The sweater sighed. He loved being gently handled by his master Mr. Jimmy Watson. Watson would dotingly knead every knot in the sweater's fibres, relaxing him gently in a pool of lukewarm water and aromatic soap. But no, now Watson's absent minded wife had accidentally thrown the sweater into the dryer.
To say it was hot, is an understatement. The sweater could feel the very fibre of his soul burning in the tumbling metal drum, his arms slapping uncontrollably against jeans, socks and shirts. Some of his hair got caught in a zipper and was ripped right off. He yelled in agony, his world going upside down and around. The tumbling made him dizzy. He hated it. He knew he would never be the same again. He was scarred for life.
-Jeffrey Ou
Mr. Morse,
It is my distinct honor to have been selected to explain to you this peculiar modern phenomenon. I hope, in the course of what follows, that you do not become despondent or begin to doubt the utility of long-distance communication. Please believe me when I assure you that your inventions and all those that followed in its wake have been put to far better purposes than the one to which you are about to be party.
The word, Mr. Morse, is “sexting,” derived from the marriage of that crass synonym for coitus and another, slightly older neologism, “texting.” This latter word is vulgar shorthand for the act of sending a text message, which is to say a short electronic dispatch delivered from one small messaging device to another. Bear with me, Mr. Morse; I hope you will find it a source of pride and not perplexity that so much has descended from the fruits of your intellect. Now, such small messaging devices as I have just mentioned can communicate images as well, a truly mind-boggling transaction in which the vision passes invisibly, and nigh instantaneously, from one machine to the other. Strangely, there is no standard abbreviation for this feat in use today—at least none that I am aware of—so it goes under the cumbersome, if fairly self-evident, heading of “sending a picture message.” I have heard “pic message” thrown out in conversation, and even, on occasion, “pixting,” but both of these sound awkward and juvenile to the modern ear, and no one with even a whit of self-regard goes near them.
Yet, speaking of self-regard, even those with copious stores of amour propre cannot help but be appraised of many of the more sordid aspects of culture—this, I fear, must be as true in your day as it is in mine—and, indeed, of that eternal denizen of said culture’s abhorrent underbelly, erotica. Which brings me, Mr. Morse, to the objectionable object of the present missive, sexting, which I am now properly disposed to define for you as the intercourse of picture messaging technology and the erotic image—a pornographic pixt, if you will. In the act of sexting, the sender selects a portion of his or her body, most certainly an indecent portion thereof, captures it via a picture-messaging device, then broadcasts it to any number of chosen recipients. (As you are no doubt speculating, whole disembodied orgies can take place in this way.) The intentions of such “sexters” is, I admit, for the most part beyond me. I understand it only intellectually: the transmission of the salacious likeness becomes something of a fetish for the addressee, used for the gratification of all manner of hedonistic urges.
It is thankfully beyond the purview of my assignment to anatomize specific instances of the bestial act, or to delve into its myriad incarnations. My duty—which I hope I have satisfied, as my letter is nearing its conclusion—has been merely to alert you of the strange invention that History—O great enigma!—has evolved from your creations, eminently practical and ingenious though they were. Should you despair having learned of this strange degeneracy, Mr. Morse, let me urge you to seek comfort in perspective. Men have done vile deeds by the knife; shall we then rue the progenitor of all utensils? I think not. It is my humblest opinion that creators should not be forever held accountable for the consequences of their works. Past a point, this logic reveals its absurdity. All that remains, then, is to take righteous satisfaction in the positive ends to which our labors are put, and stand fast against the slow tug of moral entropy that wicked Time exerts.
Yours most truly,
Jacob Clamgrin
-Jack Chelgran