“What the hell you gigglin’ about, dude?”
“Gigglin’? Me? Don’t think so, dude.”
“Well, stop it anyways, dude. How’m I s’pposed to complete this Black Ops mission if you keep messin’ up my concentration?”
“I told you, dude, it ain’t me!”
“Well, who, then?”
“Well, who d’ya think? If it ain’t you or me, it’s gotta be Quilly or OC. Ain’t nobody else ’round here, unless you got some ghosts you ain’t been tellin’ me about. An’ OC just got a new phone.”
“That wasn’t no gigglin’, dude. That was WTFin’. Trust me, I wuz there. Took him half an hour to write a two-line email. He wasn’t happy.”
“Yeah? Don’t tell me he ain’t seen predictive text before?”
“He ain’t, dude. An’ the third time he tried to type cat and the phone tossed it out and put in cowabunga instead, I’m surprised he didn’t throw the phone out the window. Without botherin’ to open the window.”
“He just gotta pay attention, dude. He’s got a Ph.D., surely he’ll figure … no, wait, he’s got a Ph.D. He ain’t got a hope in hell o’ figurin’ that phone out. My bad. Even so. Sure, cowabunga for cat is an autocorrect fail. But it ain’t an epic fail. Now when you write leftover spaghetti an’ that turns into left ovary spaghetti, that’s epic.”
“Is that what you’ve been gigglin’ about so dam loud?”
“It ain’t me, dude!! It’s Quilly! She found a whole website, this Damn You, Auto Correct (DYAC) place, that’s got hundreds of gnarly iPhone texting gaffes. Real ROFLOLWTIMY stuff. Got her so choked up, she almost got whisked off to the emergency room. An’ it even got a smile out a OC. Not that that’s gonna help him learn to text, mind you …”
“So they done yet?”
“Cool. ‘Cause I can’t pause this game forever …”
I laughed until my face and stomach both hurt, plus I have a headache from oxygen deprivation! Let’s do it again!
I generate enough typos without blaming my phone.