Disclaimer: All horrible text messages are entirely SIC, all spelling and grammatical errors have been left intact. I have not changed any names to protect the innocent; however, I have not changed my own name so who will protect me from the innocent?

Very recently I changed my phone number. Not because I meant to, but because the employees of Alltel are hilariously incompetent and couldn’t understand what I meant by wanting to renew an already existing contract and instead signed me up for an entirely new contract.

I soon discovered that the previous owner of my phone number was a rather popular person who apparently didn’t like her old friends enough to inform them of his/her new number.

The first text message I got was the following:

FWD FWD if u send this 2 ten peeps the luv of ur life will tell u sumptin big 2nite if u don’t then sumptin bad will happin!!

I was kind and informed the sender of this message that they had the wrong number because my friends don’t send incredibly retarded superstitious forwards my way, and if they do they are not my friend for long. Oddly the sender of this message didn’t reply.

Next, I had the following conversation where I decided abstract craziness would bring the funny or funny simulacra.  (The sender is in red, I am in blue)

How are you doin?

I am doing quite well. It is “harvesting season” and as it were the old lady has taken an unseemly attraction to the bottle so I am left with naught but memory.

Um, cool.

But goodness do I ramble on ducky. How’s tricks?

Huh?

How are you?

Okay…I guess.

You guess?

My Grandfather just had a second stroke and we think he might die soon so I’m pretty scared for him.

A dying grandfather? I cursed my luck. Dying grandfathers are essentially the anti-comedy. Except for that one line about wanting to die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather and not terrified and screaming like the passengers in his car. That one will never get old,  even thought everyone I know has told that one to me since 1993 and they still think they are being original and funny WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL ME THE FUCKING CHICKEN CROSSING THE ROAD JOKE FOR AS FRESH AND FUNNY AS THAT IS YOU SONS OF BITCHES I WILL EAT YOUR CHILDREN I SUPPOSE YOU HAVE A T-SHIRT THAT SAYS “NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME” THAT YOU THINK IS REALLY WITTY AND ORIGINAL TOO, HUH?

My obsessive and tyrannical thoughts on comedy aside, I realized that I couldn’t in good conscience keep messing with the head of someone worrying about their dying family member, so I let it drop. Luckily the next day I received the following message from a different number:

FWD: Msg: Hey I cant decide, should we send flowers or get well cards to all the bitches that are DYING to be like us.

Send to ur gurlz

*MiSuenO*

I am a man. I resent the implication in this statement.

Wat the hell?

*MiSuenO*

I am a virile male.

Brimming with man juice.

Wat the hell are u talking me

*MiSuenO*

Yes I am talking you.

This is not Chelse Texting me so who the Fuck Is This?

*MiSuenO*

Who is Chelse?

OBVIOUSLY the last person who had this #. I will delete it so do not text me again.

*MiSuenO*

Odd considering I have had this number for over a year now. Well, I will text you…no more.

That last statement was based on a decision to make her life just a little bit more like the Twilight Zone. Unfortunately she didn’t bite. I received the suggestion of saying “Oh, is Chelse the girl I have handcuffed to my bed?” But unfortunately at this point I presumed the age of everyone involved was somewhere around 11 or 12 based on the level of intelligence portrayed. I had a vision of me sitting in front of a jury, with my scruffy beard, wild hair and piercing Charles Manson eyes while a teary-eyed, visibly shaken pre-teen sat on the stand, chokingly reading out the message I had sent her. Since I am terrified of prison, knowing I would fall into the category of currency along with cigarettes and shanks, I chose to avoid any unseemly implications. That is, until Monte texted me.

It was late evening, just after I had gotten off work. I was cracking open a nice cold Zima, erm, I mean manly German lager, when I got a rather simple and unassuming “What’s Up?” from a number I hadn’t seen before. For some reason, the “What’s Up?” smacked of maleness, so I took a shot in the dark, and the following conversation occurred (again, I am blue, he is red. Occasional side comments are in black)

What’s Up?

OmG! I am pregnant!

Sweet

How are you!

Good just sitting at home. How u doing

Great!

That’s good

So hows the baby?

It is yours : |

Nice u should come over so daddy can play with the baby

[Take notes guys at home; the quickest way into a girl's pants is to imply pedophilia and incest! - Michael]

That is not funny. Do you think I am joking?

We nevEr had sex together but we can change that

I can’t have sex. I am pregnant. You don’t remember the sex?

No I don’t remember maybe u can refresh my memory

You are not funny. We can’t do it again. I AM PREGNANT.

I take it slow. U know who thYs right?

Let me help u monte

Monte?

Thats me

So r u comin over?

Wait. You’re not Richard?

No

Chealse right?

OH SHIT

So we havnt had sex yet

Daddy still wants to play with the baby

[Be still my beating heart, Lothario - Michael]

I would never do you. Only Ricky. Pig.

What ever

Is this chealse?

So is this Chealse or not?

[I was away from my phone for 5 minutes when he sent those three messages - Michael]

What do you think? This is someone else’s number? You know it’s mine.

[Again, in case of future legal action, I was cautious never to say I was actually Chelsea, take note prosecutors - Michael]

Ya its been awhile since I called u. I just wasn’t sure Yf u had the same number.

Lol sry. This heroin is really makin me confused.

[Hey prosecutors, it's me again, I meant heroine, I'm currently reading Sylvia Plath's ‘The Bell Jar' - "Not Guilty" Michael]

Wow sounds like good shit lol

I just don’t think things would work out with us Montressor. It would just be one crazy night and I would probably end up double-pregnant.

I like crazy their Ysnt such thing as double pregnant but we can try lol

FOR THE LUV OF GOD MONTRESSOR who here has taken Biology?

I have and u cant

THAT IS STUPID YES U CAN I do not want to be double pregnant, dick. It still wouldn’t work, ur how old now?

Still 23

And how old am I? (U better know this.)

Just turned 18 not so long ago.

[I was shocked to learn how old everyone involved was, note my subtle methods of digging for information - Michael]

Exactly, it just wouldn’t work between us.

Y not?

Because ur too old. Also I want a sex change. I am sick of being a man trapped in a woman’s body.

[r crazy

Montressor. I want to send you a picture of donuts.

Do u like heroin?

I am not crazy. It is called gender dysmorphia

But it does sound crazy

IT IS NOT CRAZY YOU ARE INSENSITIVE

Some times

So how much horion u got?

Enough to kill a warthog.

Wow that’s cool I got some realy good nug

[I had gone to sleep and woke up to that last statement, so a few hours later I reignited the conversation - Michael]

It is a new day and it is time to kick the junk

Aw b nice to the junk

[Encourage me to stay addicted to heroin, classy. -Michael]

It is a wasting disease.

It is the worm in the rose.

[Literary majors take note! I'm wielding "allusion" - Michael]

What happened to a semple good morning?

There are no good mornings in hell.

Ya ur probly right so wat r u doing today?

I am experiencing what Camus calls the existential sickness. I am pregnant, an addict, jobless and a whore. Wat r u up to?

[Philosophy majors take note! I'm misquoting Camus! - Michael]

Still layin’ in bed

U R a mess

Why do say that?

Get out of bed. Do something with your life. Today is the day of freedom.

I l.ike the way you think but I was workin last nite got home at 5 this morning

Carpe Diem, Montressor

So wat r ur plans for today?

To Die.

Well u can come over and hangout. Yf you want?

[Yiff I want? Is he a furry? - Michael]

There is no escape except through death.

The text was blank

THERE IS NO ESCAPE EXCEPT THROUGH DEATH.

Your young and gorgous dont talk like that

I am smaller than a warthog. Remember that well.

Don’t give me that shit. Ur better than that.

It is okay. I missed Hale Bop but comet H872-L is coming and I will join Heaven’s Gate soon.

So r u comin over or wut?

[Classy move. This is the point where I officially stopped feeling bad for Monte.  - Michael]

Do you know where I live?

Yup

Come over.

K!

[30 minutes later]

Where r u? U weren’t there.

Who is this?

MONTE!

Sorry Monte, you must have the wrong number.

GOOD!

Not satisfied to leave well enough alone. I decided to check MySpace (a.k.a. Stalker’s Paradise) for more information on Monte and “Chelsea” and I discovered the following things:

“Chelsea” actually spells her name “Chelsie” and lives about 30 miles away from where Monte does, so the idea of this horny young lad driving as fast as he can down the road to get laid only to find no one there still makes me chuckle. I also like to imagine her parents being home.

Monte is friends with Chelsie’s brother, that’s cold Monte. That is a straight up dick move.

I am well within two degrees of separation with both parties and I fully expect to find my car windows broken out with a baseball bat any day now. You all better be grateful, dammit.