An Overly Elaborate Away Message Pleading for Your Cell Phone Number
Posted by Steve Bagley
It was Saturday night in Boston and the entire city was moving to the brash rhythms of our all too ephemeral existences. Somewhere in the city Pete and I had escaped from the cold winds and found ourselves in a loud bar room with drinks in hand. The beer was beginning to tickle my brain as I suddenly felt inclined to take a long, luxurious piss. From inside the bathroom the music and chatter of the pub was muffled...I began to piss... my phone rang... it was Ben! A glorious old animal from the rugby days. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying...
"Boston...bar...huh?... what?" What was he saying? I stared into the soft glow of the phone as I tried to decipher the crackle coming from the little silver device. In that instant the bathroom door swung open as a cacophonic deluge of clacking glasses, slurred words and Bon Jovi ballads filled the bathroom. Along with the deluge, in came who else but Pete. Pete, being a stubby drunken Irishmen, found it appropriate, and not just appropriate, but rather necessary to shove me into the wall as I was concluding my long, relaxing pee. I watched my helpless little communication device as it circled the rim of the toilet two times before it finally slid into the freshly-pissed-in toilet, sinking down and coming to rest at the bottom. There was fear in Pete's eyes as he tentatively rolled up his sleeves. "Dude, I'm like, wicked sorry dude," I think he said. And I was sorry, too. I had lost years of numbers. The numbers of all of you good people whom I had come to know and love. Unfortunate, if you ask me. So, in lieu of circumstances, I ask you, reader, to leave me your number so I may contact you at a later date. That gives me much comfort.
That, and the fact that I got to watch Pete reach his hand into a toilet full of my pee.
It was Saturday night in Boston and the entire city was moving to the brash rhythms of our all too ephemeral existences. Somewhere in the city Pete and I had escaped from the cold winds and found ourselves in a loud bar room with drinks in hand. The beer was beginning to tickle my brain as I suddenly felt inclined to take a long, luxurious piss. From inside the bathroom the music and chatter of the pub was muffled...I began to piss... my phone rang... it was Ben! A glorious old animal from the rugby days. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying...
"Boston...bar...huh?... what?" What was he saying? I stared into the soft glow of the phone as I tried to decipher the crackle coming from the little silver device. In that instant the bathroom door swung open as a cacophonic deluge of clacking glasses, slurred words and Bon Jovi ballads filled the bathroom. Along with the deluge, in came who else but Pete. Pete, being a stubby drunken Irishmen, found it appropriate, and not just appropriate, but rather necessary to shove me into the wall as I was concluding my long, relaxing pee. I watched my helpless little communication device as it circled the rim of the toilet two times before it finally slid into the freshly-pissed-in toilet, sinking down and coming to rest at the bottom. There was fear in Pete's eyes as he tentatively rolled up his sleeves. "Dude, I'm like, wicked sorry dude," I think he said. And I was sorry, too. I had lost years of numbers. The numbers of all of you good people whom I had come to know and love. Unfortunate, if you ask me. So, in lieu of circumstances, I ask you, reader, to leave me your number so I may contact you at a later date. That gives me much comfort.
That, and the fact that I got to watch Pete reach his hand into a toilet full of my pee.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, April 10, 2006.
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