Autocorrect

In this age of hustle bustle, packed Outlook schedules, fast-talkers, and even faster walkers, it's nice to have technology clean up after us. 

However.

Autocorrect is a handy tool, sure, particularly if you’re illiterate or have sausages for fingers. But as a persnickety gal in a hurry, I don't fancy my phone's inner editor redlining and overruling my words in the most supercilious manner, even when I spell them correctly. When I text about my cat Frida, she becomes Friday. Higgs boson defaulted to Hugs Bosom,which would be an AWESOME porn or drag name but not quite what I was going for when trying to rock a particle physics confab. I wished a dashing young man luck on a potential job and his reply? "From your lipids to God's ears."

Not exactly what he was going for, methinks, although my triglycerides are pretty fucking awesome.

While trying to be helpful, this presumptuous hit, I mean, git is putting words in my mouth, or at least on my screen. If I wanted to be second-guessed and condescended to, I'd ring up my ex-boyfriend. He was a champion speller of jackassian proportions and he had a Prius, I mean, penis.


(photo: damnyouautocorrect.com)

The ever-present Bluetooth

Are you a cyborg? Ari Gold? A sex phone operator? No?

Too bad.

If you were, I might give your face a pass (particularly if you’re a T-800) but now I’m going to have to give you a smackdown that will leave you black and Bluetoothless. I know the frequency, Kenneth, and you and I are on different wavelengths.

The 2012 version of a pager clipped to your waist, an eewtooth not only receives messages, it sends one. It communicates one thing loud and clear: YOU’RE A MASSIVE TOOL.

If you have to try that hard to look important, chances are you’re not. Unless you’re driving or performing surgery or tracking down Sarah Conner, stuff that thing in your pocket. Heck, clip it to your belt. Maybe I’ll think it’s a pager, which is almost old-school cool by comparison. Almost.

(photo: submergemag.com)

People who don’t leave voicemails

Do you think, amongst my superpowers, that I can read minds? Did you accidentally ring me when you sat on your Blackberry? Are you an Amish child who thinks, like a camera, my phone will steal your soul? Are you trying to be all mysterious and shit so that my curiosity will be piqued? What the eff do you want?

If you’ve already left me a voicemail, don’t trouble yourself with another rambler. But if you are just calling and, in essence, hanging up on me and my recorded message, don’t assume I’m going to call you back. If you actually want something, you can damn well leave me a message.

I know a lot of folks who are masters of the passive-aggressive hang-up. When I do answer the phone, they often start off with something akin to, “Oh, you’re finally home!” which translates to “Wow, you actually picked up on poor me, who calls and calls but clearly has an ungrateful, lame friend who I shouldn’t even bother with.”

That message came through, loud and clear. If only you were as eager to leave an actual voicemail, our communication would be crystal clear.

(photo: larryfire.wordpress.com)

Cell phones in public restrooms

Is your cell phone call really that important that you have to keep the convo going while you're doing your business in a bathroom stall? Really? Do you tell the person on the line that the sound of running water is a faucet and not your bladder? And have some respect for your fellow pee-ple—we might be trying to have a moment of peace away from the maddening crowd (or perhaps we're communing with our US Weekly).

Pry the phone away from your ear, urinate, wash your hands, punch yourself in the face, and resume your call.