Amid the furor last week over Joe’s Shit-phone… the endless on-the-bus bartering for the addition of the detail that the phone was “rinsed” and not just “wiped,” the barrage of emails insisting that Joe was a blue-collar hero for fishing his phone out of the toilet, the even larger barrage or emails suggesting that Joe was eating his own shit every time he answered the phone, the federal probe into my Fecalscope and its implications regarding the war on terror…
Amid this furor I neglected to mention that I dropped my own cell phone in a puddle in Boston last December. It came back to life after a day of drying but then sputtered and frothed at the mouth for a few weeks before the battery finally died and I was forced to visit my local Sprint PCS store, only to discover that 95% of the phones they sell nowadsays are not merely phones, but phones slash cameras.
And while I’m usually the last to embrace any sort of technology (I am proud to inform you that I skipped the Palm Pilot and am currently celebrating it’s imminent extinction), I purchased one of these newfangled camera-phones for the good of The Road Journal. Rest easy readers! Never again will I be unequipped at an important moment because my digital camera was too cumbersome to have on my person…
The camera phone is particularly useful when hanging around with Gordon:
Gordon playing Hungry Hungry Hippos by himself
Gord eating a plate of meatloaf. What? I didn't say anything except that he was eating meatloaf. Sickos. You're the fecophiliacs, not me.
Graham Colton of "The Graham Colton Band" fame, giving a flourish at the end of his bowling delivery.
Brian Rosenworcel of "The Brian Rosenworcel Band" fame, still, after all these years, unable to shave off a beard without leaving the porn moustache and taking a picture of it.
