Dear Dude Who Stole My Phone,
Hi, you ridiculous little idiot.
Now, of course, I didn’t see you, and have no idea what you look like. Technically we are acquainted and have things (well, we have the obvious ONE thing) in common, but I have not really met you, so I can’t be sure that you are little.
However, the scale of your ridiculousness is so great that even if you were as large as the Great Khali, hell, even if you were the Great Khali, you would be a little idiot. There are some things that people do which are so dumb that they actually count as a reduction in their physical scale. It really does make you smaller to be so stupid.
Compare it to say, the greater thieves. People who steal on a grand scale. Like the bandits in our government who stole money that was meant to protect kids from DEATH.
These people looked at the money, thought about it, looked at the money, thought about malaria, thought about new Lexuses and Thought again and then said, “Lexus ranks higher in priority to me than integrity and even higher than kids not dying. So, in conclusion, fuck kids.”
No one says of these people that they were thieving little bastards. No. We say they are enormous bastards. Huge bastards. Massive assholes heaving with collosal waves of hellish effluvium, gigantic rectal boils, seeping tsunamis of slime over every inch of ground their shadows benight. The operative word is always a synonym of “big”.
You, however, are a little idiot.
Because what you stole, my friend, and where I say “friend” I mean “person I hold in the rankest disdain”, was a piece of crap.
I’m not complaining about you relieving me of an embarrassment and a burden. I honestly was so tired of my phonecalls going like this:
“Hello?… Yes? Hello?… Sorry. I can’t hear you. Hello?… You have to speak louder. This phone sucks. Hello… Wait. Can you hear ME?… You can’t? Okay. Let me … NOW. CAN. YOU. HEAR. ME? I SAID NOW CAN Y OU HEAR ME??”
In the end I just had to get used to texting people and that was a pain because I do not ever fucking use that txt language. I am a professional writer. Please.
One of the coolest things about me, you see, is that I am very very good at writing proper English. You may have noticed. It will be like a gourmet chef eating raw unwashed onions.
So every time I have to correspond with somebody I have to type things out on the keypad on a phone that doesn’t even t9 because it’s made in China, and the designer in China has very little awareness of what the market in the English-speaking world requires—their internet access is curtailed so all they ever see is the stray krglf. This makes them assume that there is no such thing as correct spelling in English and they don’t bother to equip their cheapshit phones with dictionaries.
They don’t bother to add working microphones or useable speakers either.
The only thing this phone had going for it was that it held two sim cards and I needed that. It’s how I rolls. Deuces.
It was also ugly as… I dare say ugly as your mother, seeing as we are not friends and I don’t mind offending you. It was ugly as that troll bitch who failed to abort you, Thief, and it was made even more ugly by the fact that I didn’t give a damn about it and let it gather scratches wherever and whenever.
In short I don’t miss the damn thing. And now Nokia, a reputable company, one that isn’t Tecno crapsets Incorporated, has also brought out it’s own duo sim phones, so yeah, that’s going to rule.
So, you stay where you are, keep sucking, and you can keep the shite phone— But if it makes you feel like being less of a latrine, don’t worry about the contacts. I’m Android-baby. All my contacts are synced to my Gmail. Yay me.
Also, fuck you.