Chris hates cell phones.

Let me take a moment to enlighten you with my views on cell phones:

Cell phones suck. On the scale of month-old seafood (awful) to freshly slaughtered, almost-still-mooing veal (fucking awesome), cell phones are about on the same level as rancid milk. I can’t say that cell phones don’t cause cancer (well, I can really say anything. booooobs.), but cell phones do suck out your soul through your mouth. It’s sorta like dementors from Harry Potter, but much, much worse. The use of cell phones will turn you into a shadow of a human being, like Paris Hilton, or a stock broker, or even Paris Hilton’s stock broker (condom/sex toy sector diversified through stilettos market).

Working in a grocery store, it’s the worst. All these freaks come out of their holes to come to the grocery store and make phone calls. Like, wtf? First of all, overweight middle-aged polo shirt and blue jeans dude: YOU DO NOT LOOK COOL WITH THAT RETARDED EARPIECE. Wearing some Star Trekish device on your ear (see Figure 1) does not entitle you to cut people in line or pick up elderly persons and hurl them into a display of Sun Chips©. It doesn’t matter how “busy” you look, you are fooling no one, because in reality, you look “retarded.” And I can tell that the conversation you’re having is fake, because you’re talking about the ‘69 Mets, and no one talks about that in a cell phone conversation. Even though the ’69 Mets may be the extent of your philosophical knowledge, shutup. Sure, I mean, Tom Seaver was lights out (25 wins in 36 starts? What a freaking horse!), but just no, dude. Leave that shit in a sports bar.

But the grocery store.

Every day, I see some vapid, mindless human being calling their spouse asking if they want “lite” ice cream or the “reduced fat” one. Shit, people, it doesn’t matter. It’s ice cream, not someone going into labor. Get off the cell phone and make the decision for yourselves. You don’t need to be sending all kinds of rays up into space (the Soviets are listening) to figure out what kind of potato chips you should buy.

And at the checkout, cell phones are OUT OF CONTROL (emphasis added). I think a $1000 surcharge on every customer using a cell phone at checkout would be very progressive. Seriously, who can’t wait the three extra minutes until they’re out of the store to talk on their phones? I mean, Linda is still going to be cheating on Don with the same person after you’ve paid for your groceries (I know, I know. Linda is a wicked whore, but even she can’t move that fast). And somehow, these people manage to turn the tables of guilt onto the employees. I get looks like, “how dare you stand behind the register and ring my groceries while I’m on the phone?” If these people had their way, we would turn our backs and chat quietly amongst ourselves until they have finished their cell phone conversation. Whenever we’re standing “too close” or not averting our eyes enough or something, these people shoot us nasty looks. I wish I could give those looks back, or break a bottle of vinegar over their stupid whore/man idiot heads, but my job requires me to not mortally injure our customers (effing rules and regulations. The Man is keeping me down). But really, it hasn’t occurred to these people that a supermarket is not the optimal place for a private conversation? Puhleese, I guess not. After all, the whole solar system revolves around them (Sorry Galileo, you’re wrong, bitch. The Sun is not the center of the universe, asshole. Stupid whore lady using her cell phone at checkout is).

On her way home from work, my mom calls to tell us she is on her way home (this would make throwing a surprise party for her exceptionally easy, but I digress). The retarded thing is that my mom’s commute lasts all of ten minutes. Maybe if you were coming home from Canada or something, Mom, it would be worth calling. But you’re coming home from one town over. She may as well devise a system of lantern signaling at the bank. We could probably see it from our house. One if by land, two if by sea, three if from Ipswich. Her call is pretty much a cue to get the farm animals off the couch/stop snorting cocaine/change out of women’s clothing. And when she calls, she’s all like “how was your day” and stuff. I’m not going to tell you how my day was when you’re practically pulling into the driveway. Balls, mom. Balls.

Cell phones ruin chances for conversation in perfectly conversational situations. Just take this passage from J. D. Salinger’s masterpiece, The Catcher in the Rye:

“You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?” I realized it was only one chance in a million.

He turned around and looked at me like a madman, “What’re ya tryna do, bud?” he said. “I’m on my cell phone with one of my boys, for Chrissake.”

I rest my case.