I bought a smart phone in June, partly because I wanted to be able to manage Blue Speckled Pup on the fly, and partly because my old phone was such a relic that the kids at school were saying things like, “Oh, my grandma has that phone.” My little pink flip phone, complete with vines and flowers, was a good phone, but it was time to move on.
I was doing very well with my little smart phone; I found a map when I got really lost one day, and I checked the bus schedule when I was marking papers downtown. I’ve been able to approve comments from new people here at BSP, and I’ve deleted a heckofalotta spam. Smart phone technology rocks my socks.
Unfortunately, smart phones also allow their owners to play a new generation of distracting games. I really had no desire to play Angry Birds, a state of apathy largely related to the number of my friends who have become shrieking messes when their birds don’t land where they hope they will. Since I’ve been in Salmon Arm, my cousin has been launching feathered missiles regularly, and the soundtrack of squawking alone intrigued me. When she passed me her phone and said, “Try this level for me,” my Angry Birds avoidance ended with a flap of feathers.
I am hooked. Worse than finding I quite like the game is the problem that I have little to no Angry Bird ability. It takes me forever to finish a level, probably because I refuse to be defeated by a smirking green pig in a hard hat, and I don’t like to leave the game as a loser.
Never mind that I don’t specifically understand the premise of Angry Birds: how do pigs steal bird eggs, anyway? Pigs lack opposable thumbs and I doubt they are dextrous enough with their jaws to carry eggs on their tongues without crushing them. My porcine opponents are also nestled snugly in structures made of concrete, wood, glass, and human tears and desperation. Who put the pigs there? These pig buildings have no doors: should I take this as proof that pigs can teleport at will? Maybe that’s why the baby back ribs I brought home from Montana’s a few weeks ago disappeared from the fridge without me knowing.
It’s a good thing I’m on vacation right now, so I don’t have to feel so guilty about my Angry Birds addiction. I might have to start locking my phone in the garage once I’m home so I’m not tempted to play, which rather defeats the point of having a phone: you know, so people who want to speak to me can send me a text or give me a ring. In the meantime, though, I’ll keep cussing at the green pigs and wishing the stupid game would give me just one more black bomb bird.
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