Anger Management
When you occasionally have a bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don’t take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don’t know.
I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I had forgotten to make. I found the number and dialled it. A man answered, saying, “Hello?” I politely said, “This is John. Could I please speak with Robin Carter?”
Suddenly, the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so rude. I tracked Robin’s correct number and called her. I had transposed the last two digits of her phone number. After hanging up with her, I decided to call the ‘wrong’ number again.
When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, “You’re an arsehole!” and hung up.
I wrote his number down with the word “arsehole” next to it and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him up and yell, “You’re an arsehole!” It always cheered me up.
When caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic ‘arsehole’ calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, “Hi, this is John Achilles from the telephone company. I’m just calling to see if you’re familiar with Caller ID?” He yelled, “NO!” and slammed the phone down. I quickly called him back and said, “That’s because you’re an arsehole!”
One day I was at the Warehouse, getting ready to pull into a parking spot when some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I had been waiting for that spot but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign in the back window, so I wrote down his number.
A couple of days later, right after calling the first arsehole (I had his number on speed dial by then) I thought I had better call the BMW arsehole, too. I said, “Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?”
“Yes, it is,” came the reply.
“Can you tell me where I can see it?”
“Yes, I live at 64 18th Avenue. It’s a yellow house and the car’s parked right out in front.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Dave Crosby,” he said.
“When’s a good time to catch you, Dave?”
“Well, I’m home every evening after five.”
“Listen, Dave, can I tell you something?”
“Yes?”
“Dave, you’re an arsehole.” Then I hung up and added his number to my speed dial too. Now when I had a problem, I had two arseholes to call. But after several months of calling them, it wasn’t as enjoyable as it used to be, so I came up with an idea. I called Arsehole #1.
“Hello?”
“You’re an arsehole!” (But I didn’t hang up.)
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“STOP CALLING ME,” he screamed.
“Make me!” I said.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name’s Dave Crosby.”
“Yeah, well where do you live, Dave?”
“Arsehole, I live at 64 18th Avenue, a yellow house with my black Beamer parked out in front.”
He said, “I’m coming over right now, Dave, and you had better start saying your prayers.”
I said, “Yeah, like I’m really scared, arsehole.”
Then I called Arsehole #2.
“Hello?”
“Hello, arsehole,” I said
He yelled, “IF I EVER FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE?”
“You’ll what?” I teased.
“I’ll kick your arse,” he exclaimed.
I answered, “Well, arsehole, here’s your chance ‘cause I’m coming over there right now.”
Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 64 18th Avenue and that my gay lover was on his way over to kill me. Then I called a couple of different TV stations about a gang war going down on 18th Ave.
I quickly got into my car and drove over to 18th Avenue. There I saw two arseholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six police cars, a police helicopter, and the TV news crews.
Now, I feel better. Anger management at its very best.