*8. texting. the new bootycall.
first it was IM. then, text messaging. the sidekick. the sidekick 2. isn’t technology great? i mean, it’s always offering up a new and easier way to drop a bootycall. life has become so very convenient to young adult’s sex lives. thank goodness. finally - asking ladies for a late night hang just got a heck of a lot simpler. males all over the world are startin' to pray that it's not only college girls that're easy.
so guys, you’re in luck. you don’t have to small talk with my girl friends. or bribe a buddy to serve as your wingman when you don’t know what company i’m keeping. you don’t have to buy my kiwi margaritas. or go to a place that serves them. you don’t even have to hear my voice. because now, you don’t have to call.
and that means you won’t have to be embarrassed to the point of a whisper to give a sweet salutation like “hey baby, of course i miss you too” during the post-game wrap-up of whatever televised game congregated your jersey-wearing buddies that mowed down eight dozen spicy wings in record time and cleansed their palates between bites by taking full advantage of the $6 pitcher during-game special.
yup, just shoot me a text when ya'll finish “snakebiting” in celebration of another victory (as though you were on the field) or mourning over the damaged record. -- hey hon, i’m leaving the bar and want to see you. everyone is taking off. let’s meet at your place. be there in fifteen minutes. okay? -- (the shorthand version serves as solid proof that conversation hearts did in fact assist in this generation's communication skill development : "QT, i want 2CU. UR APT N 15?") -- brilliant. hey bartender, one more round. and a cheers to technological advancement finding another way to eliminate a form of real human “personal” interaction.
so guys, you’re in luck. you don’t have to small talk with my girl friends. or bribe a buddy to serve as your wingman when you don’t know what company i’m keeping. you don’t have to buy my kiwi margaritas. or go to a place that serves them. you don’t even have to hear my voice. because now, you don’t have to call.
and that means you won’t have to be embarrassed to the point of a whisper to give a sweet salutation like “hey baby, of course i miss you too” during the post-game wrap-up of whatever televised game congregated your jersey-wearing buddies that mowed down eight dozen spicy wings in record time and cleansed their palates between bites by taking full advantage of the $6 pitcher during-game special.
yup, just shoot me a text when ya'll finish “snakebiting” in celebration of another victory (as though you were on the field) or mourning over the damaged record. -- hey hon, i’m leaving the bar and want to see you. everyone is taking off. let’s meet at your place. be there in fifteen minutes. okay? -- (the shorthand version serves as solid proof that conversation hearts did in fact assist in this generation's communication skill development : "QT, i want 2CU. UR APT N 15?") -- brilliant. hey bartender, one more round. and a cheers to technological advancement finding another way to eliminate a form of real human “personal” interaction.
