iPithy

Pithy remembers a simpler time—a time when the world was defined through catchy, acronymic phrases. “Big I little i what begins with I? Ichabod is itchy and so am I.” The youngster of today, a product of the metro-techno generation, when met with this same question concerning I’s usefulness, would beg to differ with Dr. Seuss, or at least expand his vocabulary. What doesn’t begin with i? iPod, iPhone, iTouch, iTunes, iMobile, iMac…i…i…i.

An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but Mr. Job’s apple seems so superpowerful—so beyond the scope of earthly normalcy—as to banish the doctor permanently to the protoplasmal primordial atomic globule from which they sprang. Yep, there’s an app for that.

Pithy is secure—with ourselves, with our awesomeness status, with our gentle readers—we don't need a shiny, new phone to be cool and sophisticated. We don't mind (very much) our LG bricks with giraffe-neck antennae. But Pithy, as our internets know, is also very smart—smart enough to recognize that we live in an iWorld where iMage is everything—an image narcissistically mesmerizing, reflected in the “pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny.” Resistance is futile--we will all be assimilated.

So, we sport our apple products with pride--even now absentmindedly caressing the sleek surface of our iTouch, marveling at the futuristic beauty of touch screen technology and dreams realized—momentarily banishing the fervent hope to always avoid iCustomercare. That app still seems to be in the works.