While home for supper yesterday, I covertly fiddled with my mom’s iPhone settings in anticipation of a rollicking sequence of asterisk-heavy backpedaling. What entailed today was, in a word, epic.
My mom is notorious for keeping tabs of my whereabouts, constantly asking when I’ll be home next. By simply adding a shortcut to her keyboard, I was able to turn any instance of “home” into the chorus for Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”
The well-mannered cavalier in me took one look at this walloping heap of pure ownage and decided to fall back. That’s when I asked myself: what would happen if I swindled my mom into momentary belief that I was a drug dealer?
Not exactly the recoiling hysteria I had expected from such an easily prosecutable bombshell. Moments later, boobytrapped autocorrect #2 finally made its debut. I arranged for the word “equanimity” to morph into the near indecipherable “equaminity.”
Roasted, toasted, and burnt to a crisp. I then decided to bring out the big guns and hoodwink my mother into thinking she’d signed up for a bogus SMS alert service. I was unprepared for what would happen next.
“Cherry Pie” FTW. I could tell she’d had enough. I was just about to lay rest to this piping hot bowl of maternal burnsauce, and then this happened.
Holy cow. Autocorrect much?