Bluetooth Whores

April 26, 2010

Last week my flight to Miami Beach was delayed and I had to spend three hours in a very crowded airport. Apparently, some super storm had stopped right over the Atlanta area, grounding all flights in and out. Most people would consider this torture, but not me. There’s nothing more enjoyable than people watching at the airport, especially when there are terminal wide delays. I turned off my i-pod, removed my earphones and waited for the chaos to ensue.

It didn’t take long.

Seconds after the delay was announced, frustrated travelers descended on the gate agent like a group of overeaters at the Cici’s all-you-can-eat buffet. There was a man who demanded the airline compensate him for every second he was made to sit at the gate. A woman behind him tried to bribe the gate agent with fifty dollars, as if her money could alleviate the rain. And I even saw one young girl unbutton two buttons on her blouse before plopping her boobs on the ticket counter and trying to flirt her way onto another flight.

Then I heard a man behind me with a very deep and thick southern accent say “It’s probably the terrorists.” “Wouldn’t doubt it” his equally heavy-accented female companion agreed. “Easier for them to kill thousands of us in the airport than a hundred on a plane.” I leaned back in my chair for what I knew was going to be a colorful conversation when some douche bag in a business suit sat down beside me.

“This fucking sucks!” he said loud enough to be heard three gates away. Assuming he was talking to me I turned and replied “I know, but there’s a Starbucks down the hall to hold us over.” He turned and looked at me as if I had three heads and halitosis. That’s when I saw who, or what, he was complaining to.

Sticking out of his right ear was the ubiquitous Bluetooth, leeching onto the side of his head like an electronic parasite. He turned back and kept talking “I’m stuck in this shit hole airport when I need to be back home.” Not able to eavesdrop on the terrorist conspiracy theorists behind me anymore I sat there and tried to think of a way I could embarrass the douche bag Bluetooth Whore beside me.

What’s a Bluetooth Whore?

It’s any person absurdly addicted to inner ear canal communication. That includes people who, because they’re the only one who can hear the person on the other line, assume that only that person can hear them, no matter how loudly they talk. My airport douche bag nemesis would fall into this category.

It also includes those narcissistic butt wads that constantly wear their Bluetooth, whether they’re on the phone or not. My theory is that they want people to think that their time is too precious to waste the three seconds it takes to put it in your ears before you can answer a call.

And it includes any person who has a Bluetooth that is colored, bejeweled, is larger than a cigarette lighter or has a pet name.

My first plan to thwart the Bluetooth Whore beside me was to rip the douche bag’s automated head appendage from his ear, run to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet. I bailed that idea because I figured it could be considered an act of domestic terrorism and the last thing I wanted to do was deal with the morons at Homeland Security. Then I considered standing on my seat and asking everyone around me to raise their hands if they hated Bluetooth Whores as much as I did. But looking around and seeing little black pieces of plastic attached to the side of most people’s heads that I saw made me decide against that.

I was almost ready to give up and put my headphones back on when I heard the douche bag say “Nah, dude. Don’t be such a fag. Just call me later.” Then he gave his phone number, which I quickly jotted down in my notebook, remembering a funny joke some friends of mine pulled in architecture school.

Apparently in grad school, I wasn’t the only one who disliked Pirate (for a complete explanation of why Pirate was so annoying, see Excessive Air Quoters). You see, two friends of mine were out playing trivia one night after class at a local bar. Annoyed with something that Pirate had said, or mis-air quoted, they named their team “For a good time, call…” then filled in Pirate’s phone number.

And it worked.

The next day at school all Pirate could talk about were the random phone calls she had received the night before and how “funny” they were.

So, what did I do when the skies cleared and I eventually arrived in Miami? I went to the first bar I passed that was hosting a trivia night and signed me and my bf up as a team. Our team name? “For a good time, call…” and I gave the douche bag’s phone number. I only hope he received as many calls as Pirate.

My advice to Bluetooth Whores:

If you talk too loudly on your Bluetooth, stop. If people around you wanted to hear a douche bag talk, we’d download the latest episode of “American Idol” and listen to Ryan Seacrest try to distract the audience from his embarrassing diminutive size and how he constantly talks out of the side of his mouth.

If you constantly wear your Bluetooth like a fashion accessory, get over it. You’re not that important. The president doesn’t even wear one.

If you’ve de-bazzled your Bluetooth or given it a nickname, then your problems are beyond my jurisdiction. Contact a psychiatrist ASAP.

My advice to everyone else:

Follow the example of my grad school friends and, when you hear some douche bag or douche bag-ette shouting their phone number into space while wearing some piece of obnoxious plastic attached to the side of their head, write it down, go to a trivia night at your favorite bar and give yourself the name “For a good time call…” and give their phone number.


4 Responses to “Bluetooth Whores”

  1. Do you mind if I use you and this post as a source on my thesis? I will properly cite you.

  2. limewire Says:

    lmao sweet stuff bro.

  3. This is a good post, I stumbled across your post while looking for downloads. Thanks for sharing, I’ll be sure to come back.

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