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]
