“That’s why I’m so pissed off about modern gasoline additives.”
“Agreed, and if I get another lecture about recycling I’m gonna’…”
“Yes! Also, the bastards in DC can kiss my…”
Click!
I’d been having a delightful conversation with a good friend. We were listing all the things that suck and therefore it was a long conversation. I’d only gotten partway through enumerating reasons why most politicians should be roasted on a spit and fed to weasels when the phone went dead.
Text still worked. I sent out a text:
“Drive through a tunnel?”
The response was quick:
“I’m at my house dumbass.”
So much for that theory. I postulated another:
“Pissed off the NSA?”
My conversation partner had a more reasonable theory:
“You’re out of minutes again aren’t you?”
Ah, yes. That would be the thing. I’m the last living person who buys minutes for his “pay as you go” phone. Even homeless crack addicts and illicit mafia goons have generous monthly plans.
Not me! I’m sticking with the geezeriffic business model of buying minutes of cell phone time, consuming them, running out at inconvenient times, and then buying more. It’s the last gasping breath of a world where people bought shit and subsequently used the shit they’d already purchased. I loathe the modern approach of slapping a monthly payment on everything and then watching your money inexorably fade. I’ll pay up front and avoid the feeling of a vampire that shows up every night to take a little more blood.
That’s just how I roll; pre-paid cell phones fit my life. I don’t talk much. When I do talk, I talk until the minutes are gone. Then I shut up until I get around to buying more minutes. In the long run I save so much it would make the average consumer cry… except the average consumer can’t do math so they wouldn’t understand.
“So, buy more minutes eh?”
I’d forgotten I was still having a text exchange. Then I responded with the most subversive statement any citizen in 2021 can say.
“No.”
“WTF?”
“I’m done talking. I’ll just quit making voice calls.”
“Dude, you NEED a phone.”
“Meh. I’ll write you a letter sometime.”
And that was it. I’d officially checked out of modern society.