In the drink

No two ways about it…Thursday was a shitty day.

Forget what I wrote about last Wednesday. Well, at least the part about answering my phone. The other stuff is still firmly intact.

If you try to call me on my cell, you will be immediately routed to my voice mail. I will not answer. Or, more applicable, CANNOT answer.

Why, you may ask? Because my cell phone is no longer functioning, I say.

OlurrromWhy, you may ask? I hang my head in shame.

Because. I. Dropped. It. In…the…toilet.

Yes. It’s a true story.

Robbye had a chiro appointment Thursday morning. With no coffee in the house, we decided to grab a cuppa joe at a Dunn Bros. near the chiro office. Innocent enough, right?

So Rob heads off to her appointment, and I stick around Dunns to work for awhile. Still fine. And after a hour or so of tapping away, well…nature calls. I know Rob’s due to resurface soon, so I grab my phone and take it with me to the restroom. ‘Cause I’m thinking, what if she needs to get ahold of me. And…you know, er…this could take awhile. ‘Nuff said.

I’m on the throne, and everything’s just hunky-dory. And then I reach over to, uh…obtain a section of tissue. Next thing I know, there’s this sliding feeling against my belly and then a splashy “ploomp!”

I realize exactly what’s happening in real time. Basically, a few days prior, the pocket on the front of my Woodstock Film Festival hoody ripped. When I bent forward, my phone slid around inside of the pocket. With the stitching gone, there was no barrier to stop the thing when it hit the seam. And it just kept on a-sliding.

There’s no time to react. All I can do is groan. My soul deflates.

And my freakin’ cell phone, with every business and personal contact number to my name (I am not very good at backing the information up in, like, a spreadsheet or something…you know, like a responsible person), is submerged. And the lone path to rescuing it is of the Andy Dufresne variety.

Shit. Literally. What am I gonna do?

Well, I certainly can’t flush. That would send the phone on a “let’s clog the Dunn Bros. plumbing and cause hundreds of dollars in damage” journey. I have no choice but to roll up my damned sleeve, reach in, and retrieve the thing. And fast! If there’s any chance of saving it, that is.

So I do it. I will spare you the crappy details, if you will.

I pull it out and it’s dripping wet, but the display’s still working, so I take that as a good sign. Yet, as I hold it, I can just feel the E. Coli running riot over the thing. I gotta, like, rinse it off at least. More appropriately, probably dunk it in bleach. Ack!

I opt for the rinsing. I take the phone over to the sink and, as gingerly as possible, try to rinse it off without causing further damage. Then I remove the back cover, take out the battery, and try to dry off the insides.

When I put the battery back in…nothing. The phone is dead.

All together now…heavy sigh.

I was laid low the rest of the day. Thank God for my wonderful wife. Moved by my dropping countenance, my shuffling step, and my sad puppy eyes, she stopped my the World Market and brought me home a healing surprise. Behold, the power of Skullsplitter.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do now. The phone was acting up, anyway, and I kept saying that one day I was going to return it to Samsung for a replacement. I wonder if they’d accept it now? If not, I suggested to Robbye this morning that it might be a good time for me to consider an iPhone.

That landed like a lead balloon.

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