TelemaFone - The Saga Begins

So the Muse is I think embarking on an epic quest to get the right phone. She ordered one, discounted through a reseller, sight unseen. it arrived.

This thing, it is not the thing.

It is the Pepsi some waiter tried to slip you when you distinctly ordered a Coke. Is it wet? Yes. Will it do all the things a beverage will do? Yes. But it is not what was ordered. It is not what was wanted.

So. Send it back? or whatever and drink it?

Of course, its not exactly the same level as all that, your beverage didn't cost you five hundred dollars and its nothing you get personally attached to. Not only that, but signalling the waiter and returning it wont cost you 60 bucks shipping, and its not like you brought in another drink at a hundred dollars a shot to tide you over until your real beverage arrives.

She's really the wrong person to do this sort of thing to, because it's not just something to get over. I would let it go. I can do that. I never stay irritated at anything for very long, assuming that it doesn't involve people. I would take my redheaded bastard of a phone, and give it a home in which it would be loved.

The Muse doesn't roll that way. This will piss her off forever. Like in twenty years when by some freakish coincedence she meets the seller in the street, she will just out and kick him in the balls. Nine times. When he asks why, groaning in agony, she will clearly and distinctly tell him, that that was for every time she used her phone and had to deal with the realization that her thing was not the thing.

On her deathbed, she will set aside some portion of her estate for the hiring of a young professional mixed martial artist group to find this man and any children he may have, so that every year on the anniversary of receiving this thing which is not the thing, they will be heartily ballkicked. It will be disguised as a charitable foundation, around which an unholy order of monks will form, seeking out each and every one of this mans line and his decendants, and ensuring that each will know the testicular agony of their forefathers, from now until the end of time.

Clearly this man does not understand the extent to which his genetic line is in peril. If he did, he would, continuing the metaphor, run across the street to the nearest supermarket, get a bottle of Coke, pour it into the right glass with the right bendy straw, the perfect amount of ice and apologize profusly for the confusion.

It is unlikely he will come to this conclusion in time. We will see how this epic quest unfolds. I'm not even kidding, in ten thousand years, there could be a holy war over this.