Then I lean back, bring that bad boy up to my ear, and the magic begins. Maybe I’m closing a $10 million deal. Maybe I’m insulting one of my countless mortal enemies. Maybe I’m yelling at Razor Frank to remember to do my laundry back at the Top Secret Command Center—always separate blacks from darker blacks, Razor Frank!I Maybe it’s just a robocall from Zimbabwe, but I’m playing it cool and talking anyway so no one knows I got punked.

Whatever it is, I look great doing it. I got that slim, aerodynamic baby nestled snug against my ear. Its slightly rounded edges contrast perfectly with my impressively square jaw. Its glossy black casing glints in the sun—or in the klieg lights of whatever exclusive red-carpet event I’m attending—and beautifully brings out the subtle shades of even darker, glossier black in my hair. As I move my supple, pouty, yet extraordinarily masculine lips, Slick Daddy dances and prances beneath my warrior’s nose, and there’s no clunky smartphone to detract from my flared nostrils, stunningly cubic chin, sheer splendor, or soul-stealing dominance.

My good looks get some breathing room—they can stop “doing” and simply be.

What’s that saying? “If a flip phone rings in a forest and there’s no one there to answer it, am I still a handsome bastard?” I’m no Zen expert, but that sounds about right.

And it goes without saying—but it bears repeating—that because I look great, I feel great. I mean, I always feel great, because I’m so successful. But I feel better than great. I feel bloodthirsty-killer great.

I’m looking good, I’m feeling good, and maybe, just maybe, I close that previously $10 million deal at $100 million. Maybe instead of an awesome witty comeback for my mortal enemy, I come up with a mortal witty comeback for my awesome enemy. Maybe I yell at Razor Frank to do both the laundry and the dishes. Maybe I’m extra charming on the robocall from Zimbabwe, and I make a brand-new robotic Zimbabwean friend. Hell, maybe we decide to grab a couple beers later that night.

And I’ll be honest—sometimes using my flip phone is fun just because it pisses off the smartphone users so much.

“Okay, Doc, so I’ll text you later.”

“Yeah, sorry, man, have you tried texting on a flip phone? Not cool.”

“Fine, then I’ll send you a link to—”

“Hahahaha. A link? Have you tried using the internet on a flip phone?”

“No, but—”

“Like, I think this dot-matrix globe pops up on the little screen with the words ‘World Wide Web’ beneath it, and the globe kinda spins around for ten minutes, and it’s not even smooth, it’s really choppy, and then it stops, and it just says ‘Error.’ It’s fucking hysterical.”

“So you’re saying…”

“Yep.”

“I actually have to…”

“That’s right.”