I was recently informed that yet another broad that I know drunkenly dropped her phone into a toilet, killing it immediately. This makes roughly 150 young ladies that I know who have done this exact same thing in a drunken stupor. I'm not alone here, either. Everyone in the nation knows approximately 150 drunk chicks that have broken their phones by waterlogging them. On a related note, there are roughly 300 million people in the United States. If we do the math, this means that 45 billion drunk chicks have toileted their cell phones in the United States alone. And if that math doesn't make sense to you, then ask yourself: did you represent your middle school in the Math Olympics? Well, L Tray did. Now shut up.
This post was originally intended blast women, but upon further review, I was forced to reconsider. I initially thought that the inferior brainpower of the weaker sex was to blame for so many toileted phones. But perhaps the explanation is a bit more tangible than that. To explain, let's try some role playing.
You're a college girl, out for the night. You are with your friends, determined to have a good time despite the plate of nachos you had before bed last night, which you're convinced added about 8 pounds to your frame. To make up for this lapse in self-control, you punished yourself at the rec center with 6 "Look at my love handles" miles on the treadmill and 400 angry "I'm a fatass whore" crunches. Thus cleansed, you are ready to get your drink on. And I've gotta say, you're looking good. Have you been working out?
Countless guys feed you identical lines, followed by identical drinks. With all those calories you burned from earlier today, the alcohol is hitting you quickly. You need to go to the ladies'. There's a line, but you put the urge to pee out of your head by comparing your legs and boobs to the other girls in line, following the grading sheet that states that big boobs are good, small boobs are bad. Small legs are good, big legs are bad. You realize you are one of the best looking women in line. You decide to reward yourself with a plate of nachos when you get home.
You finally find a stall, and you quickly lock the door and build a nest. You drop your pants, and all of a sudden, you hear a small sploosh. It was tough to hear over the blaring techno and cookie-cutter hip hop that you love oh so dearly, but you definitely heard something solid hit the water. You immediately think that you pooped your pants. Here come the tears. In between spasming, gut-busting sobs, you reach for your phone to call one of your friends for help. The phone is not in your back pocket. But that's where you always put it! Having a rare moment of drunk chick clarity, you look into the toilet bowl, and you see your precious celly, drowned and alone. You cry harder, for every drunk chick knows that pooping herself is small potatoes compared to losing a cell phone.
Now, at first glance, it's easy to blame the drunk lady for this mistake. But look closer. The phone was in the back pocket. This is where the phone needs to go for a young woman who doesn't feel like lugging that annoying clutch around all night(and yes, I know what a clutch is. Someone kill me). The front pockets of womens' pants are not conducive to holding anything bulky, because, come on, it'd look really stupid. And if we also consider the urgency of a drunken piss, a phone in the toilet seems downright expected. Upon eye contact with your stall, it suddenly feels as if an explosion is imminent. Now imagine building a nest beforehand! Wow! I have to take a bathroom break just typing it! So combine the momentum of aggressively yanking down tight jeans with that of sitting down, and bang! Phone in the toilet. As much as I hate to admit it, it makes sense.
So who's to blame? Why, it's those bastards over at the clothing companies! You, sirs, are destroying the phones of America! Not to mention the self-confidence and self-images of our beautiful women! How dare you tell us what does and what doesn't look good on our legs? Who are you to judge? You are all fatasses! How was your Chicken Tendercrisp today, Jiggles? Did you king size it? You most certainly did! It is YOUR fault that our women drop their phones into toilets, and it's YOUR fault that we dress ourselves because of the ideals that you put into our heads!
I'm kidding, of course.
Hey drunk chicks, your fathers called. Stop being idiots. Hang on to your phones.
This post was originally intended blast women, but upon further review, I was forced to reconsider. I initially thought that the inferior brainpower of the weaker sex was to blame for so many toileted phones. But perhaps the explanation is a bit more tangible than that. To explain, let's try some role playing.
You're a college girl, out for the night. You are with your friends, determined to have a good time despite the plate of nachos you had before bed last night, which you're convinced added about 8 pounds to your frame. To make up for this lapse in self-control, you punished yourself at the rec center with 6 "Look at my love handles" miles on the treadmill and 400 angry "I'm a fatass whore" crunches. Thus cleansed, you are ready to get your drink on. And I've gotta say, you're looking good. Have you been working out?
Countless guys feed you identical lines, followed by identical drinks. With all those calories you burned from earlier today, the alcohol is hitting you quickly. You need to go to the ladies'. There's a line, but you put the urge to pee out of your head by comparing your legs and boobs to the other girls in line, following the grading sheet that states that big boobs are good, small boobs are bad. Small legs are good, big legs are bad. You realize you are one of the best looking women in line. You decide to reward yourself with a plate of nachos when you get home.
You finally find a stall, and you quickly lock the door and build a nest. You drop your pants, and all of a sudden, you hear a small sploosh. It was tough to hear over the blaring techno and cookie-cutter hip hop that you love oh so dearly, but you definitely heard something solid hit the water. You immediately think that you pooped your pants. Here come the tears. In between spasming, gut-busting sobs, you reach for your phone to call one of your friends for help. The phone is not in your back pocket. But that's where you always put it! Having a rare moment of drunk chick clarity, you look into the toilet bowl, and you see your precious celly, drowned and alone. You cry harder, for every drunk chick knows that pooping herself is small potatoes compared to losing a cell phone.
Now, at first glance, it's easy to blame the drunk lady for this mistake. But look closer. The phone was in the back pocket. This is where the phone needs to go for a young woman who doesn't feel like lugging that annoying clutch around all night(and yes, I know what a clutch is. Someone kill me). The front pockets of womens' pants are not conducive to holding anything bulky, because, come on, it'd look really stupid. And if we also consider the urgency of a drunken piss, a phone in the toilet seems downright expected. Upon eye contact with your stall, it suddenly feels as if an explosion is imminent. Now imagine building a nest beforehand! Wow! I have to take a bathroom break just typing it! So combine the momentum of aggressively yanking down tight jeans with that of sitting down, and bang! Phone in the toilet. As much as I hate to admit it, it makes sense.
So who's to blame? Why, it's those bastards over at the clothing companies! You, sirs, are destroying the phones of America! Not to mention the self-confidence and self-images of our beautiful women! How dare you tell us what does and what doesn't look good on our legs? Who are you to judge? You are all fatasses! How was your Chicken Tendercrisp today, Jiggles? Did you king size it? You most certainly did! It is YOUR fault that our women drop their phones into toilets, and it's YOUR fault that we dress ourselves because of the ideals that you put into our heads!
I'm kidding, of course.
Hey drunk chicks, your fathers called. Stop being idiots. Hang on to your phones.
