Monday, October 30, 2006

Bleu Tooth

“Hey, whatup?”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The car.”

“You shouldn’t be calling from the car. We talked about this and you need both hands on the wheel.”

“No prob! I’ve got the Bluetooth thingie working. Hands free! Look – no hands.”

Honnnnkkkkkkk!! “Sorrrrrryyyyyyy!!”

“I don’t want to look and Bluetooth or not you need to pay attention to driving and not be making frivolous phone calls.”

“It’s not frivolous. It’s a test. I don’t know how this button thing works but after a few tries I got it going. Not bad for not reading the manual. One click to call, two clicks to hang up, or is it the other way around?”

“Yeah, well you don’t have anything to say so call me when you do.”


Well, thank YOU, I thought. I had been fooling around with this Bluetooth cell phone earpiece for a couple of days and only just got it working. I was mighty proud of my technical achievement and wanted to share, but I guess technical expertise like mine can only be appreciated by a few.

About that time a blue Volvo cut me off by veering into the left lane.

Cabbage, I thought. I swear in French when I’m driving. Not real French because my real ability to speak French is très pauvres.

But, I love to swear in faux French, especially while driving. It gives me that, je ne sais pas ce qui, feeling of superiority. I say things in a French accent which makes the swearing respectable. That’s my story at least. Inspector Clouseau would be proud.

In an surprising turn of events the blue Volvo was cut off by another blue Volvo. Sacre bleu! Literally! Not only did this new Volvo driver cut the previous Volvo driver off, he cut me off, too!

You are a leetle cab-AZGHE! A mo-SQUITO du jour. Stu-PEED golf ball. Oui, you are a golf-BALL!

It’s important to get the em-PHA-sis on the right syl-LA-ble when swearing in faux Francais.

You pitiful cab-BAGE, I continued, bite my fing-GER, you witless EEL! I breek wind in your di-RECT-shun. Oui? You Fange-du-PU-terre! You Bichon de Bichon! You Strawberry Fraise! Oui, get out of my way. Allez, allez!

And, soon enough, the Volvos were on their way and so was I. Ah, such entertainment. Where would we be without Volvo drivers? A barren, boring landscape of driving monotony.

Later that day I arrived home and was confronted with this report.

“I had the most remarkable phone call today just after you hung up.”

“Oh, do tell,” I said taking the Bluetooth earpiece off my head and plugging it into the charger.

“Well, I had an obscene phone call!”


“Yes, and it was all in French. It went on and on about Volvos and bichon frieses and cabbages. It was so weird!.”

I paused. “Those Volvos, what color where they?”

“Blue. Definitely blue. The Frenchman went on and on about blue Volvos and cabbages and strawberry bichon frieses. It was totally weird!”

“Ah, yes, well, er, these things happen. I suppose. Mad Frenchmen, I mean, what’s next? Incensed Italians? Angry Argentineans?”

While I was muttering I made my way to the junk drawer in the kitchen and started poking around.

“What are you looking for?”

“Uh, the Bluetooth earpiece manual. I, uh, wanted to check on a few things. You know, to verify this and that buttonwise, so to speak.”

My wife looked at me knowingly and turning to leave the room said, “Oui, je comprends parfaitement.”


Foo said...

Oi! That un's a keeper!

Anonymous said...

There is an air of invinciblity in being a Volvo. The steel, the boxiness, the reputation of "safest"...sadly, not always accompanied by "sanest." I had to fight another Volvo driver for a parking space not too long ago and instead of muttering in French, I yelled, "Where's the Volvo love, ma'am?"
It's the highly-coiffered Volvo drivers that give the rest of us a bad name. Or at least I hope it's just them.

Anonymous said...

C'etait parfait.

Et j'ai bien rigole!