Yesterday, for whatever unexplainable reason, the phone was ringing off the hook. A seemingly endless run of the same question asked more ways than Eskimos have works for snow.
"What time do you close?"
"When do you close?"
"What are your business hours today?"
"Until what time are you open?"
"How late are you open today?"
"When do you close during the week?"
"How long are you there till?"
"You're open from when to when?"
Then, a call out of the blue to break up the monotony.
"Does Lance Armstrong ever come to your store,?" asked a mystery caller with the urgency of someone with a ticking time bomb tied to their testicles.
"Um, excuse me?"
"Lance Armstrong. You ever seem him there?"
"Uh, um, sometimes."
"Well you tell that mothafucka I'm looking for his ass and when I find him I'm gonna beat the shit outta 'em."
"Uh, OK." (To myself I asked, self: When did your place of business become a place to ferry threatening messages Junior High style?)
Then our frantic mystery caller continued...
"Earlier today I was ridin' in the park and saw Lance Armstrong so I started pedalin' really fast and I passed his ass going up hill. He didn't like that so he told me to fuck off and then he pulled out this crazy phone that wasn't a phone and out of nowhere these black cars pulled up and run me over. I just got home. My bike's all busted and when I see Lance Armstrong I'm gonna kick his mothafuckin' ass!!!"
Click.
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2 comments:
Lance is just pissed that Sheryl dumped his ass and he doesn't know what to do in retirement...
Olsen twins. Doy.
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