How my cell phone committed suicide

So this morning, Texas time, I'm on my way back to visit my parents in Ohio, which is a journey already heavily fraught with Baggage, Oh So Much Baggage, and I'm not thinking right. Gotta change planes in Houston (hey, it was a $300 ticket, so you take what they give you). I find the women's bathroom on the B concourse. I whip out my cell phone to text J-man that I'm wheels down. I snap the phone shut just as a woman comes out of a stall. I approach. The toilet is in mid-flush; the waste already carried away and nice fresh water sweeping everything away . . . including my cell phone, which for reasons I cannot discover leaped from my right hand (all five fingers wrapped around it even!), jumped into the toilet and disappeared with the last of the swirling waters. It took less than a second. It was in my hand . . . and then it was down the hatch. Gone. Completely gone. I couldn't even get angry -- wait, a minute: my cell phone just went down a toilet in Houston's airport. What could I do? The only thing I could . . . I assumed the position and made my own delivery, both species. How often do you get to shit on your cell phone?

Verizon, never missing an opportunity to squeeze more cash out of me, is willing to supply me with a "certified pre-owned" piece of Samsung weirdness for the pittance of $99.99. What could I do? ...

Fortunately, since I'm home with the parental units, the cell phone is not a requirement. But I sure do feel naked without it. An experiment begins ...