Well, DUH.

For the love of GOD, you guys are slow. And by "you guys," I don't mean "a group of people that I know," I mean, "You, men, as a general rule, are slow."

We've been in the cellular and email age for nearly 15 years, right? And it's no secret to anyone that we are all leaving digital DNA all over the place, and everything we send or receive is out there, just waiting to be discovered, tracked, traced, and archived. If the computer CSI guys crawled into our hard drives with UV lights, there'd be blood splatter (or worse) across the ceiling.

And yet, Slate's William Saletan writes today about "The Idiocy of Text-Message Adultery" as if he's so surprised that people do this shit.

Well, DUHHHHHHH.

And yet, stupider than Saletan, I suppose, are the knuckleheads out there who think they are not going to get caught if they are texting and emailing oh so carelessly. Or maybe the ones who are that careless really want to get caught. I mean, here's Tiger Woods, arguably the richest athlete on the planet, sitting next to a girl at a party, and instead of turning to her and having a CONVERSATION to plan an assignation with her, he TEXTS her. Nope. A conversation, that as soon as it's been had, as long as no one was within earshot, disappears into the ether and becomes forever deniable. But no. Ole Tige TEXTS a girl sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HIM. Man. Dude wanted to get caught so bad.

Trust me, I know how this shit works.

And you know what, even if you never send a single text message to your jolie fille, if you receive a paper bill at home for your cell phone, the wheres and whens of all your cell calls are right there in guilty black and white. This happened to me way back in 1991, when my boyfriend's wife opened his cell phone bill (he had one of those big Gordon Gekko bricks, which is pretty funny in retrospect, and it cost like seventeen bucks to make a one-minute call), and saw repeated calls to the same phone number -- mine. So she started calling and asking for Rocky. (yes, I blush, his name really was "Rocky" -- whaaaat? I was young and he was a Puerto Rican-Irish beauty with lips like pillows and a, well... let's just say his PR side won all the genetic battles). And that's how she found me. Death threats from a Brooklyn chick named "Hyacinth" are not a fun way to spend a Christmas season, let me tell you.

But back to the subject, which is, are you guys really this dumb? Do you need a coach for this?

Seriously, I will offer my consulting services for this kind of behavior. BECAUSE I KNOW HOW TO DO IT.

Because the one thing that annoys me more than anything else is just how DUMB smart people can be.

SHEESH.

Oh, and let me add -- if you are a guy, sitting next to me at a party, and can't find the words to say to me to earn the favor of my time, but instead TEXT me, you deserve to be outed for general creepiness.