Cellphone Radiation Possibly Carcinogenic, Could Cause Cancer & Brain Tumors, Says One Deliveryman
I opened my apartment door to find a uniformed man holding a package. He worked for one of America’s most reputable delivery services. I was on my cellphone at the time, talking to a friend who’d been slightly disturbed about seeing the supposed Anthony Weiner “weinergate” picture. I was trying to calm him down and tell him that was a very normal function for that area of the male anatomy, but he was inconsolable. Like Adam and Eve when they learned they had to leave the Garden.
The reputable delivery man reached across the threshold and snapped my phone shut. “You shouldn’t be talking on cellphones, don’t you know the World Health Organization has just classified the radiation emitted from cell phones as a possible cancer-causing agent, and they’ve concluded that cell phones could be associated with an increased risk for glioma, which is a type of brain tumor?” (he must have memorized the news report while driving his delivery truck — here is the source)
“Anyway,” he said, “here’s your package.” He handed me the box and my cellphone. “Sorry to cut off your conversation, but I don’t want people getting brain tumors from cell phones. Glioma is serious. And you’re so young and full of energy.” He made me sign off on his electronic notepad.
I’m slightly embarrassed, I said, because this package is from Target. I don’t usually shop at Target because the Target execs hate gay people and they give hundreds of thousands of dollars to squash gay rights. Target is a menace to civil rights.
“I don’t even look at where the packages are from.” He reached across the doorway to grab my shoulder. “Are you gay?”
Of course not! I said. Do I look gay to you? Just because I don’t like to shop at Target? I was talking on my cellphone to a non-gay friend. Listen, man, I don’t even own a cat. Just because I live in a tiny apartment without a woman doesn’t mean I’m gay. Maybe you’ve had too much radiation.
He smiled. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
Just because I’m not married yet. I haven’t had the right kind of female suitors. They’ve been deadbeats. Very middle class types. I’m looking to score big with marriage. Move up to a higher tax bracket. I need a woman with a million dollars so I can focus on my work.
I had opened the package already, and the delivery man leaned forward to see what was in it. I tucked the box between my arm and side. Six cans of mace. All there. I held one up to show him. I need to be prepared, I said. He backed off a little. I don’t know if you live in this area, I told him, but if you do, you need a can of mace. There are vicious attacks in random places, done to random people by a hot-headed transvestite riding in a powerful motor scooter.
His face dropped. He looked concerned. I handed him a can of mace. I’ve still got five of them, I said. He took the can and seemed to lighten up. If you don’t want people to get brain cancer from talking on cellphones, just threaten to douse them with this. People get the hint.
He tucked the mace into his shorts’ pocket and tilted my package in his direction to see what else was in there. Six boxes of spermicidal condoms. Two canisters of Wet Skin Sun Care. Six canisters of Allspice and six bottles of cinnamon. I don’t remember ordering this stuff, I said, but I’m glad I did. This looks like a complete trip. Take one of everything, I said, for being so courteous to warn me about the dangers of cellphone radiation.
The delivery man took one of everything except for the Allspice. “I don’t use Allspice.”
Suit yourself, I said, there’s more for me.
“You’ve certainly got a lot of these,” he said, holding up the package of condoms.
They’re not for me, I said. I like to go into poorer neighborhoods around Los Angeles and pass them out. I’m trying to undo Bush Jr.’s abstinence programs he spread across America like some dangerous sexually transmitted disease. Dangerous plan, more dangerous than talking on your cellphone. But sometimes, when I’m roving around the poor neighborhoods, holding all these boxes of condoms, people get the wrong idea. That’s why I need the mace, I said. I’ve only used it a handful of times, but I’m always glad to have it.
“While you’re passing out condoms,” he said, “make sure you spread the word about the cellphone radiation findings. The research was done by 31 scientists from 14 different countries, and they looked at the health risks associated with radiofrequency electromagnetic fields. They found that cellphone radiation is possibly carcinogenic and could lead to cancer.”
You’ve told me this! I said. You sound like a broken record. We’ve come to a draw, I said.
“A man named Doctor Samet said the classification of this kind of cellphone radiation warrants continued study!” he shouted. Along the hallway doors were opening and heads were peeping out. “The study showed the highest risk of brain tumors among the heaviest cellphone users.”
Calm down you pedantic bastard, I said.
“Until we have more conclusive evidence to study, we should reduce exposure of cellphone radiation and only use cellphones when absolutely necessary!”
What about the economy, I said. I waved my can of mace, threatening him. I take the economy seriously. How will this study effect the economy!
“It should help the economy.” His nerves were frazzled. “Anybody who doesn’t have hands-free equipment should buy it to keep those nasty cellphones away from our precious heads.” His hand was shaking. I knew I had him beat. “The World Health Organization has estimated some 5 billion people use cellphones around the globe.”
Bullshit, I said. I withdrew my arm, slowly, so he knew he wasn’t in the clear. Not yet. Pass out those condoms. Make a difference! I yelled before slamming my door.
“Thank you for the goods!” he said back.
I locked the door and kept my back against it until I heard his big delivery truck engine start. A close call for all involved, I thought. I dropped my cellphone in the toilet. That seemed like the proper place for it.