She lies there, Miss Samsung Intensity, with deceitful marginality. Teeny, black piece of plastic with but a dozen little buttons. Drop her from even the lowest of tabletops, she never fails to spill out her own battery and power down. Useless, suicidal thing. Little, electronic lemming.
But in a flash, like the batmobile, a full QWERTY keyboard pops from her sleek, black side, ready for finger-firing action. In three seconds, she is the artist-capturer of candid memories, the painter of spontaneous adventure with friends. Click, snap, and save a small slice of your life in this little altar-y thing. At the push of a button, the screen instantly fills with dozens of contacts. She knows your friends and family, and she is your mediator, your go-between. Matchmaker, matchmaker. And high priest. Quick! She vibrates a message to your eyes from your girlfriend. Avast! She stands ready to send out a ten-person"Wat u up 2 2nite?" telegram for the weekend rendezevous. Mom here, dad there. Brothers. Sisters. All in a second, she stands ready. For you, just for you. Your little maid.
And soon, fingers shaking, you fumble in pockets and realize you left her at home. Immediately, the panicky, nicotine fit hits. Your valiant drive into a prairie sunset is instantly transformed into a cold night on the lone range. You are without your high priest. And without a mediator, you--like young Pippin of the Pequod--bob up and down in a dark, vast ocean, completely alone in the night. And Pippin went insane.
The little piece of plastic, piece of crap, marginal Samsung--she has become your great giant high priest.
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