True Stories by Rob Corddry: Tales of the iPhone

The Line, Eleven-Year-Old-Girls, Racism, Rape, Poo-Poo…

I was in line by 4:30, standing behind two eleven-year-old girls. I laughed out loud when I saw them, which is never something that makes eleven-year-old girls self-conscious, and asked them if they were buying the much-anticipated iPhone or whether they were holding a place in line for their cool twelve-year-old boyfriends. But I was in East LA, an almost exclusively Hispanic area, so they had no idea what I was saying. Earlier in the week, I had decided that I would find a remote AT&T store and jump in line mere hours before launch. I thought East LA would be the perfect candidate because I am virulently racist. The language barrier wasn’t a problem until I had to ask someone where the nearest bathroom was and if they would hold my place. No dice. It was either hold it or pee myself. I chose the latter because, as you know, I am rarely not wearing an adult diaper.

I was one of only three white people in line. A few bicycle cops that were patrolling the area singled us out as prime candidates for a good old-fashioned mugging. I thanked the cop for the warning and mentioned also that I was glad that they were there, given how much Latinos like to rape young white men like myself. We are so pretty and fair. He assured me that he was only worried for my safety and the safety of my new phone but I kept thanking him for protecting the sanctity of “back-button”. It’s the burden of white people to be objectified and violated by the more “sexualized” races and I assured the cop that if someone attempted to “break my seal” I would, as instructed by a safety video I saw years ago, promptly crap myself. It turns a rapist off. Another group it apparently turns off is cops, as he was pedaling away within seconds. The only word I know in Spanish is “cabeza” which, he warned me as he was leaving, was exactly where I would be shot if I didn’t shut the fuck up. Some people just don’t get it. But, then again, he was black.



Signatures, Controversy, Instructions to Enjoy…

The iPhone is, of course, equipped with email, and the default signature, “Sent from my iPhone” automatically shows up at the bottom of any messages you send from the phone. It is, of course, changeable. You can type in anything you want using the controversial keypad, and creative alternatives have already been appearing in my inbox. Please enjoy…

-Sent from my iPhone
-Sent from my iPhone, bitch.
-Sent from my $600 iPhone
-Swnt elom m iphon
-Sent from my ipwn
-You’ve been iPhoned
-I have more money than you
-Sent from the Future
-I have an iPhone. Now will you fuck me?



Activation, Rowdy Roddy-Piper, Fucking Someone in the Neck-hole, AT&T…

One of the revolutionary things about the iPhone is that, rather than wait in the store for it to be activated, you can activate it at home using iTunes. No longer do you have to hang out with AT&T employees while you wait for the signal to be beamed to your new gadget.

So, imagine my distress when “Roderigo” asked me for my Social Security number. He told me they had to do credit checks in the store, though I knew that not to be true. Our conversation went like this:

Me: I was under the impression that I just buy it here and can set it up at home, even the credit check.

Roderigo: Yeah, sorry about that.

Me: Wh-? Sorry? Sorry about…not being able to hang with you while my phone activates?

Roderigo: Yeah, but Apple wants to do it this way, so…

Me: Hm. Okay. Well, can we speed up the unnecessary credit check? I’m in a hurry.

Rod: Yeah, well, the system is really slow right now.

Me: Really?

ROD: Yeah, we’re experiencing an unexpected amount of activity. Do you want a 4gig or 8gig?

ME: 8gig. Really? You guys weren’t expecting a bit of a push during an historic product launch? You didn’t think that the ten million or so people Apple is expecting to be signing up for this in the next few days would put a touch of a strain on your system?

Rowdy Roddy Piper: Yeah. Apple is really screwing this up. What can you do?

MEEEEEEEE: You can fuck off and give me my phone.

Roddle-doddle: Just waiting for the security check to come through.

Robert “I’m Angry” Corddry: You mean the credit check I’m going to have to do again when I get home you fucking retarded monster?

Hot-Rod: Yeah, sorry you’re going to have to that. Do you want a 4gig or 8gig?

Bobby-sox: I am going to rip off your head and neck-hole fuck your esophagus with my iPhone.

Rodo-Cop: I know, right?

Turns out I was one of the 2% of people that had trouble activating at home and had to go back to the store for the SIM card. Roddy wasn’t there. I was told he had been shot and killed the night before. Goodnight Sweet Prince. Flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest.



Design, Sweat, The Ancient Dance, SunO)))…

So I got it home. I took it out of the box. Immediately I was intrigued but not surprised by Apple’s packaging. The case is like an oversized ring box, symbolism-not-lost-on-me. I removed her from her plastic casing and held her in my hands for the first time. She was the perfect weight and cool-to-the-touch, though I could easily imagine her getting pretty hot during conference calls. I turned her on. She jumped to life, her hi-res screen glowing, her slide-lock pulsing. My breath became short. Slowly, I slid my right index finger just above her chrome ring and unlocked her. She responded to my touch and soon we were somewhere else, a home screen or something. My fingers danced over her smooth multi-touch screen, and she followed my every move, adding her own to the crescendo that was building. Sweat beaded on my forehead and threatened to drip on her, so I took off my shirt and swabbed my face and neck. As I was doing so, she collected my mail and displayed it in life-like LCD. I became lost in her. Our movements became rhythmic. I was clumsy with her keyboard at first but she told me to trust her and soon I was typing three letter, four letter, FIVE LETTER words all over her. She took it all. I was typing notes, emails, texts, and she responded suddenly by vibrating. A call was coming in! I answered. It was my wife. I told her never to call me again.

I took off my pants and headed to the bed. I plunged the iPhone into an industrial tub of WET ™ lubricant and, with one hand bracing the small of my back under a hastily placed pillow, I crammed the gadget into my starfish. Deeper and deeper went the most revolutionary gadget ever created. With my other hand, I fumbled over to the nightstand and grabbed our land-line. Hastily, so as not to interrupt my electronic-colonic, I dialed my own cell number and waited for my new communications tool/ipod/internet device to rock my insides. It rang. At the same time, I clicked on the iPod feature and blindly scrolled to the Sun O)))/Boris record and tapped play. I exploded in e-cstacy and eventually collapsed in vibrating drone bliss.

All in all, it was a satisfactory wireless experience. Thanks Mr. Jobs!

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.