How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?

Even the splendid Mount Wellington is blighted by the curse of the phallus. No, it's not a nuclear ICBM primed and ready to put New Zealand back into the stone age. Nor is it a TELEPHONE tower enabling spotty teens to cyber bully the delicate little flowers quivering in front of their tiny keypads. No, it's dedicated to the wonders of television and radio! Without this baby, the good folk of Hobart would have no idea about Falcon the balloon boy, and we wouldn't know that Michael Jackson is dead (or is he...?)

But it is Theme Thursday, and I am not here to talk about television, as the theme is TELEPHONE.

It might not surprise you, but I hate the TELEPHONE [it's number thirty seven on my list]. I hate answering the phone (I generally don't unless I'm getting paid). I hate the way that they ring, buzz, beep and rattle. I hate people that go on about their phones. I hate telemarketers, teleprinters, telegeography. Man, I even hate Telly from Sesame Street.