Breaking Off A Piece

E.T. knew, like, eleven fking words.

Everybody remembers two.

[Ed. note: No, Ricky. Valiant effort, but “Ellliottttttt” is not one of them.]

Phone. Home.

They’re so memorable because they’re so simple (and, admittedly, because it was pretty damn cute to watch that vacuum talk like a toddler). This much is clear.

But they’re also so memorable because they’re so universal. Everyone’s phoned home.

What aisle do you find baking soda in? Phone home.

It’s Christmas. Phone home.

You crashed your car? Phone home.

Whatever happened to your Beanie Baby collection? Phone home.

It’s Sunday morning.

Phone home.

[Ed. note: Stevie Spielberg did a much better job hammering this point home.]

Yesterday, my folks disconnected their landline. Continue reading →