(Here is Case Study 1, documenting what happened when I sent text messages while undergoing a very personal kind of surgery, and out of my mind on prescription painkillers.)
Today’s story begins with a bad movie. A former coworker (let’s call him “Rushmore”), brain-damaged by excessive consumption of irony, had prodded me with repeated recommendations that I watch a movie called “Road House.” His rationale was that any film that can deliver the line “pain don’t hurt” with a straight face ought to be good for a laugh. (He watches Ted Nugent’s “Spirit of the Wild” for similar reasons; see yesterday’s post for more about Mr. Nugent.)
I resisted for a long time, but I finally gave in when I found out there’s a Rifftrax rendition of Road House. (It’s quite good!)
So as I watched it one weekend, I decided to give Rushmore a play-by-play of ridiculous quotes from the movie. I sent the following texts, in this order:
I’m finally watching Road House.
Pain don’t hurt.
Nobody ever wins a fight.
I used to fuck guys like you in prison.
But it all went terribly wrong, as I found out at work on Monday, because of two factors I didn’t anticipate. One: I wasn’t listed in his phone, so he didn’t know where the texts were coming from. Two: he received them in reverse order.
Texting is hazardous.