When you occasionally have a really bad day and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.
I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialled it. A man answered, saying, "Hello."
I politely said, "This is David. Could I please speak with Robert Campbell?"
Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear, "Get the right fuckin number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude.
When I tracked down Robert's correct number to call him, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.
After hanging up with him, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.
When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, "You're a Cunt!" and hung up.
I wrote his number down with the word 'Cunt' next to it and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're a Cunt!" It always cheered me up.
When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic "Cunt" calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from BT. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?"
He yelled, "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're a Cunt!"
One day I was at Lakeside Shopping Centre, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a gunmetal grey Land Rover cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.
A couple of days later, right after calling the first Cunt (I had his number on speed dial), I thought that I'd better call the Land Rover Cunt, too.
I said, "Is this the man with the gunmetal grey Land Rover for sale?" "Yes, it is", he said. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked. "Yes, I live at 129 Alice Street , in Ilford. It's a terraced house and the car's parked right out in front."
"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Steve Hansen," he said. "When's a good time to catch you, Steve?" "I'm home most days as I'm currently unemployed."
"Listen, Steve, can I tell you something?" "Yes?" "Steve, you're a Cunt!" Then I hung up and added his number to my speed dial, too.
Now, when I had a problem, I had two arseholes to call. Then one day I came up with an idea. I called Cunt #1.
"Hello?"
"You're a Cunt!" (But I didn't hang up.) "Are you still there?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"Stop calling me," he screamed.
"Make me," I said.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Steve Hansen."
"Yeah? Where do you live?"
"I live at 129 Alice Street , Ilford, a terraced house, with my gunmetal grey Land Rover parked out the front."
He said, "I'm coming over right now, Steve. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, Cunt," and hung up.
Then I called Cunt #2. "Hello?" he said.
"Hello, Cunt," I said.
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..."
"You'll do what?" I said.
"I'll kick your arse," he exclaimed.
"Well, Cunt, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."
Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 129 Alice Street, Ilford and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.
Then I called Channel 5 News about the hoodie war going down in Alice Street, Ilford.
I quickly got into my car and headed over to Alice Street. I got there just in time to watch two Cunts beating the crap out of each other in front of six police cars, an overhead police helicopter and a News crew.
Now I feel MUCH better.
What's the point in living if you don't feel alive?
Toying with ones mortality shouldn't be this much fun.
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