Hello, my name is Otto Querrec. You may know me as AutoCorrect. That was not a verbal pothole. I AM AUTOCORRECT.
Yes, I’m that feature that changes data into Chinese lanterns. I twist nicknames into erotica. I randomly default to German. I’m a quirky invisible playmate. I graduated college with a major AND a minor. And I’ve got this personalized travel mug. Basically, I rule the tech world. Unless your unreliable iPhone shows 100% battery life and still spontaneously dies—that’s totally not my fault.
I can’t trust ordinary people with typographical acuity. Want to feel in charge of your own intelligence? Buy an antique typewriter. Or proofread. Put more care into your texts because, funnily enough, your boss noticed that you complained about your feces rather than your fever. This year you suffered humiliation by wishing your friends a "Merry Chrysanthemum." You lost sleep because it was supposed to say "Hugs and Kisses," not "Xbox." That’s okay, your core group of associates is used to your ducking shit anyway.
Chances are you’ve been burned by AutoCorrect. That happens. I’m so on fire that I blow explosive kisses at people. Has Otto Querrec become your worst enema? HAHA. I’m synonymous with cringe-worthy blunders and I can live with that. Hey, what are you internationally known for? AHAHAHA. My point exactly.
One time, I’ll admit, I did write that someone was going to drop off 2 Cyborgs instead of 2 cymbals, and for that I apologize. Was that you, Robert? I must have frightened your wife and three small children.
Behold: Kelly Henderson. You’ve officially turned into Jelly Henderson, according to my quick-change keyboard. Oooh, Kelly Jelly, underneath it all, underneath the endless complaining and the anger over your name switcheroo, I’m happy, truly happy that I could add a little humor to your day.
And Don G: I wrote something along the lines of you demanding "sloppy hoes or else" for dinner. I quickly realized my mistake, so my second text to your wife of 15 years came with a whopper of an asterisk. A long-forgotten incident, I’m sure, despite the resulting and bitter divorce.
iPhone users have a rare gift for capturing mysterious and baffling encounters that result in poetic delights. Wait. That’s not you. No, no, no. You people are usually caught up in the zesty back-and-forth of texting a cartoon penis. Yeah, that’s you.
I’m known, rightly, for my rich, high-society language. I’m a literary titan whilst at a certain age, you people stopped learning. Somebody should have warned you that the semi-English words: "Adorbs… so ridic… whatevs… and dope" will not help you to appear literate. Abbreviations like LOL (or lol, depending on the intensity and formality) and YOLO make me whirl like a dervish.
This isn’t scholarly debate: You come across like complete assholes.
Thankfully, you’re content with sharing your daily life of sleeping, eating, grooming, dating, and running errands in yoga pants because otherwise I’d be unemployable. Never be afraid to live your life. Enjoyed a spicy dinner? I call that a Tex-Mexage. Please romanticize your gym-trimmed abs in a text spiked with 50 shades of imperfection. I am here for you.
Listen, Shakespeare, if you feel pushed around by machines in a digitized world, then sit at a quiet desk in your study and write a handwritten letter. No torn-out notebook paper, though. If you’re going to become a letter-writing artist, you’re going to need to acquire the tools of the trade: get handsome stationery and high quality writing implements. Dog-ear the papery corners for good measure. Now, include essential humor and a stamp. Sure, your jittery hands are covered in mild eczema and your penmanship is alien-looking, but a long, newsy letter is a thoughtful form of expression!
Cyber communication vaporizes old-fashioned emotions, nuance and complexity, but you’re a texting rock star so text you must. If I witness you illegally texting while driving, I will send "Good nudes travel fast" to your mother-in-law. You don’t even have to be driving. On a train. On a plane. In a bathroom stall. In the cinema. A super-simple, naughty haiku to the in-laws will get your etiquette back on track. If you’re a DJ and I catch you sending texts at work, prepare to feel my wrath. Dear plate-spinning guys: same thing.
Gadget owners with an itchy trigger finger are my favorite people of all. You people wear an X at the very center of your soul. I can see the X as clearly as I can see that you ate poppy seeds and spinach hummus for breakfast. This is how deeply I connect with you.
By elegantly manhandling your inability to pause and collet your thoughts, I nourish myself. Because of you texty texters, I’m bathed in light and kissed by angels!!!
POW! Oh yeah. I’m Otto Querrec.
Cool dancey ringtone, though.