— You want my number?
— I do. I do want your number.
— Which number do you want, George? <...> I got numbers coming out of my ears. For instance, 10.
— Ten.
— Yeah. That's how many months old my baby girl is.
— You got a little girl?
— Yeah. Sexy, huh? How about this? Six. That's my other daughter. Eight is my son. Two is the times I've been married and divorced. $16 is what I have in my bank account. 850-3943, that's my phone number. I'm guessing zero is the number of times you're gonna call it.
— Can we maybe put the phones down and have an actual human conversation?
— We can, but thanks to Steve Jobs we don't have to.
Telephone — an invention of the devil which abrogates some of the advantages of making a disagreeable person keep his distance.
— Where's my phone? I look like a living garden gnome. Where is my phone?
— Who cares?
— We are in different people's bodies!
— It doesn't seem like the most pressing concern — at this moment.
— Really? You don't think this would be a good moment to make a phone call, or text somebody or change your status to "stuck in a freaking video game"?