Just for kicks I had my assistant block him a few times. Then I had her pretend to make a mistake and let it slip out that I was in a meeting with a team from Newsweek which I knew would torture him. But finally I patched him through. And he’s like, Um, hey, I didn’t get my Showtime invitation, was that a mistake or something? I told him, Girlfriend, I told you, you’re dead to me. He starts saying he’s sorry, it wasn’t his decision to pull the cover, it’s his asshole editor. I tell him I’m sorry too but we’ve only got a thousand seats for this event and we can’t invite everyone, this one is only for people who are loyal, but maybe he’ll get in next time, who knows?

For a long time he’s silent. Then he goes, You’re gonna show the smart phone, aren’t you. I know you are. Damn it, Steve! God damn you! You promised me I could be there for the smart phone. On that weekend in Tahoe, remember? You promised! And I said, Well, you promised I was gonna be on the cover. And then you lost faith and put those MySpace guys on instead. I guess you think they’re the cool company now, not old El Jobso. Guess you thought El Jobso was all washed up, over the hill. He goes, That’s not true! That’s not! I go, And now it’s Showtime and El Jobso is the sexiest bitch in town again and you can’t come to the party because you blew it. You blew it, Brent. You lost faith in me. I’m sorry. I can’t have that with people. I need to trust people. I can’t trust people who lose faith when there’s some little blip over some stupid options. He goes, I didn’t lose faith! I didn’t! I’ve never lost faith in you! In twenty years I’ve never for a moment stopped loving, er, lost faith in you!

By this point he was crying. Not really sobbing but kind of sniffling. He goes, You know what? You’re sick, man. You are. I know you’re sitting there laughing at me, you son of a bitch. But you know what, I feel sorry for you. I really do. You know what you’re like? You’re like one of those twisted spoiled girls on that Super Sweeet Sixteen show.

I go, Wait a minute, I’m like a girl? Who’s the one crying into her pink Princess phone? He was still crying when I hung up. Which felt very satisfying, let me tell you. Luckily I taped the whole thing on my iPod and mailed the file to Ive. He says it’s hilarious and wants to put it on iTunes as a podcast. Katie, the PR girl, says no way. Party pooper. I told her go get your rifle and get back to your post.