My wife and I had a discussion this morning about her smart phone correcting her. Updating her calendar, she typed in a name for the person we’re meeting with next week and the program corrected it to a word it recognized. I understand it was just trying to help. At least it didn’t say, “I’m sorry Dave, I can’t do that.”

Now, as many of you know, I carry a dumb phone. I refuse to carry a phone that’s smarter than me. I still regard it as my “Star Trek communicator” and it serves its purpose, even if some people stop me on the street while using it and say how old school I must be using a prehistoric device.

But if I do have to update from a flip phone in the near future, instead of a smart phone, I’m going to request a smart-ass phone. Instead of it correcting me on names, perhaps it can leave me little messages making snotty remarks on my choice of apparel or taste in, say reading material. Maybe it can tell me that I’m not getting enough walking in (“My, Al, but aren’t you a lazy ass today!) or better still, perhaps it can tell me that each and every time I add light cream to my coffee, that it would be a better idea to just paste it to my ass while staring at my weight scale and watching the numbers climb.

Ok, so I’m not so good with change and new technology (do give me credit, though, for an active website and blog) but life goes on. I’m accepting of that.

Wait a moment. My cell phone’s ringing.

Very funny. It just told me that typing my blog while in my bathrobe is so very gauche. It should talk: it’s only wearing a plastic protector and nothing more.

Please go to my short story “Is Garfield a Cat or a Mouse?” for another smart-ass view on smart phones.

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