Spencer Gifts (you know, in the mall) used to sell a little keychain thingy that had a prerecorded soundtrack of a woman “screamer” making orgasmic utterances. I bought one with the intent of playing it for telemarketers but then I signed up for the do not call list and now nobody calls me. I also though better of it as they would probably spread the word and everyone would be calling.
Jimmy Raney, the jazz guitarist, went through a phase in the late 1940s where he would answer his phone “Grand Central Roach Control.” I think he might have copped that from an S.J. Perelman short story (or maybe the other way around).
I used to answe with “Howdy, you’ve reached the stentor residence. Start talkin’” in the sort of cutesy accent you’d expect on an answering machine. It would scare the bejesus out of them when I interrupted them in the middle of leaving a message.
“Thank you for calling Savannah’s Massage Parlor, where we never rub you the wrong way!”
Savanna’s House of Ill Repute: Poker in the Front; Liquor in the Rear.
“House of Pain, how may I hurt you?”
“Psychic Hotline, I’m sorry but you’ve dialed the wrong number.”
A friend of mine used to expound on that with “Bob’s Mortuary, you stab 'em, we slab 'em, some go to heaven, some go to Helllooooo!”
From the movie, Keeping Up With the Steins,
<Name’s> Meat Market, You can;'t beat the prices, you can’t beat the meat.
Now, why did I call you? I can’t remember.
Every time I pick this thing up, it talks to me. It’s starting to scare me.
If you have reached this number, we are under extra-terrestrial attack.
This is not a test. Please hold for emergency instructions.
Is my dog over there?
“Rock and Roll Heaven, Hendrix speaking.”