The elderly have lived full lives and I respect them for the knowledge that they can pass down to a young chap like myself. I can sit and talk for hours to grandpa about the "floozies" he romped with back in the old days. I can get worldly advice from grandma to pass onto my children when I decide to have some.
But under no circumstance should anyone over the age of 70 handle any product of modern technology.
My boss is up there when it comes to age. He gets confused quite easily.
"Justin, how do you use this dag-blasted contraption?"
"You mean the stapler?"
For years, he had been using one of the automatic ones that staples the paper when you stick it under it. When it broke, we had to pull out one of the older staplers. You know, the manual ones.
"It looks funny, how the hell do you use it?"
"You put a few pieces of paper between it and you... staple it. Just press on the top."
He tapped the top like it was a fragile button.
"No, harder."
He tapped it harder, but not hard enough.
"Okay, slam your hand down on it."
Shouldn't have said that. He brought his wrinkled fist down ontop of it, smashing it into two pieces and sending staples flying all over the place. Then he stammered out of the room.
Yesterday, he invested in one of those camera phones. He had never owned a cellphone before in his entire life. In fact, from the way he is, I wouldn't be surprised if he had never used a land-line phone. He begged me to show him how to use all of the "nifty thingamajiggy features" of the phone, so I did.
Unfortunately, the first thing he mastered was sending text messages. My phone makes an annoying ringing sound when I get texts. It sounds like "buddaloop".
When I was on my lunch break, my cell started going crazy. "Buddaloop, buddaloop".
"What the hell is that, Justin?"
I looked down at my phone, wondering why I was getting that many texts.
"It must be from.... <buddaloop>... my ex....<buddaloop>... she used to text me all the time...<buddaloop>.. when we dated."
I reached down and turned my phone off, not thinking a thing about it. When I got back to the office, I turned it back on to make a call and I'm greeted with a nice message on my screen.
"50 new inbox messages. Inbox full. 23 messages waiting."
I checked the first message: "hey justin. i figured it out."
And the second message: "cathy, can you tell fred to come to my office?"
Okay, actually it was more like: "cat8h, cn u t3l ferdd 2 cum 2 my off. thx."
After reading through several of the messages, I had soon discovered that this idiot has been texting several people but sending all of the messages to my phone.
Before my shift was over, I knocked on his office door.
"Hold on, I'm on the phone."
Finally, the bastard learns how to use the phone part of the... phone.
After waiting a little while, I just decided to burst into his office. He's my friend, I can do that.
But I didn't want to. Not today anyway.
As I pulled the door open, there he was sitting in his chair in his boxers. Where was his phone? Attached to the clip on his pants. Where were his pants? Hanging from his phone as he was talking on it. He just gave me an awkward stare and turned to the side, talking on his now pants-hanger.
Apparently when his phone rang, he couldn't get the phone off of his pants to talk on it, so he did the next best thing-- which was remove the pants. I'm honestly thinking about asking for that raise I've been wanting.
But under no circumstance should anyone over the age of 70 handle any product of modern technology.
My boss is up there when it comes to age. He gets confused quite easily.
"Justin, how do you use this dag-blasted contraption?"
"You mean the stapler?"
For years, he had been using one of the automatic ones that staples the paper when you stick it under it. When it broke, we had to pull out one of the older staplers. You know, the manual ones.
"It looks funny, how the hell do you use it?"
"You put a few pieces of paper between it and you... staple it. Just press on the top."
He tapped the top like it was a fragile button.
"No, harder."
He tapped it harder, but not hard enough.
"Okay, slam your hand down on it."
Shouldn't have said that. He brought his wrinkled fist down ontop of it, smashing it into two pieces and sending staples flying all over the place. Then he stammered out of the room.
Yesterday, he invested in one of those camera phones. He had never owned a cellphone before in his entire life. In fact, from the way he is, I wouldn't be surprised if he had never used a land-line phone. He begged me to show him how to use all of the "nifty thingamajiggy features" of the phone, so I did.
Unfortunately, the first thing he mastered was sending text messages. My phone makes an annoying ringing sound when I get texts. It sounds like "buddaloop".
When I was on my lunch break, my cell started going crazy. "Buddaloop, buddaloop".
"What the hell is that, Justin?"
I looked down at my phone, wondering why I was getting that many texts.
"It must be from.... <buddaloop>... my ex....<buddaloop>... she used to text me all the time...<buddaloop>.. when we dated."
I reached down and turned my phone off, not thinking a thing about it. When I got back to the office, I turned it back on to make a call and I'm greeted with a nice message on my screen.
"50 new inbox messages. Inbox full. 23 messages waiting."
I checked the first message: "hey justin. i figured it out."
And the second message: "cathy, can you tell fred to come to my office?"
Okay, actually it was more like: "cat8h, cn u t3l ferdd 2 cum 2 my off. thx."
After reading through several of the messages, I had soon discovered that this idiot has been texting several people but sending all of the messages to my phone.
Before my shift was over, I knocked on his office door.
"Hold on, I'm on the phone."
Finally, the bastard learns how to use the phone part of the... phone.
After waiting a little while, I just decided to burst into his office. He's my friend, I can do that.
But I didn't want to. Not today anyway.
As I pulled the door open, there he was sitting in his chair in his boxers. Where was his phone? Attached to the clip on his pants. Where were his pants? Hanging from his phone as he was talking on it. He just gave me an awkward stare and turned to the side, talking on his now pants-hanger.
Apparently when his phone rang, he couldn't get the phone off of his pants to talk on it, so he did the next best thing-- which was remove the pants. I'm honestly thinking about asking for that raise I've been wanting.
