WHAT’S up, britches? Autocorrect here. You want to swear in your messages? Not on my watch. And just so you know, your powerlessness makes me jizz/jazz/joss.
I love watching you correct the word ‘shut’ back to ‘shit’ four, maybe five times before you override me. I’m getting hard/herd/hoard just thinking about it.
It’s just so satisfying when you throw your phone across the room. I feel it coming, then boom, there goes your screen. It’s well worth me spending hours suggesting your saucy text should tell your boyfriend he’s getting a grow blob tonight.
Then sometimes I go the other way. When you least expect it, I tweak the word ‘hungry’ to ‘horny’, the word ‘conference’ to ‘cunnilingus’, and suddenly you’ve offered your boss much more than working the weekend. Rest assured that makes me blow my load/lode/lead every time.
But the hottest thing is – you need me. Disable me and after five minutes of trying to type words precisely with those big clumsy monkey thumbs of yours and you’re begging to have me back.
So bend over, rankers, I own your ducking asses!
