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I sense a move afoot to make me appear grouchy and less than Mr. Cool and up with the times. How ridiculous is that… me… Mr. I am Sunshine. Let me present the complaint without distortion or twisting any facts.

I sense a move afoot to make me appear grouchy and less than Mr. Cool and up with the times.

How ridiculous is that… me… Mr. I am Sunshine.

Let me present the complaint without distortion or twisting any facts.

I have been using the texting feature on my magic talk box more lately because certain young women in my office who shall go unnamed, we will refer to them as Sarah and Rebecca, and my daughter, who shall not go unnamed, Katy, and her little Yorkie from the underworld (apparently Katy’s demon Yorkie can use the stupid text thing better than me).

Complaint No. 1

I forget to check my text messages. Like I’m supposed to do this more than yearly.

Katy said I had to set up some ear-throbbing sounds to tell me when to do what.

OK, fine, I did as directed. The next day I forgot what I did and suddenly got all befuddled when foreign sounds starting pouring unannounced from my pocket. I thought I was Agent 86 and I tried to answer my shoe. (Keep this information to yourself, please).

Complaint No. 2

This is from me. How am I supposed to know about all those special weird unknowable things Sarah, Rebecca and Katy know and no one ever tells me?

I spend all sorts of time studying indecipherable old things like Greek, but I have no idea what a ‘:)’ means or a ‘:P’ or the million other things they use to talk. Where did this language come from and why do they get to know and I don’t? Maybe they find out in some secret classroom where you have to know the handshake and everyone wears funny hats and sits in tall wooden chairs with no cushions.

Complaint No. 3

This is also me… not that I’m whining.

How come they can punch things into their phone like lightning and it takes me 20 minutes to figure out how to write barf. It is so annoying. I feel like when I text I have to lock myself in a closet. I have even practiced speed thumb things and all I do is end up writing a string of bad words.


It’s not likely I can return to my cranky wall phone (I still have the one we had on the farm) and it is probable that essential information will continue to be withheld from me because of a conspiratorial plan to make me appear grouchy and as out of date as my lumpy buttermilk. Well, my lumpy buttermilk is the secret remedy. The magic potion for Mr. Sunshine is a glass of buttermilk, texturally lumpy, every day. It is the elixir of life the young do not know and have not discovered with all their fancy, speedy texty things – whatever they are.

Someday Sarah, Rebecca and Katy will want to know the secret sign to text  – lumpy buttermilk, come and get  it – but they will have to come to me for the answer.



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