on my hate for mobiles

I hate that blasted contraption that Americans and their cultural satellites call a cell phone and the rest of the world a mobile. It has, perhaps, irreparably altered the way human beings interact. What once would have been deemed antisocial if not rude, now is acceptable and I dare say, de rigueur.

Every being who possesses one of these remarkable pieces of technology is instantly metamorphosed into a majestic being of importance. Yes, every Dick and Tom, as long as he possesses a mobile, is forever removed from the realm of mediocrity and teleported into that of significance.

Thanks to the mobile, every stranger within hearing distance is initiated into the mysteries of the person speaking on his mobile; he, i.e., the stranger, is privy to the conversation, which one may be led to suspect to be of such importance and necessity as that of a penitent with her confessor. Alas, most of these ‘important’ conversations are of no import whatsoever! They are chromed in the bromidic, the absurd and the pointless.

I don’t care where you are! Must you share it with everyone else around you? Yes I know I can pretend to not hear you babble on as if you were baba, but what’s the use in pretending? Indeed, it’s a free country and so forth, but honestly, if the hotly and deeply carried conversation over your mobile were honestly of any real significance, would you carry it on where others can hear? No, of course not! Your conversation is insignificant! Shut your fucking trap!

I could care less if you are going to be at such-and-such place after leaving this place where I am forced to listen to your disgusting and inane chatter. And no matter how hard and passionately I press my digits into my burning ears, I can still make out the insipid syllabic units that readily escape the foul dark abyss, that fountain head of verbal diarrhea otherwise known as your mouth!