Gov. Gretchen Whitmer addressed the State of Michigan after a plan to kidnap her and other Michigan government officials was thwarted by state and federal law enforcement agencies. She started by saying thank you to law enforcement and FBI agents who participated in stopping this [...]
I’m really, really quite taken with my iPhone.
As a person of refined tastes (few of which my retirement budget actually permits, however), it gives me modest pleasure when my unit, costing 300 smackeroos, caller signals by vibration.
At my age, that tremolo of sonic vibes is a godsend, especially if the cell phone is placed in close proximity to one of my many unperked erogenous zones and vibrates for the full allocation of pulsations.
Yes indeedy! My iPhone’s a godsend is no exaggeration. It came (pardon my digitally-enhanced predicate) as a birthday gift at 60 (“the new 40”) from Sr. Serena Scatterpin, Renegade Sisters of Mary. Bless her!
In addition to a tasteful photo gallery of my world-famous art images, my iPhone contains, as a tribute to the fashion-conscious Recovering Catholic nun, a dozen snaps of her wash-and-wear wimples, Neiman St. Marcus color-coordinated pant suits and ecumenically-endorsed (and marketed) Virgin Island bikinis.
With Sister’s approval, we chose the perfect iPhone ring signaling her direct pipeline. Our selection was four among 25 possibilities: Bell Tower, Harp, Ascending Scale and, just for kicks, Old Car Horn. (Rolls Royce 1929.)
After consultation with Father Manly Everhope, Sister’s on-and-off-again companion, we settled on Harp. Even though Harp gives otherworldly sound, the effect when set on vibrate is still downright earthy – for which I’m eternally grateful.
Timing’s everything with Sister. She has an uncanny sense of when and under what circumstances to give me a fashionable thumbs-up jingle. She rang me up at high noon just as I was about to engage in some rather budget-basement appraisal of a group of bilingual, as opposed to bisexual, construction workers taking a shirtless lunch break.
“I hope I’m not interrupting any culinary considerations,” she giggles sweetly into my end of our satellite communication. (She’s calling from Alaska.) “I’m calling for your expertise as a word smith and oral expressionist of legendary repute. What does glossolalia mean? Is it something you gay guys do? It’s not contagious is it?”
“No, sister. It’s rarely contagious, unless of course you’re a fundygelical and not particularly wired too tightly upstairs so that your synapses highjack your good-sense motor skills. Glossolalia’s a buck-fifty word for speaking in tongues.”
“Is it anything like French kissing?”
“More one-sided. Like performing Christian lip service on yourself. Only more deep throated. Heaven grabs you by the tonsils and carries you jibber-jabbering away. You fall out in ecstasy. Family values LSD. Short trip. Same flashbacks. It’s legal, as long as you don’t do it, say, in Pronto! or the Aut Bar before closing time…Where in hades are you?”
“Main Street. Juneau. Father and I made a special trip just to see if it’s true that if you stand on the capitol steps in high heels you can see the Russian steppes. Big disappointment! All we can see is the Bering Strait, and I don’t mean hetero. Tho’ there are plenty of those lurking about.”
“Did you see Gov. Sarah? I’m sure, fashion conscious Recovering Catholic nun you are, that she’s high on your list of best-dressed, big-time party honchos.”
“Well, Honey Bun, she can use my expert advice on how to spend 150K and believably look ladylike. Dressing to the 2009s doesn’t bother me one bit, though. I’m all for being tailor made. (Kiss my garment hem anytime!) But seriously. What if Sarah goes all glossolalia in public. She’s Johnny Boy’s running mate. She’s also wide-eyed Pentecostal.”
“Hey, Sis. Who knows? It just might liven things up at the UN.”