Really, I don’t know that I need so much “call display” as I need “call compare”.

I think we’ve all heard of certain applications for phones that, when the situation is dire, diluted or deluded (such as that 4am call to an ex, rambling drunkenly about how much better you are without them, but that that they are really, really great. “Cood you haggon fer jus a sekkind?”), debate the users level of intellect via breathalyzer or a quick series of successive math calisthenics. Those applications always struck me as idiotic, as I can barely count the fingers on a single hand when sober, and I’m essentially a pillar of intellectualism. So what If I can’t read analog clocks.

I was thinking of the “new changes to your fido voicemail account!”, announced in decibels consistent with supersonic jets or “sell your gold” commercials, when I called my service provider. I was lost, hypnotized in the mist of that perky, digitized, 40+ voice (as per usual set to “Unoffensively Chipper North American”), when I suddenly tweaked to the jackpot phone service — which of course now I’ll hand over on a silver platter, like all my other brilliant ideas. CALL COMPARE.

Now, we ali had that little black book, though it might have been blue, or grey, or shellacked in pictures of Victorian kittens giving elocution lessons, so we all know the system – one star is “meh”, two stars usually indicate the third star you’ve crossed out – downgrade! Three stars = true love forever. You know, that kind of thing.

THIS IS WHAT I REQUIRE: Why not a service that will catalog and screen potential callers and rate their suitability?! Genius! Brainiac! I submit to you killer idea 4,765,936.

Picture it. Brandon Walsh is calling at the same time as I’m on the phone with Dylan McKay. The application brandonwalshthinks for a minute. Brandon is a “nice guy”. I mean, he might have his goodnatured faults, but overall, he’s a nice kid with a sideburn problem. That’s okay! In between working at the school newspaper and getting a high GPA he’s likely willing to hunker down and sort it out the old-fashioned way — by working his way to the top of the Beverly Beach Club, where eventually office gossip will hurt his feelings into shearing those badboys down.

Dylan, on the other hand, is a rebel who plays by his own rules, and doesn’t care WHO gets hurt. Oh, wait, but he does, because underneath all that bravado, he’s actually a sensitive lost little boy. Dad didn’t come home 15nlgud.jpgmuch, because he was off becoming a felonious Zillionire. Dylan grew up in a hotel, so his beach-bum attitude won’t be helping him unload the dishwasher when I get in from being a model/cheerleader who heads the top of a multinational corporation dealing primarily in a miracle skincream that coverts cancer into Botox.

The application weighs the pros and cons. Brandon, good family values. Dylan, hot motorbike, can pay for my SATs to be done by a really smart fat kid exchange student. Brandon, possible affinity for state fairs, home décor may include Grandma’s needlepoint. Dylan, modular Italian bachelor furniture, constant catering to Kelly Taylor’s predisposition to coke addiction. Or was that Brandon? Redo. Dylan, SON OF FELONIOUS ZILLIONAIRE. Ding ding ding! We have a winner.

Poor Brandon. His call is dumped, Dylan’s is picked up, and (blatantly stealing the patent-pending on this one) B-Dog’s redial is connected immediately to this, The New York Rejection Hotline, where he is offered cocoa and a safe place to get fetal and release his prisoner tears from their eye-jail.

Here’s the thing.

Now that I’ve thought of this, I need this ALL THE TIME, not just on the comparative phonecall between hot babes, but in order to make basic decisions, PERIOD. Moet or Veuve? Paper or Plastic? Jennifer Garner or Jennifer Aniston? (Trick question: the application would immediately lock down due to boredom overload.) Basically my genius-brain is scheming already on finding a sexy physicist with the interest and ability to create an orbiting decision-making system for me — and before you apply, sexy physicists, I’m NOT looking for utility-belt format. So put your pocket protecter away, Hot Poindexter, Stud Einstein’s coming through.

If you need me, I’ll be shellacking my old Palm Pilot with pictures like this.


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