I have a growing collection of photos of the inside of my pants pocket.

I don’t mean to. It’s one of those technology things.

At least I’m not “butt-calling” anyone like one of my uncles manages to do on a routine basis. Again, technology.

I carry my cell phone in the pocket along my left leg. Sometimes when I shift as I am sitting at my desk, I hear the “whirrr-click” of a camera from somewhere around my chair. Once again, the folds and creases in my pants turned on the camera function of my cell phone and I have yet another shot of the inside of my pocket.

Without technology, I would have had to actually turn my pocket inside out. Now, thanks to technology, I even can “phone” the view to you.

Fortunately, the keypad on my phone is protected from my technologically advanced pockets, which use my phone more than I do. This is not so for my uncle. It was another pocket where the phone resided, and when he shifted, his pocket dialing a variety of numbers from the phone’s memory banks. The “voice” we heard wasn’t always pleasant.

My cousin called home a while back and said, “Mom, make Dad carry his phone in his shirt pocket so his butt will stop calling me!”

Sometimes, just being in a pocket is enough to cause trouble.

For example, it was on lunch break during a particularly frustrating day that I called my wife’s cell phone. Terry was in one of those libraries where noise is an offense punishable by up to 10 years in prison, so when she heard ringing coming from her leg, she quickly reached into her pocket and hit what she thought was the “ignore call” button.

It wasn’t. But the speakerphone was on.

Seconds later, the silence was broken as Terry’s leg shouted – in a voice that sounded like mine – “My boss is a buffoon!”

Terry clamped a hand on her leg. But the voice from her thigh ranted on: “I swear, if it had been one of us who had invented the wheel, my boss would have made us install corners on it, then chew us out because it didn’t work! What a technological ignoramus!”

(Note to my boss: I, of course, never said that. I made it up for comedic effect.)

As Terry hustled for the door, hand clamped over her pocket, she shrugged at the glowering security guard and muttered helplessly, “My husband.”

“Well, we can hear him all over the library,” he scolded.

Then he whispered, “And my boss would have mounted the wheels on top of the wagon, acted like he’d done a great thing, then made the seven of us drag the flat bottom down the road. What a ding-dong.”

(Note to his boss: I also made up that ridiculous statement. Our bosses, bona fide geniuses, probably invented both the wheel and cell phones. And pockets.)

It’s time to stop the madness. It’s time to stop the butt-calls, pocket pictures and voices from the thigh.

Please, let’s put the phones back on the walls where they belong.

And then I’m going to ask my technologically savvy pocket to figure out why my toaster’s been acting up lately.