No, Mr. Bond, I Expect You to Die!

It arrived.


I am Dr. No, as in, No, you cannot use your cell phone right now. In fact, you can’t use it again until after you disembark from MY train.

I’m trying to think of an electronic gadget that has had a more profound impact on my life, or has given me as much pleasure, as my new cell phone jammer. The personal computer? Nope. My iPod? Naw. The cell phone itself? Definitely not! How about my Panasonic nose/ear hair trimmer. Close, but no. Imaging listening to a yappy twenty-something girl prattle on endlessly about the injustice of having her yoghurt stolen from out of the company refrigerator. Each new sentence starts with “And, like.” Her voice rises at the end of each sentence as though it were a question, even though it’s a statement. “And, like, my name was on it and everything?” Now, imagine putting and end to this horror show by pressing a button. A small green diode light glows warmly. She continues yapping for a bit because in her self-absorbed head, she doesn’t realize that she’s talking into a dead piece of plastic. Soon, it dawns on her. She stares at her phone dumbly. Tries to redial, only to be met with repeated failure.

Look, I’m a reasonable man. I will tolerate brief conversations. “Hi, honey, I’m on the 5:23. See you later.” I will even permit lengthy calls that are conducted in hushed, respectful tones. But the days of long, loud phone calls by imaginary Barons of Finance discussing the plumeting value of the Mortgage Back Securities in their portfolios, or the late night drunken fights between broken lovers are over, my friends. I OWN the cell phone frequencies! I control them. All this power to abuse for a measly $42.90 plus shipping and handling from Hong Kong. Who can stop me? Not you.

Calling 007.

Oh, no, wait. You can’t call him right now because your cell phone is dead, muthereffer.


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