I’m having a spat. A big one, with lots of screaming and profanity and stamping of little feet. All by me, of course, which is the norm in these little disagreements.
This particular spat is with my cell phone.
I say that the pictures I took with the phone camera last night (as evidence, to accompany a post about a narrowly-averted bit of idiocy in which I nearly engaged) are mine, and I should be able to email them to myself whenever the hell I please.
“Opposable thumbs, years of cell phone experience, and a brain the size of a C-cup boob, and what does it all get me? Nothing.”
The phone, however, has other ideas. The phone seems to think that it owns the pictures now, and has complete control over what happens to them. It firmly believes in its lunkheaded digibrain that it’s meeting me halfway, by letting me see the pictures, and save the pictures, and — in an unfortunate slip of the thumb — even delete one of the pictures, but not, under any circumstance, email the pictures to a device where I might actually do something useful with the pictures.
Further, the phone has taken up a policy whereby it will send itself a chirpy and thoroughly uncooperative text message each time I attempt to email said photos to myself:
‘Pictures Access Denied!‘
(My quotes, but the caps and exclamation point come from the phone. Cheeky little cuss.)
What I’ve ever done to the phone to deserve this sort of shunning is beyond me. I treat my phone right. It’s got the Liberty Bell March ringtone, and a custom screen image. I barely ever drop it, and I always wipe it clean after making 900-number calls. And I never — never, never, never — do that trick where you sit in the back row at a movie with the phone on vibrate tucked into your underwear, where you call yourself over and over on another cell phone’s speed dial. Never.
(And not because the phone was on speaker once when I got a real call, and a theater full of people heard my crotch shouting, ‘Hello? HELLO? ARE YOU THERE?!?‘
Well, not just because of that, anyway. But I’m not welcome at the Cineplex any more, I’m afraid.)
Still, this crappy little device with a brain the size of a nipple ring seems to have the upper hand for the moment. The pictures are somewhere within its bowels, and it’s not letting go without a fight. Of course, being the one in the fight with opposable thumbs, I didn’t go down quietly. I even pasted the text of the error message into Google, and found a few hits. There was even advice, with a very specific solution to my very problem. All I need to do is reset a piddling little security setting. How simple! Gosh!
Flushed, I thumbed through the menus on the phone, my victory clear and imminent. I made it to the security settings and found…
MY POOPY PHONE DOESN’T SMEGGING HAVE THAT STUPID PIDDLY LITTLE SECURITY FREAKING SETTING!
So, I’m back to square one. Opposable thumbs, years of cell phone experience, and a brain the size of a C-cup boob, and what does it all get me? Nothing. I’m still no closer to the pictures, or to the now-totally-not-worth-the-effort idiocy-averting post the pics were meant to illustrate. Instead, you get a dozen paragraphs telling you exactly how and why I’m not as smart as a three-inch piece of Mickey Mouse Sanyo electronicrap. Bitches!
Fuck it. If I don’t figure it out soon, I’ll take the damned phone apart to get at those pictures. That may not count as ‘winning’, but it’s sure as hell gonna feel good to let the hacksaw and vice grips loose on that thing. Toy with me, will ya?!Permalink | 3 Comments