Friends, it is with great sadness that I, today, report the passing of a dear, dear friend, a Siren, if you will, who had been my devoted accomplice for six long years. Six – that’s longer than the average marriage, longer than Twinkies stay “fresh.” And in that time, nothing – not Steve Jobs, not sneering hipsters, not even my achy left thumb – could persuade me to abandon my little, uh, “pocket companion.” How she made my pants hum, how she stirred my very manhood to life with her insistent vibrations!!
“Take me – take me now,” she seemed to say, though I often ignored her, such was the degree of my selfish thrill-seeking. “Finish me off,” I’d whisper. “Papa will take care of you later, I promise!” So, yeah, I’d give her some juice once in awhile, but I was always testing her limits, letting her run low, get tired, pant, wheeze, slip into “standby” (our little joke), anything for me to stay out just a little bit longer. And, as the final insult, I’d cram her memory with the numbers of other women – yet she never complained, not once!! (Note below how my total number of outgoing calls, all-time, far exceeds the number coming in. Not a lot of callbacks = my little darling’s revenge?)
Some say that I was an abuser, but they can’t prove anything. Sure, my baby had a few nicks here and there, divots smashed into her rouged skin, but she was a slippery one. What can you do when your lover won’t be held? Squeeze harder? You misanthropes – your ruthless vise-grips would have crushed my lithesome beauty’s singular talent, her elegant flip! No handspring, no Starfleet flick of the wrist could mimic the fluid sweep of her clam shell swing or the rock-solid certainty of her landing. Nailed it every single time!
You know, she was the first of her kind to really open up and talk to me. Can you imagine? After years of having to do everything for her less-than-full-featured predecessors – manually! – she wowed me with her voice and color. She had a wardrobe and wallpaper and could throw voices like a celebrity impressionist, conjuring a reasonable Stephen Colbert if I massaged her keys just so. I just had to sit back and watch, a boy and his peep show window, amazed that my girl understood digital streaming and something called “V-Cast” better than me. “V-Cast” – ha! She was many things, but hardly a top-notch marketeer. How I loved her tinny ear!
I have but one regret. I never gave her a name. No one did. Her thoughtless parent – the hermaphroditic “Samsung” – rolled her out as the SCH-A950 and I let it stick. I put “DHILLZ” on her welcome screen, thinking she was an extension of me, but she wasn’t! It was she who knew my mom’s mobile number, not I! She alone figured fair gratuities when I was dumbfounded by shitty table service. And she roused me from sleep whenever I was far from home. And on and on and on. I was nothing without her guidance and intervention.
Yet I still kicked her to side of the road. You see… How do I explain it? Just ask the other guys. There’s this new chick, Siri – and she’s smokin’! I mean, I guess it’s true, right? Nothing lasts forever. But I sure as hell tried, SCH-A950. You owe me that much. Rest in Peace.
“She gave as good as she got”