#TeamScrawlSoHard Attempts to Make Sense of #TeamiPhone vs. #TeamDroid

The ongoing war between #TeamiPhone and #TeamDroid was intensified last Tuesday with a Shot Heard ‘Round the World; namely, when the Instagram app was abruptly made available to Droid owners.  Though I’m a card-carrying member of #TeamiPhone, I didn’t have any sort of frenzied reaction to the news.  I had yet to download Instagram and was largely unaware of the snobbery it bred.

That  changed when someone identified as “Rello #23/24” was retweeted into my timeline.

Initially, the outpouring of emotion from iPhone owners befuddled me.  I consider myself a competitive person when it comes to things that, you know, people actually compete for.  Smart phone specifics never struck me as one of these things.  What compelled people to take a polarizing stance on every bit of minutiae that guzzles our lives?

But Rello #23/24 was genuinely repulsed that Droid owners could suddenly use Instagram, and it dawned on me that maybe I should be too.  Maybe I didn’t take this ish seriously enough.  Maybe it wasn’t just a game.

As I started to ponder the significance of unrestrained Instagram usage, I couldn’t think of a good reason why #TeamDroid deserved to use this app.  What kind of plebian had a Droid, anyway?  And what did they know about faux-vintage photography?  Inspired by Rello #23/24, I decided to cut off all communication with my baby mama until she acquired an iPhone.  Standards, you know?  Embracing the iPhone’s inherent elitism was a liberating experience.  Unfortunately, I was late to the party and #TeamDroid had already snuck their way in.  Hopefully they would cluster together with the band kids or something.

I’m not trying to mock the snootiness of iPhone owners—in fact, I want to be the snooty iPhone owner.  To do this, I had to develop an overarching bloodthirsty spirit.  I went home for Easter weekend and determined this would be a good time to test my newfound vigor.  Everything in my existence, whether overtly competitive or not, became about the Team.  My Twitter bio was updated accordingly: “#TeamiPhone or die,” it read.  If you weren’t on the Team, you weren’t on my radar, and this made for an interesting weekend.  Here’s what transpired:

Friday: FroYo Paint Job

There was a time last summer when coning was the cool thing to do.  For the uninitiated, it consisted of ordering an ice cream cone at McDonalds, pulling up to the drive-thru window, and grabbing, with bare hands, the ice cream rather than the cone.  Harmless, right?  Wrong.  Guardians of the golden arch responded vigilantly and rendered the trend obsolete.  It was fun while it lasted.  Society had moved on—until last weekend.

Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I love frozen yogurt.  On any given Friday or Saturday night, you can probably find me doing my thing at one of Northeast Ohio’s premier froyo establishments.  This works out nicely given that froyo is to the iPhone as ice cream is to the Droid.  In other words, I’m a better person because I choose froyo, and I wanted to ensure that everyone in Mentor knew this.

Which brings us to Friday afternoon.  The breaking point came after I devoured eight ounces of creamy cake batter goodness and felt obliged to cap it off with a coning spree, if only to piss off the employees of an ice-cream centric enterprise.  I discreetly specified my desire for a vanilla cone to the droning voice inside the speaker and proceeded to the window.  Here it was: the moment of truth.  And…successful conage!  No remorse, either.  I was on #TeamFroYo, after all—what was there to feel bad about?

Saturday: Apples to Apples

Like any real man, I go grocery shopping every weekend, and like any real grocery shopper, I buy apples each time.  I was excited for this trip, too, knowing that I’d be stocking up on food in preparation for my return to college.  As I selected the red delicious apples that would have the good fortune of returning with me, I noticed a woman, well into her sixties, in the corner of my right eye.  She may have been a looker in her heyday, but was evidently past her prime.  Under normal circumstances, I would offer said woman an insincere smile, perhaps a mumbled pleasantry, and be on my way.  But not today—she opted for gala apples.  The audacity!  I put on for my apples, as they say, and wouldn’t let her go without extolling the virtues of #TeamRedDelicious.  She left  with a mystified look on her face.

Sunday: Grandma (Doesn’t) Know Best

My grandma attends mass at St. Mary’s in Mentor.  I go to St. John Vianney.  Our preferred parishes have been a longstanding source of contention between us.  (For the record, St. John Vianney is wayyyy better.) When we’re talking, she’ll find clever ways to mask an insult about SJV with a hollow compliment; maybe a comment like, “The fries at SJV’s festival are good, but did you know that St. Mary’s serves theirs hand-cut?”  Oh, hand-cut, you say?

So it didn’t surprise me when my Grandma brought up the “beautiful” Easter decorations sprawling across St. Mary’s altar.  A few “yeahs” and “uh-huhs” and we’d move onto another topic, I thought.  While I’m always reppin’ #TeamSJV, why start an argument with my grandma?  On Easter, no less.  Moving on seemed like the best idea—until her phone rang.

Unbeknownst to me, Grandma upgraded her cell phone while I was away (with B-I-N-G-O winnings, probably).  And of course, the new phone was a Droid.  Now we had problems.

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