“Hey you!” I say to the man in front of me in line.

“Hey buddy!” I offer, as politely as humanly possible, to the robot I trail patiently on the bike path.

“Hey slut!” I finally proclaim to the guy sitting across from me at the poker table. It did the trick, I have his undivided attention and will soon have his undivided knuckle in my divided eye. But I am at least triumphant in my endeavor.

He turned off his iPod.

Friends, Isla Vistans, countrymen — I fear the worst is yet to come. I fear we may be collectively spearheading the end of conversation.

We’re all guilty of it — if you prefer the text message, the instant message or the telephone message to the infinite-way radios that are our mouths and cellular devices, you are in what I like to call “the majority.” I know, I know, it’s so much easier, so much more succinct, so pain-free. Just thinking about it makes me want to text myself (yes, in that way).

It’s come to the point where we’re so fed up with talking that we’ve constructed devices that afford us the possibility of going entire weeks without having to listen to all that mindless chatter. But, yo, peeps — without mindless chatter, I’m confident that there would be no mindless humping.

If we’re going to all be adept bullshitters in the real world and veteran boofers in the bedroom, we’re going to have to get some experience doing this talking thing. Like anything, we’re only going to get better with a little practice.

Arright homeys and homeyettes, I’m going to level with you. All I really want to do is say, “Hello, my name is Douche Bag, what is your name?” True, there’s nothing worse than talking about the weather, but I’m semi-confident that the negotiations of the Louisiana Purchase began with “‘Sup, France, is it raining over there yet?” and ended with “How ’bout now?”

My convoluted point is every great relationship has to start somewhere. If we’re all going around deaf to the world and in fear of a little person-to-person contact, none of us will be the porn stars we all want to be.

And without porn… my God, I don’t even want consider this notion.

Isn’t porn great? Last night I was watching “Passion Cove” on “Skinemax” and there were these two guys whose boat had been forced to shore by a storm the previous night. A cute, bitchy redhead approached them on the beach and said, “Hello.” Two minutes later, she was getting the bone from the scruffy captain. You see, people?

A lot can be learned from the hardest core porn too. I’ve seen guys successfully arrange themselves inside women without even talking to them. Wait, that doesn’t support my argument. Whatever… porn rules. OK, I got it. On the Internet, there are guys who go around in a bus all day, saying, “Hello,” or “Hey,” to women walking the streets, then just seconds later, the girls are in the bus getting their pedestrianism banged out of them. There’s another website where a guy rents out his apartment to people who are willing to give head for a bed. Sometimes they even have sex — it’s really great. All the guy says to the girl is “Hello,” and maybe “So you like the place?” It’s just too easy, people.

So get out there and make some babies.

Daily Nexus sports editor Chris Trenchard’s goal in life is to create his own line of porn where sportswriters get laid while yelling sports jargon — “He’s rounding third, trying to stretch it to home, he slides in and scores!”