Telephone Booth

iPhone

uPhone

WeAllPhone

Welcome to iArmageddon

What's iArmageddon? It's the final battle between cell phones and humans who crave 10 seconds of peace and quiet per day. 

Yes. iArmageddon. Where Apple iPhones blast our brains, erode meditative silence, and pave the way for the end of the world through nonstop chatter. Holy crap. What's that I see? Storm clouds are gathering on the Verizon.

[NOTE: Nostradamus, the cranky French seer, coined the word "iArmageddon" 500 years ago when he warned that "...round Earth is like a round, rotten Apple, and endtimes will worm through its core." But hey, to be fair, this dude said a lot of sketchy stuff.]

You ask: When did the world lose its mind? When this device appeared on the marketplace -- a plastic barnacle welded to everyone's head. What exactly does iArmageddon look like? You're holding it in your hand. This addictive tool (think crack with apps), the size of a hand grenade, is dropping the curtain on the 21st century. 

Let's cut to the chase (before you get another annoying call coming in). Picture it. A dark and stormy night. You're alone downtown at midnight. 

Will I get home alive?

You suddenly see a "lumpy thing" barreling your way like a gut-shot bear in the rain. It's half-human, half-metrosexual. When it screeches, it sounds like a tow truck having sex with an aluminum garbage can. You attempt to escape on the wet pavement, but slip and fall in your $900 hi-top sneakers with goofy zippers. The lumpy monster closes in. It smells worse than a sauerkraut fart, but never as bad as blue cheese. What to do? Surrender. If you try to whale on the monster with your puny cell phone, you will die of humiliation. Once your self-respect takes a lethal blow, it's over. If you must die, die with dignity.

This dinky dude pictured below? Be honest. Does this little puke look like he can stop the lumpy monster? 

No freakin' way. His batteries will die while your ass is on the line. Guaranteed. He's not a cell phone; he's an accessory to murder. Look at him. Is that the face of remorse? I don't think so. Not by a long shot. You call for help in the middle of the night, downtown, and his power goes out. Screw him. Put him in prison where he belongs, a cell phone in a cell. Stick him in with gen pop. Turn the tables. Make him call for help. 911. See how he likes it. Make him spend all day pressing numbers on his little chest as he runs for his life from the inmates. Force him to listen to a silly ringtone, maybe Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You." When his batteries die, he can get a taste of his own medicine. Hey, the little puke had it coming. He never gave you any consideration.

WAIT. 

Cheer up. There's an alternative. Hit the rewind button on the above scenario. Ready?

Same horrendous crap. Dark and stormy night, etc. One crucial difference. See that rectangular box on the left side of the photo below? It suggests a glass and steel coffin? That's your shelter from the storm--the obsolete thing at which the unappreciative world sneered. Ready? Let's go.

Holy crap. The lumpy monster closes in. You turn on the dark street, spot the phone booth, dive in. Slam shut the shatterproof glass door. You're sealed inside. Enraged, the Lumpy One batters the door to no avail. Behind the glass, you laugh, flip him the finger. You call the police. No dime? No sweat. You buzz the operator, say, "Yo, help, now." Within minutes you hear a siren. Lumpy freaks. Lumpy legs it out of there. End of story.

Saved by a phone booth. How do you spell sanctuary? Easy: B-O-O-T-H, baby.

Phone booths.

Save lives.

Bring back. 

I await.

Phone booths can also be used as fallout shelters.

Later,
Jim Fleetwood

click HERE for Part 2:

"Why Bees & Telephone Booths are Disappearing"

stop yawning...start reading

Are you a museum lover? Are you bored silly with the Louvre Museum? Totally tired of the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art? Does the British Museum cause catalepsy?

cat catalepsy

(bored cat spotted at the Louvre Museum)

STOP YAWNING

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same cat after meeting "Jurassic Jim" Fleetwood
at the Meowseum of Sudden Disappearances

This thriller features six "M" words.

("mothballs" & "musty" not included)

Warning: this tale will put your emotions into motion.

Mystery & Melancholy

Mirth & Music 

Mayhem & the Missing

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Take a tour inside THE MUSEUM OF SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCES. For book description, click on the cover for Amazon link.