Babbitoons 2003: BLEWTOOTH BLUES 2.0

By Ann Colville

Now that Mr. Smith has his new digital
dream house, his devoted Blewteeth cyberstaff continues
to make life more exciting in every way.

Saturday 4 a.m. (Door creaks open, sound of slipping and sliding, muffled scream as something falls hard, tinny soprano voice pipes up in Italian "Batti! Batti!" [Beat me! Beat me!] Cheery tones of Brenda the Blewtooth Refrigerator heard in kitchen.)
"Well, good morning, Mr. S. Good to see you up! Did you have a nice date with Ms. Pickle? Oh, I'm so sorry. Ms. Dill, that sour-faced little account supervisor from your office. Perky your Blewtooth PDA tells me that you three all went out to the opera together tonight. Pretty stiff bill for a first date, Mr. S. That set you back a total ofcuhc$355.89 for dinner and a show, according to dear Perky. Ms. Dill has expensive tastes, dear. Furthermore, the restaurant closed at 2:30, and you're just getting home now? All right, you don't want to talk, just want to grab some sleep. Well here's a yummy pink creme-de-bismol-and-aspirin nightcap courtesy of Bernie your Blewtooth MiniBartender, and I'd just like to mention something about the slick floor you encountered upon entry. It seems we were sadly mistaken about Bobbie the new virtual dog we picked up for you. Now, we all scanned it, admired its well-rooted fur, marveled at its realistic barks. But then Mr. Bartholomew your new Blewtooth RoboButler found several little presents around the house, and examined Bobbie carefully, and, well, it seems he's a real dog, and uh, he needs walkies. Now, actually. All right, Mr. Bart can take him out this time, but if you don't get acquainted and glue with your dog... oh, the colloquial is bond, is it? Well, that's good to know, and I1ve made a note. Sweet dreams, Mr. S, just watch for a few stray puddles on the stairs, and don't forget to floss!" (Kitchen door slams.)

Saturday 12 p.m. (Kitchen door slowly opens. Brenda's dulcet tones heard.)
"Well, good morning or afternoon, take your choice, Mr. S., glad you could join us, and we're serving Eggs Benedictine and no beer for brunch. Aspirin? You had one last night. Now about the dog situation. While you were out cold it seems, we had a real Blewtooth dog named Bitsy delivered. Now she'll be responsible for talking Bobbie out for walkies and they can bond together. They look exactly alike? Well here's the difference. Bitsy can talk and train Bobbie, but Bobbie can only bark, bite, and wet. (Why would anybody want a real pet?) Anyway, it's really important for us Blewteeth to learn from you, Mr. S. Like Perky has reprinted on you... ok, imprinted, like those ducks. She thinks you throw her around because you love her, and now she craves abuse. You see, we need your input to learn how real people talk and act, so we've rented a couple of movies from the video shop, and we can all watch together and get your comments... Oh, you can't make it, and you've got to run out to a store now. Why, Mr. S.? We do all the shopping for you. An electronics store, according to Perky! What are you up to, Mr. S?
When will you be back for your eggs?" (Perky whimpers as the kitchen door slams.)

Saturday 5 p.m. (Kitchen door creaks ajar. Low sobs from Perky, sadly mumbling "Shop... shop...around..." in her sleep. Brenda1s sweet voice heard.)
"Welcome back, Mr. S! I didn1t realize PJs could be worn outside the house. So, shall we get your jammies and robe ready to wear to work (like that nice gentleman with the bunnies), or is this casual weekend dress code? Anyway, we've had so much trouble with dear little Perky several hours after you left her behind. First, she kept insisting that we call her Perche. Why? That's what we asked ourselves. Then she kept throwing herself off the counter. Well, she's sleeping in her little cradle now, but we had to tie her down. She's heartbroken, Mr. S. She says you've been shopping around to replace her with the latest non-Blewtooth PDA when she's designed for infinite upgrades so you can always be together... Ok, ok, I1ll take care of a special grocery list for you. Gourmet deli treats for tonight's Gala Picnic with the Pickle. How sweet. You can take along this nearly outdated mayonnaise I found in the back of me. Now get showered and dressed, take advantage of your last 10 minutes of Happy Hour. Just please, please take Perky along tonight so she feels better. She'll be good as silicon. She just needs attention from you. And so does the dog. Can you take Bobbie out while Bitsy gets recharged? Wait, that's the wrong dog!" (Perky's voice gets louder, hissing "Shop... shop...." in a threatening tone, then softer as she goes out. Kitchen door slams.)

Saturday midnight. (Kitchen door thrown open. Brenda's voice heard.) "Welcome back, Mr. S. I see you've brought back your leftovers and mayonnaise and the dog. Well we had a swell time tonight learning English from that detective who's dirty and harried and those big exterminator robots that pick on people. And we really enjoyed those cute pix of you and Ms. Pickle smooching in the park that Perky e-mailed to us and everybody on your office list and..." (Sound of something hitting the wall, hard. Perky screams "Batti!" Kitchen door bangs.)

Sunday 4 a.m. (Kitchen door opens, shuffling sounds, door shuts. No interaction.)

Sunday 7 a.m. (Mr. Bart the RoboButler puts one dog in the charger, the other in the dog house on newspaper, checks and reverses dogs. He opens the door to Brenda the Blewtooth Refrigerator, mutters "Excuse me, Ms. B", takes out the mayonnaise, starts to empty and wash out the jar, stops, looks inside.)

Monday 4 a.m. (Kitchen door squeaks open. Brenda's cheerful voice heard.)
"Well, good morning, Mr. S. Why don't you join us for an early morning bracer? I think we'd better chat before you brush your teeth, put on your PJs, and get into work. Just look what Mr. Bart found. Now how did a diamond as big as a ritzy cracker get into the mayonnaise?" (To be continued.)

Babbitoons c2003 A. Colville
Disclaimer: This story and all of this series are entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and products portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, products, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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