11-009
Dial “M” for
Maddening
Once
upon a time long, long ago… there was the telephone.
It
was a genteel instrument of communication on a rubberized spiral cord that
appeared at restaurant tables only on rare occasion, accorded exclusively to
A-list movie stars at The Polo Lounge, or if global crisis demanded it, the
President of the United States.
Today,
it is a plague on civilized society. This is an issue we must no longer sweep
under the place mat like errant breadcrumbs.
Cell
phone etiquette, especially in restaurants, is an oxymoron.
Pray tell, what is “smart” about a
phone that destroys direct human interaction?
Yes,
the omnipresence of cellular technology is a curse on us poor fools who
archaically cling to common courtesy.
Like
the Hansen Writing Ball, the private conversation is a thing of the past.
We
are now forced to be involved in mankind – often as voyeurs.
I am seated at a fine dining
establishment with a business colleague or appealing social acquaintance. I am
anticipating a pleasant experience. But, no! My companion brings out his “cell”
and rudely starts chatting and/or texting God-Knows-What to God-Knows-Who.
This boorish behavior is both
vexing and embarrassing. It is more irritating than bawling babies and cackling rug
rats running amuck.
For
God’s sake, if I wanted to cultivate bleeding ulcers and chronic acid reflux,
I’d eat more meals at home with my disruptive brood (contentious spouse, raucous
ankle-biters, yapping dog.)
I
assume you, like me, resent this exasperating intrusion
upon your sparkling repartee, communion with your cuisine, and supreme pleasure
in your alcoholic beverage.
So, what’s a gentleman (or gentle
lady) to do?
Protecting
your sanity will no doubt be an onerous challenge in personal discipline and
rage management.
First,
you must quell that overwhelming urge to grasp your shrimp fork, pounce on the
offender, and puncture him like an over-cooked rump roast.
You
can stare daggers at him and try to tough it out, but beware of your blood
pressure, as this strategy will further rankle your nerves.
Other
suggestions:
Draw
your electronic weapon of choice and immerse yourself in a lengthy game of Sudoku.
Lob
buttered dinner rolls at the S.O.B.
Ask
the waiter for crayons and summon your inner tyke.
Whip
out the mint-flavored Glide and commence flossing.
Whistle
an annoying tune. (Anything by Miley Cyrus will do.)
Create
an explosive concoction with the condiments on the table.
Resist
the tendency to transform your tedium into sexual fantasy, as you are most
likely to become discombobulated and spill your cocktail all over your freshly
pressed, linen pants.
Bellow
statistics from the latest alarming study that closely links the use of cell
phones, harmful radiation, and brain cancer.
If all else fails, request the
manager post a warning that reads:
“The use of cell phones will
result in their immediate confiscation and prompt annihilation in a ravenous
wood chipper.”
And
therefore never send to know for whom the cell tolls; it tolls for thee.