“So so wrong”
Posted by Euroranger on July 27, 2010
Just a brief post today as I’m in a hurry, am running on little sleep and my natural lazy streak is running full blast. I’m also actually working so I really don’t have time to craft the appropriate frame for the work of art I’m about to leave here. As we all know, God hates me. This has been proven beyond a shadow of any reasonable and rational doubt and will soon be held up as the long-awaited proof of the existence of a divine being. People will say “there MUST be a God because no one person can suffer so much misery and misfortune naturally…the odds are astronomically against it”. They will also say “sucks to be you” but they already do that but they will do it from then on with a kind of pitying knowing look on their faces. Oddly enough, this could elevate me to the same level as Jebus or Mohammad so I need to start working out the tenets of the new religion I’m going to found. In short, it will be good to be king…somewhat less good if you’re anything below king. So anyway, as part of his never ending campaign to express his displeasure with my persistent existence, God has declared that my cellphone, which I have had for well over a year now, will be the next instrument of his delivery of woe until my cup of that verily runneth over. Why he chooses to act in mysterious ways when his motive and intent is as subtle as a flying brick is beyond the ken of merely mortal men. Suffice to say, he’s doing it, I don’t know why and my Palm Pre is now the tool he will use to bludgeon my soul further for his entertainment and celestial mirth.
The means by which he has determined to torment me via my cellphone is to ensure that the number I was assigned was previously used by a drug dealer. Now, on the surface this may not seem like a big problem. I mean, all I have to do is tell people I’m not the guy they’re looking for and they quit calling right? Well, consider that the people calling this number are looking to acquire such delicacies as crack cocaine, meth and weed and you might agree with my assessment that we’re not dealing with the sharpest crayons in the box. So you tell these brain-fried idiots that they have the wrong number and you discover that the brain cells they would normally use to store that nugget of info have been co-opted to hold all sorts of other handy info like their new name (“baby momma” is a common one), their bail bondsman’s cell number and the name of their latest kid (probably something like “Ekstra Tcheque” or “Trick” if they named it after the father). Suffice to say, they call back. A lot. Like 3-4 times per week…which is a lot for me. Anyhow, to make my sacred persecution more complete, I have been allowed to discover a few things about the previous owner of my current cell number. In no particular order the previous owner:
- is a purveyor of fine narcotics
- lives in the St. Louis Missouri area (due to the area code of his callers)
- drives a Chevrolet Suburban (I get automated service calls from Jim Butler Chevrolet)
- is a young black male
- goes by the name of “pee wee”
Now, I don’t know about you, but there’s no way in hell I’d let even my closest friends call me “pee wee”. I mean, I’m a drug dealer slinging rock and other shit in a dangerous part of town. I need all the respect I can get. Having complete strangers calling me on the phone or walking up to me on the corner calling me “pee wee” out loud in public just ain’t cutting it. “Pee wee” does NOT imply street cred worth a shit. What it implies is that despite my 6’4″, 230 pound impressive physique, I’m hung like a fucking TicTac. That’s just bad for business, youknowwhatI’msayin’? So, back to why I’m posting this.
This morning I’m at work down in the unholy bowels of a particular bothersome code issue when my cell phone rings. I’d been expecting Mrs. Ranger to call to apologize for blaming me for not setting the alarm clock this morning so she could get up early to go do whatever PTA related business it is that dictates that she goes out and lays on a lavish breakfast for other PTA staff and school luminaries whilst I get leftover cold coffee from the day before, un-ironed pants and an attitude. Instead I get this phone call, realize what it is and proceed to have fun with it because I’m just flat out tired of answering the phone, pissing away my minutes and getting nowhere with my helpful “this ain’t pee wee’s phone no mo'” public service announcements. At the conclusion of the conversation I naturally share this experience with my buddy Shades via IM:
(10:37:13 AM) Euroranger: Did I mention that my cell number used to be owned by a dude that others call “pee wee”?
(10:39:58 AM) Euroranger: Well anyway, I get calls for “pee wee” all the time. I get this one black chick so many times now that I recognize the number.
(10:40:23 AM) Euroranger: I’ve told her at least a dozen times that the number isn’t her favorite drug dealer’s anymore.
(10:40:35 AM) Euroranger: Anyhow, she called a few minutes ago.
(10:40:55 AM) Euroranger: I see the number come up and know who it is so I answer.
(10:41:32 AM) Euroranger: Sure enough “is this pee wee”? Now normally I say something like “no, you have the wrong number”.
(10:41:43 AM) Euroranger: Today I say “yeah it is…whachu need”?
(10:42:16 AM) Euroranger: She says I need “a couple”. Now, I’m not into the drug parlance but I’m figuring a couple is a reference to rocks.
(10:43:42 AM) Euroranger: I said “I don’t wanna sell you none” and she’s like “why” and I say “you remember last time”.
(10:44:00 AM) Euroranger: She pauses again and then busts out “I’ll suck yo dick”.
(10:44:18 AM) Euroranger: The conversation got worse from there.
(10:44:34 AM) ShadesOfGrey: lol
(10:44:41 AM) ShadesOfGrey: you need to record these
(10:44:57 AM) ShadesOfGrey: better yet. call yer local law enforcement office
(10:45:01 AM) ShadesOfGrey: tell them of the sit
(10:45:03 AM) Euroranger: Dude…
(10:45:37 AM) Euroranger: She’s going over to “pee wee’s” later and is fully expecting to get assfucked by “pee wee” and two of his friends.
(10:45:46 AM) ShadesOfGrey: roflol
(10:46:37 AM) Euroranger: I told her not to bother wearing underwear cause she’s just gonna be in, get fucked, get her shit and get out.
(10:46:41 AM) ShadesOfGrey: I’m weeping… I’m loling so much
(10:47:17 AM) Euroranger: “You just show up with that short jean skirt and nothin’ else…you fuck it up, you get nothing”.
(10:47:31 AM) Euroranger: I swear, by the tone of her voice, she’s looking forward to it.
(10:47:34 AM) ShadesOfGrey: so wrong
(10:47:38 AM) ShadesOfGrey: so so wrong
(10:47:49 AM) Euroranger: Yeah, but that little fucker “pee wee” owes me.
(10:48:12 AM) ShadesOfGrey: this turns my stomach a little
(10:48:30 AM) Euroranger: I got a text message from some guy the other day and I deleted it without responding…wished I hadn’t.
(10:49:25 AM) Euroranger: But he was just looking for weed so I doubt he’d be game.
(10:50:33 AM) Euroranger: I’ve been putting off a blog post for awhile…this may push me over the edge.
(10:50:34 AM) ShadesOfGrey: dude
(10:50:48 AM) Euroranger: “whachu need?”
So, later today, somewhere in the greater St. Louis metro area, some strung out black chick is going to show up at pee wee’s door in a jean skirt with no underpants and expect that in exchange for a few rounds of vigorous “back door loving” with pee wee and two of his anonymous buddies she’ll get a couple of rocks of crack, a lesson in listening to the nice man that tells her “this ain’t your drug dealer’s number” and perhaps a couple of phone numbers. She also may be able to finally answer that age-old question that has haunted humanity: is “pee wee” so named because he is insufficiently supplied with male external genitalia? For her ass’s sake, she better hope so.
My name is Euroranger and I approved this message.