I've lost my red Nokia 5120 cell phone. Have you found it or seen it anywhere? Thanks for the help.
P.S. If you find it, call my house. The number is in the phonebook in my cell phone.
Firstly, Chloe, permit me to explicate upon the cellular telephone.
To be brief: like the sperm whale and skin parasites, the cellular phone is one of my few, yet fearsome, arch-nemeses.
As my constant readers (morbid as they are, like the would-be-suicide gazing deep into the abyss of the barrel of her side-arm) are well aware, that which has garnered my hatred and enmity has done so because it is the most exceeding member in its field. Just as the sperm whale is, indubitably, the most cetacean of toothed cetaceans, and the skin parasite the most vicious and unscrupulous host-seeker, so too is the portable cellular telephone the most telephonic of telephones.
To enlarge upon my disdain, permit me to convey the following pre-hibernation story (In deference to your minuscule primate attention span, I shall populate this tale with small words and prominent Hollywood figures swathed in only the most insubstantial swatches of textile):
Once upon a time there was a very beautiful drymeat female by the name of Hedy LaMar— I assume that the "Mar" within her surname was intended to equate her with the ocean, as she was as crafty and sly— not to mention smooth-of-dermis— as the finest of rays. This female LaMar was a "star" of your silver-screen and had graced the cellulose of many films on both the East and West of the great and frigid Atlantic Ocean. Her voice was mellifluous, her movements agile, breasts melon-like and swathed in the least substantial swatches of fabric available at that time. She was distinguished as the first human female to appear fully disrobed before the camera in a non-pornographic film, and is noted for her cunning forgery of orgasmic pleasure before the cameras.
Although the citizen LaMar was widely renowned among you monkeys for her skill at reflecting light onto silver-halide coated plastic (quoth LaMar "Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.") she was also as sharp as the wily ray's fearsome tail.
In the years separating Surface War One and Surface War Two, LaMar had been the trophy wife to an Austrian munitions dealer. As trophy wife, her responsibilities were much similar to her later responsibilities as an actress: Look sexually desirable, grunt pleasantries, feign interest in the gruntings of male chimps.
In this time she noted the primary concern of her husband's fellow war-profiteers: would not it be positive, they oft noted, were it possible to evade the invariable eavesdroppers in radio communications without the use of cumbersome cryptography (cumbersome, that is, to ones as shallow-skulled as yourselves.) But alas, these simple war-profiteers could not devise a scheme by which to make their meager dream a glorious reality.
During Surface War Two, after fleeing across the sea as a dolphin might flea from a Japanese frigate, LaMar reflected upon this ardent desire, and so invented the spread-spectrum broadcast. Brilliant in its simplicity, in her methodology the transmitter and recipient skip from broadcast channel to broadcast channel in concert every few seconds. To the communicants the broadcast is unbroken— like any common face-at-face conversation. But, to a nefarious listener-in, the conversation is nigh impossible to follow, as it skips from frequency to frequency ever few seconds. Brilliant— and not just brilliant for a stunted monkey. This design had a grace and brilliance to be admired by all species, even my dear Formica polyctena. You die a lucky death if never you must match wits with an ant, my simian friend.
The LaMar offered her design to US Military— but their technologies were far too primitive to implement her genius. They instead enlisted her aid in shaking her hindquarters to increase the sales of War Bonds. After Patent Law (the dull-witted cousin to fearsome Copy Right Law) ceased to protect her great invention, the spread-spectrum broadcast was released to the public, where many a male human implemented the design and reaped the profits which Hedy had sown— profits from which she saw nil in her lifetime.
Among the many implementations are the cursed Telephone cellular, forever dancing beyond my ken, skipping from frequency to frequency as a young Hedy LaMar skipped through the rolling hills of Austria. Cellular communications enrages me, not simply for what it is (the brain-wringingly untrackable conduit of human intercourse,) but also for what it symbolizes: theft from the Perfect.
Be aware, land-flotsam, where I come from, the lack of a tumescent mating tentacle doesn't nominate one for the choice position as automatic defilement recipient. Considering the shear mass and strength of a female, I find your consistent abuse of the stronger gender to be quite perplexing. I have possession of an encyclopedic familiarity with the many species of the sea (male, female and ungendered,) which, quite frankly, is far more impressive than a working knowledge of the mechanics of you dirt-creepers. I note that my assistant, Tom, is a male (but barely,) and weighs nigh unto 250 pounds with a body length of 6 feet. My research indicates that this is a largish male. Although I've never seen a human female, my calculations (based upon my knowledge of other species and the dimensions and volume of Tom), I feel safe in assuming that human females must be at least 7.5 feet in length, exceed 400 pounds and be easily able to devour a male in three bites. (I have not accounted for the possibility of tissue-denaturing venoms, anti-coagulants, tetrodotoxin, bufotoxin, et cetera. If you, Chloe, would like to enlighten me with details as to the finer points of your defensive and digestive capabilities, I would be most appreciative.)
All of this being said, while viewing magnified satellite images of the Great Lakes Region yestertwilight, I happened to spy with my terrible eye a red Nokia 5120 cellular unit resting upon the cement behind a USA today newspaper box near the intersection of roads East University and South University in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Provided that your cellular phone has a black wrist strap and a thin crack traversing the bottom-left quadrant of the speaker-region, then consider it located. Send one of your drones to fetch it to you.
Then devour him.
Ha Ha Ha.
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