Well, this is it my friends. Ever since we've started our little quest, I have been right there on the front lines with you. I have been the general and the hero, leading us in our righteous and just fight. But, my honorable men and women, I’m afraid I can lead you no more. The day we have most feared is here, and indeed, it is not pretty. That’s right - I’m a traitor now. I’m turning tail, showing my true colors, and giving the knife in your collective backs a good twist. I hate it as much as you all do, but I guess we knew this day would come sooner or later.

I’m getting a cell phone.

This whole mess started with pagers. It used to be a status symbol back in high school. If you had that big, Motorola clip protruding out of your pocket, man, you were cool (that is, unless you forget to put it on vibrate and you get a page while in class - who the hell calls someone in the middle of a school day anyway?). And then, when you were out of school and away from those who could confiscate your coolness, you could strut around the mall, or the arcade or coffee shop, with your pager strapped to your belt for all to see.

And, of course, pager talk became the new slang. For a nation that has trouble mastering its own language, we could say all kinds of things with just nine numbers and a small little window. Pagers greatly influenced real life situations as well. If you really needed to get out of a boring-as-hell conversation, you could always break in with “hold on, I’m getting a page.” And run for the nearest exit. Or you could insert your pager into your conversations, thus giving you the ultimate crown of coolness. If you used phrases like “Well, when I got paged the other day…” you were like a god.

But now, the craze, the fad if you would, has evolved. It’s all about cell phones now. Everyone has them. They come in all sorts of great shapes and sizes, colors and designs. You can get one with Mickey Mouse on it, or one that flashes and glows, hey, you could even get a phone with WWE Olympic Hero Kurt Angle on it, if that’s your cup ‘o tea.

Although in most cases, size does matter, when it comes to cell phones, the smaller, the better. I saw one the other day that was about the size of a cigarette lighter. If you’ve got one of those with the little flip-open cover, that kind of makes you look like Captain Kirk talking into his communicator from Star Trek, you’re a regular stud. Or maybe you have one of those that slides down with a nifty arm shake, just like Neo from the Matrix.

Just like ants, these phones are everywhere. You can’t get through a day without hearing or seeing at least fifty of them. People are walking around, talking to their invisible friends, gradually collecting brain tumor cells. You go to a movie, and before it starts, there’s a kid with a cell phone, yakking it up. You go to a supermarket, and there’s a lady next to you in the magazine section, talking about some mindless dribble, like having lunch at her boyfriend’s house or some crap like that. You go to a bathroom, and in the urinal next to you, the guy is doing his business with one hand, and he’s got his cell phone in the other! “Yeah Bob, I was just going down to the…what…what’s that sound? I’m in the bathroom right now! Yeah, really!” Well, at least it stops him from talking to me. There’s nothing I hate more than urinal chat.

But I digress. These phones don’t just have everyone walking around in their own self-absorbed cellular little world, oblivious to the real world, they’re just plain annoying. They don’t just ring anymore. Now, to signal an incoming call, they’ll play a nice selection from Mozart’s Eine Klein Nacht Musik (no, seriously). Not your favorite piece? Well, how about Beethoven’s Fur Elise? No still? Well then, will Aerosmith work, cause we can do that too! The other day, in my ANTH class, someone’s phone went off to the tune of Wild Thing. Of course, the owner was too embarrassed to actually answer it, so it rang, and rang, and rang…you just haven’t lived until you’ve heard the digital beep version of Wild Thing.

Okay, sure, maybe these stupid little things are of some use. Pay phones are quickly becoming dinosaurs (provided, of course, you’re within your roaming region). If your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you can quickly call your closest friend to tell him or her about how your car just broke down in the middle of nowhere. Y’know, if you have time after you talk about the movie you saw last night. If there’s some kind of emergency, you can contact, or be contacted, no matter where you or the other party happens to be at the present moment.

But, the blazing downfall to this all is that there’s no escape. No matter where in the world you are, no matter how far away from civilization you are, no matter what time it is, or how far you’ve traveled, you are just a ring away from your girlfriend calling you to remind you to pick up some tampons at the grocery store. Answering machines are becoming a dying art as well. Why leave a message, when you can talk to your friend as he or she is driving home at this very moment! (Oh, don’t even get me started on cell phones and driving…and if you talk on a cell phone while driving 60 in the left lane on the freeway…just know that I am coming for you, and you will not like it.)

And yes, now, I’m going to be one of you people. On Tuesday, cellular-hood will be thrust upon me, crammed down my unwilling gullet. After Tuesday, if you feel the pressing need to talk to me while I’m driving, in class, at the movies, in the bathroom, watching TV, going on a date, going skydiving, beating up communist midgets, shopping for root beer, flirting with beautiful women, clipping my toenails, dancing a jig, or shearing sheep, you can. And I’m going to be that guy, you know him, his phone rings in the middle of the movie, just as it’s getting good. Or in the middle of biology, he’s gotta sneak out to answer a call. Or his phone is belting out Mozart’s Requiem for ten minutes straight because he’s too embarrassed to answer it. Yeah, that guy. He is me now.

But seriously, if you’re bored one day and have nothing to do, give me a call.

Editors Disclaimer: No communist midgets were harmed in the making of this rant.