Monday, September 05, 2005

The Society For Missing Cordless Phones

The society for missing cordless phones is a noisy and loveless place.

At first, it was started for charitable reasons, principally by a group of individuals who each had their own bereft and tragic tale of cordless phone loss to speak of. They wished to help other who felt the same recurring vomit in their throats as the phoneless stand rang and rang, an eternally shrill mockery of the phones they could not find, the alarm clock dream invader which they could never wake from. The founding society member had met in anger management classes and early society meetings used to take the form of an aa reunion, each member desperate to tell their own tale of cordless hell, offering half screamed tales like dead birds on porches, morbid bile ridden desperation. At this time, they were all still bereft of cordless phones. Then the phones started to arrive.

At first they were packaged. Thick brown paper bundles all duct taped to an inch of their papery existence. Shoved rudely through the letterboxes by pimply postmen, ripping through layers of side paper and bashing the poor phones. Then, stranger things. The scratching of phone wielding badgers in the night. The sly redial button, tucked inside accordions to ring out shrill in the third chorus of secrets in the moss. The knitted phones, unfurling incredibly in the middle of grandmother’s scarf.


Fones fones fones. she pressed a fone against her face for so long that it stuck there. Was a Fone that collected furballs in its sticky unwashed handset. A Fone that began to stink, until one day, she went to the doctor to have it surgically removed.

began to stink

it left a big red mark and skin full of blackheads lurking beneath.

what a sweet feeling that night when she curled up to sleep and had no worries of pillow/antennae pain, or waking up to the shrill cry of REDIAL. or the relationship she once thought was special with the recorded redirect operator. a relationship gone sour once the fone failed to fall off her face at the end of the night.

fall off her face.

you call this fone hell? this is only the beginning of our story. i will tell you of compulsive one-shoulder hunchers that ended up needing hair cuts to counter weigh their tired bushy head. i will tell you tales of armenian stock brokers who were found frozen stiff, wrapped in fox fur, and clutching their finnish swine nokia--swearing on their dying day, loyalty to the cruel nordic mobile communications conspiracy.

compulsive hunchers

i will tell you stories of pirates, never texted back by love louse sirens. mer-women with no reception to their swindling signal.

i will tell you stories of fones drowning in baths
and toilets
and pints of ale.

do not call mountain rescue. it is time to let the gsm join atlantis at the bottom of the bubble bath. climb in, dip your toes, let the vibrating ringtone power your jets.

but what ever you do,
don't answer it.


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