Friday night on the train going home, a fellow named Scott was shrieking into his cell phone to his girlfriend, Tracy (Tracy is too good for him, if you ask me). I was seated half a car away from him and it sounded like he was shouting in my ear. Well, he made the mistake of telling Tracy, “GIVE ME A CALL WHEN YOU GET HOME—DO YOU HAVE MY NUMBER? IT’S [I’d love to give his number here, but that’s not kosher].”
So I glanced down at my WWDPD? bracelet (“What Would Dorothy Parker Do?”) and jotted down Scott’s number. When I got home, I called him up and told his answering machine: “Hi, Scott. If you really feel compelled to scream into your cell phone at the top of your lungs on public transportation, for your own good, I wouldn’t yell your home number to a trainfull of annoyed people who can’t read or nap because of your big mouth. Oh. and say hi to Tracy for me.”
Bwaaahaahahaha!
You can email the phone number to me and I’ll call, too! That is, if he’s in the states. Too funny, though. I’m pretty sure he learned his lesson!
I actually heard a guy give his name and social security number over a cell phone once. In an outside dining area! Unbelievable!
HELLO. NO, I CAN’T TALK NOW I’M IN A LIBRARY. YES, A LIBRARY. WHAT ? YES, I DID FEED THE DOG. NO, A LIBRARY. WHAT ? NO, I CAN’T TALK ANY LOUDER, I’M IN A LIBRARY. BECAUSE IT’S GOT THE INTERNET. LOOK, GOT TO GO – THERE’S ANOTHER CALL WAITING…
Nice, DP would clink a glass with you for doing that.
NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU ON A MESSAGE BOARD. ARE YOU COMPLETELY SILLY ?? WHAT ? YES, I AM AS WELL BUT I’M ALSO IN A LIBRARY. YES, ON THE INTERNET. WHAT ? NO, IN A LIBRARY. DON’T SHOUT AT ME, PAL…**
I saw a girl on the back of a freaking motorcycle trying to place a cellphone call while her idiot lover screeched down Clark street in the midst of a Cubs aftergame scramble for the el.
of course, it didn’t bother ME perse, but come on! Can you imagine RECEIVING that phone call?
WHERE ARE YOU? I CAN’T HEAR YOU! NO! A FLAVOR PRICKLE? WHAT? MOTORCYCLE? WHAT? MARK AND CRABICON? OH OH! CLARK AND ADDISON…GOTCHA, OK! I’M GOING TO HANG UP NOW YOU STUPID SHANKMEAT.
Could you give his number out via e-mail? If he’s broadcasting it like that, I’m quite sure it’s public domain
Or, alternatively, could you give me a series of ten digits in a base-10 system? If they just HAPPEN to be the same as his phone number, you’re beating the Irish Sweepstakes odds.
And once again, Eve and her escapade rescue screech-owl from another humdrum day at the office. Did I ever tell you that you are such an inspiration to me?
[And I want a ‘WWDPD?’ bracelet! In silver, to go with my agnostic “?” necklace.]
Well, I think if people from all over the U.S. started calling him days later, it might qualify as “harrassment.” Besides, I think Scott got the message . . . He might very well have caller ID, but I have a feeling he’d be too scared of me to call back. Could it be my biting Dorothy Parker wit? My glamorous Edna Mae Oliver looks?
You’re too much of a humanitarian Eve. Had it been me, I would’ve published his number in a few of the free San Francisco weekly magazines under the “Men Seeking Men” column. Maybe with a specialty heading like “Fisting Curious” or “Your orifice or mine?”.
Yet another post to hang on my shrine to the Goddess Eve!
And as soon as I give up my cappucino habit, I’m going to have a sterling silver bracelet handcrafted by the ancient troll that lives under the Grand Funk Railroad train trestle near my house, and it’s going to say “WWED.” One more step down the road of terminal hipness.
I’ve recently resigned myself to the fact that when I finally see a person driving a motorcycle while talking on a handheld cell phone, I shall be obliged to run them off the road.
