Monday, June 30, 2008

His New Fetish

Driving my son to school one morning I saw in my rearview mirror a car approaching fast. A rice-burner, with ground effects, carbon-fiber hood with nostrils, stupid stuff dangling from the rear-view mirror, etc. Like I said, approaching fast. Wanted to get up behind me before the light turned green, I suppose.
When he arrived, I saw the driver was talking on his cel phone. I looked again, and saw he wasn't talking, but rather, smooching, on his cel phone. Looking yet again, out of the corner of my eye, it seemed that he was actually smooching THE cel phone. Not talking, smooching. Rubbing it on his cheek. Fondling his cel phone. Touching it. Kissing it, licking it. Yes, licking it. Making some kind of love TO his CEL PHONE. Nobody on the other end, I swear, I was watching him in my rearview mirror, and there was no talking going on.
I was shocked.
What the hell kind of...?
A member of L. Ron Hoover's First Church of Appliantology? (See Frank Zappa, "Joe's Garage")
My mouth gaped. I unconsciously turned my face full-on toward my mirror and stared, and he evidently noticed the gesture. Down went the phone, up went the act like nothing happened. Cool, suave, studly dude. Race car driver.
Disconnected freak.
The light turned green, I took my time getting through the intersection, just to see what he'd do. Which was: turn left fast and get his embarrassed butt out of there.

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