May 252011

Dang gummit! It’s a gettin’ so’s a man can’t make a decent phone call nowadays. Why am I so peeved and perturbed yer askin’? Wull, it’s all this damned technology. Used ta be that an ole prospector could make a decent call, y’know, ta check the price o’ gold and whatnot. Yes, the phones were bulkier than the teats on a well fed whore, but at least they worked! Now, well, I can’t even look at my phone wrong without it droppin’ a call faster than the hands of a fellar caught pickin’ his nose.

And dammit if I can’t never git my email when I need it. An ole prospector’s got ta keep in touch with the world. I swears, if I miss another Groupon deal I’m gonna down right mess the bed! And how’s I’m supposed ta sleep at night without findin’ out who’s was kicked off Dancing With the Stars?

Besides, all my huffin’ and puffin’ and blood boilin’ gets Lucy all worked up into a lather. Poor girl. It ain’t her fault these blamed iWhatevers can’t be held a certain ways or that a nearby peak is blockin’ the dang-blasted signal. I mean, we put fellars in space and we found a cure fer the plague. You’d think with all them well-to-do smarty pants we could figure out how ta design a phone that don’t drop calls.

Mule droppings is what it is! And if’n there’s an app for that and everythin’ else under the sun, why ain’t there one for preventin’ the person on the other end from soundin’ like they’s being choked by some school marm whose petticoats are wound too tight?

Anyways, Lucy’s lookin’ at me awful odd right now what with my cussing and carryin’ about. She’s mighty sensitive, y’know and I best not git her too worked up as we got us a formal affair to attend later. Wull, it was good talkin’ to ya kind folk. It’s not often an ole prospector like myself gits some company. Seems like the only folk willin’ to talk anymore only want to sell me that Viagra concoction.

Wull, I’ll talk to ya later. Be sure ta keep the badgers off.

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