Cuz — goes without saying that you've gotta have a really wicked tri-band, WAP-enabled 3G Mobe with picture-in-picture messaging. Then you can have 'textastic' chats like the one I had this morning when a bloke I'll call 'Kev' messaged me.

"WOT U DOIN?"
"FEELIN PUSSY.."
"SLUT!"
"YEAH."
"U HOT?"
"2 HOT 4U!"
"WANNA CUM?"
"MAB."
"WANNA CUM BIG?"
"K."
"TAKE PANTIES OFF."
"K, THEY'RE OFF."
"XLNT, U WET?"
"YEAH.."
"GR8, WANNA USE MOB?"
"KEWL!"
"GONNA MAKE U CUM BIG."
"STFU AND CMN!"
"C U L8R."
"CU2."

Cuz, if you're over thirty you won't understand a word of that, which is just as well cuz that little exchange got me in deep shit with my boss.
Kev had just called me when the thirty-something Bitch from Hell I work for pounced on me like a cat who's had a firecracker shoved up it's arse.
"Is that the theme tune to Buffy the Vampire Slayer? She asked crossly as the muffled warbling of a mobile phone interrupted her mid-morning whinge.
I nodded and slumped forward over my keyboard.
"Well aren't you going to answer the bloody thing?"
"Not — y-yet..." I moaned, and clutched at my desk to support myself.
"Are you all right? You look a trifle peaky."
"Mmm — ohhhhh, ahhh — just hold on a minute."
"Heavens above!" exclaimed my employer, "I do hope you're not doing what I think you're doing!"
"Ohhh god, ahhhh, ohhhh!"
"You are doing what I think you're doing! Right; in my office NOW, young lady!"
"Just a - a minute..."
"OK - you've got five minutes."
"M-make it ten," I gasped as I slid off my chair.

Seven minutes later I was unceremoniously dragged out of my chair by my navel piercing and given what I believe you wrinklies call a 'thorough dressing down' — much to the amusement of the office caretaker who interrupted my interrogation to ask if anyone had lost a pair of black, silk knickers and a vibrating mobile phone.
It didn't take the Bitch long to work out that what she had witnessed gave new meaning to the phrase 'phone sex'. Her jealously at discovering I was a bigger slut than her was only slightly lessened when I told her that I had thoughtfully wrapped my Mobe in a condom. But jealousy quickly gave way to anger when I explained that I'd only done it to stop the keypad getting gunked up by my 'love juices', not cuz of 'safe sex'.
"The consequences of this kind of behaviour do not bear thinking about!" she exploded. "Have you considered the long-term effect on your ovaries?"
I guess I am a bit worried about ending up with roast beef curtains," I replied but added hopefully: "Won't my labial piercings absorb the radiation?"
"I fear that may be wishful thinking," she replied cattily.

She went on to lecture me about the long-term health implications of bombarding my 'love tunnel' with short-wave microwave radiation and said that if I continued, any future offspring I might produce would not only glow in the dark, but would be capable of receiving BBC digital radio.
"Why can't you teenagers do what normal people do?" she asked.
"Like what?"
"Curl up in front of the telly to watch a re-run of Friends, stare into your lover's limped eyes for an eternity, and then let him gently nibble on your ear whilst you wait for a becoming moistness to gather 'down there".
"No thanks," I replied. "I think I'd rather risk a couple of radioactive kids."