Is Sexting the Death of the Love Letter?
With Thanksgiving just around the corner, there’s probably only one thing on everybody’s mind: the anniversary of Tiger Woods’ sex scandal. Tiger’s correspondence with his then-mistress Rachel Uchitel was the sext heard ‘round the world…a sext that caused a media frenzy so rampant the L.A. Times placed it in a poll as a choice for the top news story of 2010 along with the gulf oil spill and the earthquake in Haiti.
There were other athletes in the news this year whose smart phones made them look like dumb guys. Brett Favre, hall of fame QB-to-be allegedly sent a female reporter a picture of his Crocs (and, oh yeah, his penis was in the frame) and the pro basketplayer married to Eva Longoria also known as Tony Parker is being divorced by his desperate housewife because she found over forty flirty text messages he sent to a wife of one of his teammates. An “assist” in sports is when you pass your teammate the ball and he scores. There is no term for scoring with your teammate’s wife, but it should probably rhyme with “ooshtag.”
Dropping the jocks for a moment, the award for the worst sext offender of 2010 goes to Ken Kratz, the (married) Wisconsin D.A. who reluctantly stepped down from his position after he was caught texting more than thirty suggestive messages to a domestic abuse victim he was representing. The only thing more stunning than the disgustingly predatory nature of Kratz’s molextation was the incredible lameness of his texts. Here are three to either laugh or cry at:
- “Are u the kind of girl that likes secret contact with an older married elected DA…the riskier the better?”
- “I’m serious! Im the atty. I have the $350,000 house. I have the 6-figure career. You may have the tall, young, hot nymph, but I am the prize!”
- “I would not expect you to be the other woman. I would want you to be so hot and treat me so well that you’d be THE woman! R U that good?”
Fortunately the poor woman on the receiving end of these messages was that good. So good in fact she took Kratz’s messages to the cops and now he’s probably selling his $350,000 Wisconsin home he bragged about and moving into the alley behind the house where Brett Favre lived when he played for the Green Bay Packers. There must be something in the cheese up there in Wisconsin making these men sextaholics—just another reason to eat locally, unless of course you live in Wisconsin, in which case you should stick with Kraft American singles, individually wrapped for your convenience. (PSA: sexting and all things “wrapped” go good together!)
Speaking of things American, Alexandria Mills, Miss World 2010 who hails from Kentucky may lose her title because of a nude photo she took of herself while she was Miss America. She sent the picture to her boyfriend, and “somehow” it leaked. Maybe with a little luck one day the boyfriend will be on the same basketball team as Tony Parker.
Another American sexting cautionary tale from 2010 would be Demi and Ashton, our nation’s poster cougar-couple, who had to travel all the way to Israel to escape a brewing claim of Ashton’s infidelity of which the other woman said she could prove with text messages Ashton sent to her. Ashton must have been thinking with his peter instead of his Keter. Maybe he got confused since both have crowns.
Teachers are sexting students. Vice Principals are sexting students. Students are sexting students. There was a great article in the New York Times today about the difficulties school kids face in this digital age. Discussed were teens shrinking attention spans, the development of dangerous brain patterns, and having to overcome the distraction of YouTube, Facebook, iTunes, and how the hell someone ever figures out which letter of a website’s name to capitalize (none). But the one challenge facing high school students today from digitalization that the article failed to cover was the sext’s replacement of…the classic love letter.
If a picture says a thousand words, are three of them I, Love, and You? Does a headless boob shot say I yearn for you? Gone are the days of spilling your guts out with chicken-scratch penmanship as you write in such a tornado of infatuation and crush that you bruise your arm on the three rings of your Trapper Keeper. Gone are the days of slipping those lines of passion into your beloved’s locker. And gone are the days of having to wait wait wait for that note to be found and then to ultimately learn if your love is reciprocated. Nowadays all kids have to do is punch RUD2F into their phone and in seconds they get an answer.
And maybe that’s the problem. Technology isn’t the culprit, but merely the conduit—for there is no greater temptation than instant gratification. It’s kinda like buying a block of cheese that’s already been sliced.
I had two conversations today in which I mentioned my plans for writing this blog about sexting. One talk was with a guy in college, the other was with an investment banker in his 40’s. Both laughed when I told them my idea and exclaimed with a wry smile, “I got sexted last night.”
Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe I just hang out with sluts. But sexting has taken over, which is sad because the pixelation of one’s uncontrollable expressions of lust seems to be as soulful as an individually wrapped slice of “cheese.”
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