Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Like A Phillips Head Into My Brain

Before you read this, do yourself a favor and set your cell-phone to vibrate. Especially if you’re one of those annoying fucks who has gone to the trouble of replacing the tried and true ringing sound with a clip of your favorite techno/dance/G-Unit song. Your taste in music is terrible. Please, don’t subject me to it anymore. When I hear your wacky ringtone, I immediately lose respect for you.

Why do you feel the need to have a miniature dance party every time you receive a call? Everyone gets phone calls. You’re not special. There’s no need to celebrate by bumping Wait ‘Til You See My Dick at top volume. Of course, it wouldn’t be so bad if you’d just pick up immediately, but then, nobody would know how cool you are. That’s why you have to stall for five painful minutes before answering. I know all your moves.

First, the call comes in - you’re sitting in Starbucks trying to be ironic:

Hey how you doin lil mama? lemme whisper in your ear
Tell you sunthing that you might like to hear
You got a sexy ass body and your ass look soft
Mind if I touch it? and see if its soft

Step 1: The old confusion routine. You look around innocently, thinking some else’s phone might actually be ringing. After all, there could be a hundred Ying Yang fans in this Starbucks looking to advertise their similarly shitty tastes in music every time one of their idiot friends calls up to “holla.” How embarrassing it would be to pull out your phone and look at it just to double check.

Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick
Wait til you see my dick
Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick
Imma beat dat pussy up

Step 2: Call in the bloodhounds - It’s time for the prolonged ‘search for the phone’ move. Always a great time killer because it seems so sincere. Dammit, you really want to answer that call, but it’s just so hard to find the phone. Is it in your left pocket or your right? Is it under your hat? Maybe it’s in your shoe. Please, stop with the bullshit. You know exactly where your phone is. You were just using it to take blurry pictures of teenage girls’ asses at the mall. You’re such a rebel. Wait ‘til you see your dick!

Walk around the club with yo thumb in ya mouth
Put my dick in, take your thumb out
There might be a lil kosher to deal with
Wet? hope they dont spill shit

Step 3: Congratulations, you’ve found your phone, but the song’s just getting good. Now what? Oh, right, the classic ‘confused stare at the caller ID’ trick - great way to buy time. Forty-five seconds of befuddled squinting, but no matter how hard you stare, the caller ID still says MOM because she’s the only person who would actually be calling you. Sure, you’ve saved the names Beyonce, Salma Hayek, and HOT CHICK FROM STRIP CLUB in your phone; you just haven’t collected the numbers to correspond with them. Your incoming call list reads like the cast of an ABC Afterschool Special: Mom, Misunderstood Nerd, “Special” Friend, Sincere Fat Girl. Not exactly the all-star cast you envisioned when you bought that P*I*M*P faceplate.

Now, spend another thirty seconds trying to locate the elusive SEND key while the song fades out.

Beat da pussy up,
Beat da pussy up,
Beat da pussy up,
Beat da pussy up


What I want to know is: what happens if it’s bad news? How do you segue from Beat da pussy up to “Dad just had a stroke?” That has to be awkward. You’re giving yourself a lap dance in a coffee shop; next thing you know, you’re getting pimp-slapped by reality.

I’m just sick of this whole cult of self-expression polluting people these days. Every little product is offered with thirty-five thousand different ways to “customize it to fit your individual personality.” Well, guess what, your personality sucks. You’re boring, you have no charm, and nobody cares what you think. Get over yourself and answer your fucking phone.