My husband is not a texter. Never has been. However, since I upgraded him to a smart phone a few months ago he’s made an effort to try it. He’ll send a text from time to time because he learned how to use the voice-texting feature. He has fat fingers. No! Muscular fingers. Yeah. Tonight I asked him to text Super Glue to find out when he was arriving to cook the almost out-of-fucking date chicken that he had brought over and left in our fridge. Bruce went with the voice texting option. Internets, it didn’t go well.
This is what he said:
This goddamn chicken isn’t going to cook itself!
This is what was sent:
Just got damn chicken listen to cook itself.
Here is another thread of texts I found on his phone while NOT being nosey:
Bruce: I will see you in hell
Super Glue: Let’s golf and get some eggs
Bruce: The Mayans are fucking up my golf swing
Bruce: stop wobbling and agree with the fucking guy
Super Glue: We look like a pair of tits
Bruce: Heather needs a red onion and a tomato
These two need to work on some flow. Or stop smoking peyote.
Cheers ~ SF