the art of the drunk dial
January 10, 2004, 12:03 pm

"Hey listen you self-indulgin', narcissistic person, 'I don't want you feelin' like I do, yeah, yeah, everytime I get too fucked to move, yeah, yeah!' Um, hey look, it's me and the cats and a bottle of wine and a can of Pringles and a roll of Kwanzaa wrapping paper. So you don't need to have a real good Suburban Maryland imagination to know what's going on here. You've been drunk-dialed, which is better than being Punk'd because let's face it, Ashton Kutcher with the ironic trucker hat really needs to go. So there's no ironic trucker hat or washed up Fox sitcom star, it's just me, with the Pringles, and the cats, and a rolodex of ex-lovers. So CALL. If that's not incentive, I don't know what the fuck is. That's all, that's all I got, so put THAT in your peace-pipe and SMOKE it, SISTER! Bye."

Beep.

"Dude, seriously, you know, you gotta rethink this whole like, uh, telecommunications bullshit because if you want to get booty calls, you need to like, be accessible, and like, uh. You know I really think I don't like people anymore. I have decided that only person I can really trust on this planet is the guy with the moustache on the side of the Pringles can. If mean really, if you're going to wear that little parted down the middle hair with a matching moustache *sound of can falling to floor*, oops, there he goes. And he's back. He's like a Weeble. 'Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down!' But if you're going to be that fuckin' badass and match your hair to your moustache with that parted-down-the-middle hair, dude don't give a FUCK! He's got some fucking original strength potato crisps down in his, what is this, a canister. Canister. What other snack food comes in a canister? No other fucking snack food comes in a fucking canister. So, let's hear it for Pringles...the underappreciated snack food of the last two decades! And let's show them some muthafuckin' love 'cause I went to my office Christmas party, and I drank a lot of gin, and then I went to see Cyndi Lauper, and I drank gin, and now I'm home, and I'm ready for gin. And Mr. Pringles is the ONLY person who approves, except for Mr. Lando Calkittyan, my cat, but he's a pussy. Who the fuck did I call? Oh. Jessica Biensoul. *gasp* Did you know we had sex one time? Oh yeah, it was hot, eh? I gave you BOTH inches that night. Um, anyway, uh, um, that's not why I called. No, I called because you're the only person who thinks I'm funny. Most people just think I'm dumb. So, ummmmmmm, you may ask yourself, how did I get this beautiful house in Annapolis? You may ask yourself, how did Yaya wind up driving a Yugo? Let the water...once in a lifetime, nevermind, I don't know the words to that fucking song. Does anyone REALLY like Talking Heads? Or are they're just one of those bands that's cool to say you like, but no one really likes them. 'Dude, what's your favorite band?' 'Oh, Talking Heads.' 'Oh, Talking Heads, totally cool.' But you know what? I don't anyone who really likes them. They're not cool. They're just a bunch of arty-farty fags...*GASP* Oh, I said the f-word? I meant arty-farty people with...penises in their mouths. That's better. God, is this message still happening? Uh, yeeaahhh."

Beep.

"Hey, this is Jessi."

"Who?"

"JESSICA BIENSOUL."

"HOLY SHIT! We had sex!"

"Yeah, you drunk-dialed me, so now I'm returning the favor. Happy New Year!"

"Dude, answer my BOOTY CALLS!"

Beep.