Telegraph? Whoa, I didn't see THAT coming!

Of all the abandoned, obsolete technologies we've discarded over the years, the one most deserving of a second chance is the noble telegraph. Think about it -- when we're at our computers everyday, visiting our favorite wicker porn sites, what are we already doing? That's right: clicking. Clicking away on our mice, slowly tapping out messages to the Ether. I guarantee you, somewhere out there is a vast, diffuse machine intelligence that's listening in, slowly deciphering our subconscious dots-and-dashes message, transmitted quite without our knowledge through our everyday Internet usage. And at some point, it will have collected enough clicks to make sense of that message, and respond with a disgusted 'That's nasty', and shut itself down forever.

Do you see how powerful the telegraph is? If it can cause a barely-cognizant hardware-constrained cloud of virtual neurons to kill itself in horrified, existential anomie, surely it can revitalize our modern way of life! How, you say? I'm glad you asked, you mouth-breathing mendicant!

Imagine the following scenario: it's late. You're lonely. You have no lover that doesn't run on batteries, and those Flipper reruns don't come on until 3 AM. You crave a direct connection with another human being, someone with whom you can share your innermost goulash recipes. Someone with whom you can be truly intimate. Looking around your cell, your fevered gaze alights upon your telegraph device, coiled and smug within its mahogany-and-cheese berth.

Trembling, your hand reaches toward it, fingers already pre-tapping, anxiously awaiting that tactile, subdermal feedback. You don your headphones, heartrate jumping at the mere hiss of the static issuing forth. You begin to code your message: dot-dash... dot-dot-dot... dot-dash-dot-dot... dot-dot-dash-dash-dot-dot.

Suddenly, you're in the thick of it! Messages crowd in, staccato sweet nothings filling your headspace like the drilling of overly-amorous woodpeckers!  Drum roll missives of lust peppering your eardrums with the emotional force of a thousand tiny jackhammers of love! Engorged with excitement... EWW... you hurriedly attach and activate the Press-Your-Sensitive™ Teledildonics NubbinNotch ("Now with telegraph support!") and continue your perversely promiscuous pressings.

With each dot and dash of your partner's message delivered as a jolt of current to your sex toy, and calibrated to be sensitive enough to register pressure, the harder you tap, the stronger the impulses. As you race closer to the eventual conclusion, your frenzied pounding begins to set up a powerful feedback loop, like shouting into a series of megaphones, both of you crying out for release, hands feverishly slamming into the receiver until finally the final spasm hits, both hands clenched tightly around the telegraph machine, blissed and mindless...

...until you electrocute yourself on an exposed wire. But UNTIL then! Transformative! Revolutionary! Apocalyptic! Superfluous! Yes, gentle sentients, the telegraph must return! If not for yourselves, then think of the children! Do you really want them to grow up in a society where debased adult sexmongers aren't regularly destroyed by their own fiendish devices? Look deep into your hearts; you already know the answer: dash-dot... dash-dash-dash.

I wanna be free... just me... oh baby...
EWW
-- "Easy", Faith No More