I've got a Blackberry. I didn't think I wanted one, but when work made it both easy and free—two things all but guaranteed to elicit a positive reaction—I agreed. I don't mind it, except for the crazy addiction to checking it all the damned time.
Anyway, I was in a restaurant, and the person I was dining with excused herself to hit the head (Why don't women ever refer to the bathroom as the head? For that matter, why the hell am I?). When I checked my email, the one at the top of the queue made me think I was in the middle of some crazy time-travel adventure.
The sender was "Bernardin" and the subject was "Help."
Of course, when I opened the message, it was from my mother, looking for advice on buying my wife a birthday present. But for the briefest of moments, I actually thought I was sending myself messages from the future...and I desperately needed my own assistance.
I read too many comic books.