Herewith you are kith to the iPod of Pithy. The essence of pithiness. The nit, the grit many have sought to savor. Its slender, stemlike girth in the palm of your hand, the power of which is the grit of the iPod of Pithy. Just having it clipped to your belt makes you kin to a certain flippancy. Whip it out of its sheath, you are with it, hip to the silence at the gist of gist. Your future resembles the ancient past, when withering gods strolled the earth. When Adam slept among the megaliths on par with his trophy wife, Lilith. And that lithe, slithering, fork-tongue Hava, shibboleth, she of the tithing Granny Smith, not yet hither. The iPod of Pithy. You are Picard crouched behind a boulder on the Planet of the Pixilated. You are Pithecanthropus, straddling the width between ape and man. A locksmith with the key to the mysterious monolith, you are pure pithiness, sans the whither, the thither.