It’s easy to see the problem with dictators
I’M NOT VERY GOOD at texting.
That’s why I typically use the voice recorder option on my cell phone to dictate text messages. That, however, is not without issues.
The other day, for instance, a friend texted me and asked how my turkey hunt was going.
I put my thumb on the little microphone button and proudly dictated, “Great! I shot a really nice gobbler.”
It should have ended there.
Unfortunately, my phone’s recorder must be hard of hearing because it translated my words into a text message that read, “Great! I shot a really nice cobbler.”
Luckily, I proof read the message. Unluckily, I hit the send button first.
My friend’s initial response was about 10 full seconds of silence. I believe this was because he was trying to figure out whether I was crazy enough to shoot a nice man who makes shoes or his favourite dessert.
Then he simply replied with a message that read: “???? ”
And I quickly answered with, “Damn autocorrect! I have nothing against shoe makers! I meant to say, I shot a nice gobbler!”
Again, I probably should have proof read before sending.
For my voice texting system got it wrong and created a text that read, “Damn correct! I have a thing against shoe makers! Amen today, I shot a nice cobbler!”
The next few minutes consisted of a back and forth in which culminated with my friend urging me to turn myself in. Hoping to clear this up, I sent him a blurry photo of me kneeling with shotgun in hand over what, if you had a preconceived notion, could have been a cobbler wearing a feathered boa.
It took a while to straighten this out but in the end I was able to convince my friend that I had not caused injury to any shoemaker.
I had three things going for me. The first is I don’t even know a cobbler. Heck, I’m not even sure the trade exists anymore.
The second is that, of all the old craftsmen, the cobbler was probably the least hated. If I understand correctly, all a good cobbler did was make or repair shoes or boots for his customers – and people must have surely appreciated that.
Lastly, cobblers were probably ignored by bad guys. No one in their right mind would shoot a guy who chose to makes shoes for a living – unless, of course, they were Crocs. As a result, I think it’s fair to say the average cobbler did not make too many enemies – unless, of course, he was horrible at his job and made every shoe a couple of sizes too small.
The truth of the matter is the cobbler was sort of the accountant of the trade industry – which is to say, no one in the history of mankind has ever told a good cobbling story.
For these reasons alone, I would never use my turkey licence to shoot one. And my friend eventually agreed that this made sense.
“You didn’t actually think I had gone crazy did you?” I asked afterwards.
“Of course not,” he said. “Hey, how much does a turkey licence cost these days?”
I told him it I bought two at $31.45 apiece.
A few seconds of silence passed. Then he asked me what I had against his favourite dessert.