The Broad's Side

Dear Verizon Gods,

I am writing in regards to my Samsung Gem cell phone I received when I renewed my Verizon contract for the next two years. I needed a new phone to replace my Blackberry Tour, which I absolutely loved. That device fell victim to an unfortunate set of circumstances, as it ended up in an old man’s Diet Pepsi at a Browns game. I will take accountability for the demise of the Blackberry, but in my defense, have you seen the Browns play this year? They’re horrible!

I’ve compiled a list of issues with the new phone along with reasons Verizon should replace it with a less crappy one. I visited one of your locations and was offered a replacement Gem. This is not a satisfactory solution, since it would amount to a feeble attempt at polishing a turd.

• At least a dozen times a day, I get an error message stating that the SD card has been unexpectedly removed. I, for one, prefer to expect my SD card removal. I’m in no mood for surprises when it comes to the sensitive nature of the SD card.

• If I’m searching online for a soufflé recipe, getting my celebrity gossip, or perusing all of the pornography the internet has to offer and a phone call comes in… CRASH. This device does not have the ability to do two things at once. My Allstate rep has ruined my day more than once with an ill- timed phone call.

• In the event that I should meander down a dimly lit rape alley, I’m not confident in the phone’s ability to pull off a simple 911 call. I’d have no alternative but to throw the phone at the attacker as a method of self-defense. Ironically, the phone’s only positive selling point is its lightweight, sleek design. It likely wouldn’t even make a rapist flinch. It would be like throwing a breath mint at him.

• When it shuts itself down, start up time is roughly nine minutes. In that amount of time, I could get an oil change, shave my legs or ruin a relationship. It’s unacceptable.

• Sometimes, it powers itself into ‘airplane mode’. I haven’t set foot on a plane in years, and likely won’t until Southwest reinstates free drink tickets. It appears that airplane mode is essentially a phone coma. You’re tricked into believing that it’s functioning, but in reality it’s completely useless.

• It’s a crapshoot on whether or not the person on the other end receives a text message or not. There have been a few occasions where this has been a useful tool and saved me some apologies in the morning, but overall I would consider it to be a liability and potential self-esteem crusher. Why won’t he text me baaaaackk?

• Mid-text, the phone loves to disable the function that allows you to see what you’re saying. Spellcheck still works its magic though. It’s always awesome when you’re trying to type a flirty ‘haha’ in response to a funny comment, but it comes out ‘Haitians’. Not exactly the same message, I’m sure you’ll agree.

• The camera doesn’t have a flash. Well… there goes all of my duckface, drunken photo ops with the girls on a Saturday night.

• The battery gets so hot, that it is actually uncomfortable to hold in my delicate hand at times. It might ruin my street cred if I start carrying around an oven mitt to take calls.

• Social media sites are barely usable. How will everyone get by without knowing about my check-in at McDonald’s or one of my witty “Is it Friday yet?” tweets I drop?

• Last, but not least… the name. Gem? Seriously? I’ve never once used that word without it dripping in delicious sarcasm. Example: “Bill beat his wife with a tennis racket? What a gem that guy is!”

Please see the attached link for similar reviews on this particular device. It’s worthless and should be recalled as it’s clearly defective. I hope that you can find a suitable solution to my problem. If not, I’m contemplating getting some string and a couple of soup cans. I’d likely fare better.

http://reviews.us.samsung.com/7463/SCH-I100ZKAXAR/samsung-samsung-gem-touchscreen-cell-phone-reviews/reviews.htm

I could never be a stripper… Not even when I was younger and hotter. I’d love to have you believe that there’s some moral code behind it, but the truth is that I find a vast majority of men repulsive. Being proficient as an exotic dancer demands that you trick yourself and other people into thinking you actually have some sort of attraction to the repugnant loser you may be grinding on. I can’t do it. I’ve never even been able to shamelessly flirt with someone in exchange for a beer if I’m not into him. It doesn’t feel right to mislead someone in that regard.

It’s not even necessarily about physical attraction. In order to earn a healthy motor-boating session with me, the guy needs to be intelligent enough to carry on a conversation, have a killer sense of humor and preferably have command over the basics of the English language. I can’t imagine anyone likes a stripper quiz before you pretend to reverse-cowgirl him while he’s still wearing jeans. That would be uncomfortable for the entire bachelor party, I reckon.

As a result of my scruples, I have a strange level of respect for women who can pull it off. I had the occasion to frequent one of these establishments on a Sunday afternoon a while back. Save your judgments. It’s not like I would have been in church otherwise. A friend of mine was throwing a 40th birthday party for her female boss, and the objective was to embarrass and humiliate her after she was half in the bag.

To say that it backfired is an understatement of epic proportion. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my adult life. The boss loved it and her inner lesbian was unleashed full-throttle. It was borderline pornographic and obscenely unattractive. It’s exactly why drunk people should never engage in any form of sexual behavior on camera and/or in public. At one point I thought she might have dislocated her shoulder or pulled a hammy because of the painful look on her face. The dancer who was subjected to this had to be dead inside to pull it off. How she managed not to laugh, I can’t wrap my mind around.

At one point, I had to walk away. I decided to make polite small-talk with the stripper on deck. It went something like this, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you while you’re eating your nachos… naked, but could you point me towards the restroom?” She half-heartedly motioned towards the ladies room and continued to scarf down her family size platter of loaded nachos. Less than five minutes later, Kandi, or whatever her stripper alias was, appeared on the main stage to entertain the masses. I found myself oddly fascinated with her size 2 frame and her magical ability to camouflage the fact that she had eaten a week’s worth of food in one sitting. I realistically thought if I stared hard enough I might see a half-digested triangle floating around beneath the stripper belly chain. After she completed her stint on stage and windexed the pole off for the next performer, she came over to our table. She clapped enthusiastically and asked, “Who’s the birthday girl?” in a shrill little voice, as if she was addressing a table of children or mentally challenged helmet-wearers. I thoroughly expected her to launch into one of those birthday songs they sing at Applebee’s right before they bring out a brownie they try to pass off as birthday cake. At that exact moment I knew that I could totally pull off being a stripper… if I was a dumbass.

There’s not much that annoys me more than when someone ignores me. Part of it is clearly because I’m an attention whore, but I also think it’s one of the rudest things you can do to someone. My passionate feelings on this matter led me into some discussions with girlfriends. Guess what? It turns out that ALL women absolutely hate this phenomenon! Before you doubt me, keep in mind that I asked at least six women in this highly scientific study I conducted largely over text message. Oh… and my friends are kind of bitchy. Let the record state that every one of them responded to the aforementioned text survey promptly. Several of them flew into a blind rage at the mere mention of the issue at hand.

At the risk of sounding snobby, I can’t begin to imagine why someone wouldn’t respond to me. First off, I’m hilarious behind the wheel of my blackberry. My texts are well crafted and highly entertaining. If you think otherwise, you can suck it. You can understand my bewilderment that I dated a guy recently who wouldn’t respond (sometimes for days) after I sent a message. His name is Carl, but his parents spelled it with a K for some reason. No, he’s not a Kardashian. I asked.

When my texts hung out in space with no acknowledgement, I had absolutely no idea it was because he didn’t want to talk to me! My first instinct was to blame Verizon. It was fairly obvious to me that his phone had broken and/or the network was down. After a follow up text, it started to cross my mind that this was an intentional lack of response, so I went into MF mode at the flip of a switch. After I called a girlfriend and unjustifiably referred to his penis as a thumb and criticized his skills in the sack, I started to feel a little guilty. What if something horrible happened and I’m calling him an A-hole and mocking his manhood as he desperately clings to life? Oh my God… what if he’s on his death bed and all he really wants is one last conversation with me, but he doesn’t remember my name or phone number? Hey, it’s not a far jump from the cell phone signal being lost to the vision of a disfiguring car accident resulting in traumatic brain injury with a healthy dose of amnesia.

Just as I began picking out my funeral attire so I could cement my position as the sexy girlfriend at his inevitable calling hours, I finally received a response from him. The message? “Hey. What’s up?” Well, if that didn’t just send me into a fit of fury. That’s all you’ve got? What’s up? You’ve got to be kidding me! Why aren’t you dead? I’m willing to recognize the fact that it’s slightly appalling to harbor resentment because someone did not, in fact, meet his untimely demise. With that being said, it’s preferable to the knowledge that he’s just a horrible person. He had his chance to kick the bucket in a positive light, without the unfortunate reputation of an ignorer. Now I have to acknowledge, yet again, my disastrous taste in men.

The message here is simple; if you’re a man, you need to realize that ignoring a woman is a terrible decision. We will run the gamut of emotions and try to get inside your head. We don’t have the capacity to shut that down. We don’t think it’s possible that you’re busy or that your brains are smaller so you forget things. We think you hate us if you don’t respond. Or you have met a tragic fate. Please quit it! I, for one, would rather be called every name in the book or be punched in the ovaries than be ignored.

For the women; don’t tolerate ignore mode. If someone doesn’t give you the attention you deserve or laugh at your text message masterpieces, he’s an unworthy turd of a man. Don’t let some jackass string you along like that. There’s plenty of guys out there who are really good at basic communication, and spell their names right.

Here’s the deal… I actually know someone personally who accidentally had a baby. I’m not talking about accidentally getting pregnant. Nope. This broad gave birth to a full-term infant without having a clue she was preggers. How is this possible, you ask? Hell if I know. I was approximately six minutes pregnant, and I had already figured it out. I’ve had a difficult time wrapping my brain around the concept of having a human chilling in your womb for nine months without realizing this tenant is there.

My daughter kicked the shit out of internal organs that I’m fairly confident are important. Getting karate kicked repeatedly in the small intestine is a lot different than the feeling one gets after too many chalupas from Taco Bell. I’ve never seen what appears to be a foot or an elbow jutting out of my abdomen after a trip to Hometown Buffet. I was as complete Pregnasaurus, wreaking havoc any chance I got. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard to be oblivious to someone living in your body.

The story goes a little something like this: Prego is home alone one night when her stomach starts to feel a little off. Evidently, she feels like there’s a turd of majestic proportions brewing. I don’t know what kind of digestive system you need to have when labor pain simulates your typical Sunday night poop patterns. Who knows? Maybe it’s normal for a small hand to protrude out of her treasure trove during doo-doo time. This chick obviously gets down on all fours, naked on her living room floor and yanks a child out of her cave. She calls 911 and walks around naked, carrying the baby with the umbilical cord still attached until help arrives. When I heard this, I couldn’t help visualizing a Grace Jones type of scene, where she roars and screams “afterbirth” while stomping around like a crazed monster-woman type of creature.

Prego is a Facebook friend of mine, so imagine my shock when her posts took such a dramatic turn. One minute she was discussing Halloween costume options and the next she’s talking about her son. WTF? She works at a daycare center, so I briefly wondered to myself if she’d just decided to snatch a kid one day. The baby ended up being the guest of honor at his own shower. So much for any of those dreadful games where you guess the date and time of the birth, etc. I’ll admit that I briefly took her out of my Facebook contacts because reading about all of this made me fear that I’d suddenly turn stupid just for being a part of it at all. I don’t know if ‘dumb’ is contagious, but I’m not willing to take any chances. Maybe that’s not fair, but there’s no way you can convince me that any normal woman could go through an entire pregnancy without a hint or two that something’s amiss. Nobody’s boobs grow three sizes for no good reason.

There aren’t many people who would describe me as sappy or emotional on any level. This is precisely why I’m so horrified by something that happened to me over the weekend. Let me preface it by saying that alcohol was definitely a factor. A HUGE factor. I dropped a four letter word via text after about eight hours of drinking… on a Sunday. Well, that can’t be all that bad, right? Think again, friends. When that horrible word happens to be ‘love’, it doesn’t get much worse. I can’t even express the level of sheer terror I felt when I saw that text this morning. I’d actually be less surprised to wake up in a bathtub full of ice with one of my kidneys missing. I let out a horror movie worthy shriek, and I’m surprised 911 didn’t dispatch someone to my residence. It’s such a kick in the ass because I don’t even have those feelings towards the recipient. What the hell is wrong with me? What if I suddenly start saying that to everyone, like my mailman and the cashier at Target?

Don’t get me wrong, the guy in question is pretty awesome, but we’re more on an “I like your shirt” level than anything else. Ironically, it’s the first time I’ve dated someone and been completely comfortable with not knowing where it’s headed. I don’t need promises or labels; I just genuinely like to hang out with this dude. It’s been so laid back and easy… until 9:08 pm last night. Now I’m in an unusual predicament because once it’s out there, it’s nearly impossible to take back. I really need to pull out all the stops to dig myself out of this hole. This calls for drastic measures, indeed. Perhaps I should sleep with one of his friends or threaten to run him over with my car.

Generally, I only use that word when it’s followed by a harmless noun, such as football, cheese or Nickelback. As far as actual humans go, there’s only one person who’s earned that and she lived in my womb for nine months. The thought crossed my mind that there was a possibility I didn’t even author that text. It certainly doesn’t sound like something I’d say. Ever. There are a number of people who owe me and might think it was hilarious to jack my phone and spread the love. Just last week, I was having drinks at the Winking Lizard with a male friend of mine. We opted to leave because a 10 year old girl’s soccer team crashed the party. I couldn’t resist nervously shoving him out the door as I announced, “You know you’re not allowed to be in such close proximity to pre-adolescent girls.” He’s certainly hatching revenge. What better way to do that… spread vicious misconceptions that I have feelings. Anyone who’s been on the receiving end of one of my dirty texts, whether it’s intentionally sent to them or not, could likely vouch for the fact that I live in an emotional vacuum. If it’s not funny or obscene, I don’t really see the point most times.

When all is said and done, I hope this guy realizes that I’m not picking out my bridesmaid’s dresses or forwarding my mail to his house at this point. I can tell you this: my relationship with tequila has just come to a screeching halt. Leave it to me to get cock blocked by Jose Cuervo.