It’s 2:30 am. You just left your gayvorite bar. Cue one of the following possible scenarios:
g. Post bar brawl, heavy on the expletives and hair pulling.
a. Main water line explodes, consequently destroying countless BCBG tops and metallic leather stiletto sandals.
y. Fatal Vespa crash, attributed to one too many appletinis.
Through the waves of mass hysteria and the fiery aftermath, a waifish figure emerges from the shadows, documenting the flurry of activity like fucking Anderson Cooper a few degrees shy of 360. It is he—the two-thumbed texting fairy—come to grant you the blow-by-blow in all of its abbreviated glory!
If you're having trouble differentiating this textotic specimen from the other hordes of text-happy kids, just look for the flamer wearing the $450 belt, Von-Dutch hat, "kewl" white kicks, faded low-rise Diesel jeans slung extra low to show off his 2(x)ist waistband and, oh yeah, that Abercrombie—or even worse, Hollister—shirt with fraying appliqué letters. Give or take some “messy” spiked hair and “aged” leather accessories and we have a winner.
Fully equipped with his Sidekick, this PIT (Perez-In-Training) hurries to report the details of what "just went down" to his entire contact list, generously sprinkled with a myriad of exclamations points and emoticons ;) The seamless motion with which he starts to text before the screen has fully flipped around is not only impressive, but adds dramatic effect and gusto that would make Mavis Beacon proud. Pounding out his message, his hand moves rapidly across the keypad, emitting a cacophony of distinctive clicks, reminiscent of shots from a Vietnamese machine gun.
He finishes things off with a flick of his index finger, sending the screen swivel ing to a perfect, noisy close. Ta-dah! Within nanoseconds this quick-on-his-digits “Thumb-elina” has managed to send a mini-US Weekly article to the nearest cell tower, thanks to the powerful combo of T-9 and a full QWERTY keyboard. And when the excitement is ju st too much to be contained in a standard 160-character text, the drama is carried over in a “juicy” two- or three-parter.
When he’s not reporting the scene, he can surely be spotted speed-walking down the thoroughfare, strutting his shit with hips like Shakira in the “Whenever, Wherever” v ideo. He knows full well that his gallivant can single-handedly trump the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, leaving dozens of straight onlookers gayzed and confused. The drama of his swagger is heightened by a soundtrack of the latest Britney, Gaga, or Cascada tune blasting out of his phone’s speakers—a device on which not even Edith Piaf or Whitney Houston's voices would sound good.
So please head our dire warning: if you do find yourself within a 50-foot radius of a homotextual, evacuate immediately. These media-savvy mavens are always thirsty for new juice, and if you so much as sneeze unfashionably, you could end up being the next unwilling status update of several trendy networking outlets (including, but not limited to , Twitter, Facebook, fml…) With that said, think twice before you don those carpenter jeans or red gardening clogs for a night on the town.
We leave you, dear reader, with one final riddle, a twist on the timeless classic that has stumped man for ages. If there’s no cell service at the gay bar, can you still hear a fag bitching?
Drama at the bar!
Chaos at the club!
Chaos at the club!
His exit music please!
Good to Know: Just because you can text and walk at the same time doesn't mean you're allowed.
The Bottom Line: If you had friends you'd be with them, obviously you're no fun and they're sick of your goddamn texts - they probably have you number blocked. Go to bed.
Rating: “Kidz Bop” eternally on repeat.
