I am So Fucking Worried
Right after we got out of the cab coming back from the Lakeside Casino in South Lake Tahoe the driver yelled out.
"You leave a cell phone?"
"Yeah."
Jon ran back about ten steps on the frozen driveway to the cab, grabbed the phone, and resumed walking to the room. After five seconds it was clear that the phone did not belong to any of the four of us. Having lost a phone recently, I wanted to make an effort to get it back to the owner and make contact as soon as possible, because it was probably driving that person nuts looking for it.
The phone was a high tech piece of equipment. The enV. It folds out the long way and has a full keypad inside as well as a camera with a zoom on the outside. We arrived back to the room drunk and intent on kicking it into another gear with manhattens and PBR. Contacting the owner seemed like a bad idea at that particular time, as we were in no condition to make any arrangements for meeting up or mailing the thing--that would have to wait until the next day. We were, however, in fine condition to snoop through the phone looking for a name or number of the owner. The first name in the contacts was "Brittany", who had a 702 number. None of us had any idea what area of the country that was, but it was later determined to have been a Miami number as the picture on the front of the phone contained the word Miami. The next name was "Britt's mom", so the owner was clearly a dude and Brittany was his girlfriend.
The text messages in the inbox were not all that special, unlike some in the outbox.
- "Where are you? I am so fucking worried."
- "Stay fucking there."
Both were to Brittany. As bombed as we were, nothing could have been more hilarious. Days later, both of these are highly amusing to me and probably to the other three good friends of mine on the trip. Somehow the phone ended up getting put down for the night as the drinking, shithead playing, and log burning in the fireplace continued.
After skiing the next day I decided that I would figure out a way to let the dude know that we had the phone so we could set up a plan to get it back to him. First, I unsuccessfully tried to send a text message to Brittany telling her that the phone was found and to call my number to get it back. Message failed. Up next was the voicemail option. I was unable to find the number, but someone else--Jeremy or Joe I think, found it. I called the number and it made the fast busy signal.
At this point we realized that the guy had either canceled or suspended his service. He must have wanted the phone back, unless he has the loss insurance, but even if that was the case there must be phone numbers and other things he'd want back...like pictures.
We went straight to the photo gallery. The first few photos were of pretty views, some girl with lots of piercings, and the like. Then BAM!!! Picture after picture of someone's (= Brittany's) pussy, with various numbers of fingers stuffed in depending on the photo. Wow! These were followed up with a picture of a girl flashing what looked to be faux fun bags and a couple of the dude looking down at his crotch while on the business end of a hummer.
Needless to say, we were quite pleased with this find. Brittany, Brittany, Brittany...I had no idea you were such a dirty little minx! Rawwwr!!!! Does your mother know?
The thought of sending Britt's mom a picture of her snatch crossed Jon's mind, but it was just an idea--we're not that evil.
Later on the night of discovering the puppet stuffin' photos, and this was the day after the phone was adopted, I decided after some heavy drinking that it was high time to give our girl Brittany a call. The phone battery was on the way out and if the phone was going to get returned it was going to have to go through Brittany.
I dialed up her 702 number on my phone. It rings...several more rings....no answer, goes to voice mail. I relay this information to the others in the room who were standing or sitting around enjoying this immensely. I took a deep breath, then it came: BEEP!
"Uh, hi. My name is ___ and the other night we found the phone of someone with the number 702.... in the back of a cab..."
In the background I could hear my friends yelling things like "Brittany, stay fucking there!" and "How do you like my fingers, Britt?" and "Call back Brittany. Where are you? We are so fucking worried!". I of course started laughing hysterically to the point of tears. About 30 seconds of uncontrolled laughter would be followed by me pulling it together. Briefly.
"So yeah, we found this phone and we saw your number in it."
And again from the background: "I'm so fucking worried!...finger BANG!"...and another 30 second pause during my uncontrolled fit of laughter.
"So if you could let the person with number 702... to call 202..., we can set something up to get the phone back. Thanks."
It has been almost two days since the message and I have not heard back from dirty-dirty or her boyfriend, so I think that the message probably wasn't as well received as I initially had intended for it to be. I'm guessing that Brittany was extremely disturbed and angry at dude, and they probably broke up. Whatever is going on, I certainly am not getting a call back.
The phone's battery is totally dead. I am considering buying a charger for it to look through the phone's videos, other outgoing texts, and contact names, then writing a book or short story about the dude's trip to Tahoe using the information about dude's life in the phone that I can find. Sounds like a winner to me. What do you think?
Right after we got out of the cab coming back from the Lakeside Casino in South Lake Tahoe the driver yelled out.
"You leave a cell phone?"
"Yeah."
Jon ran back about ten steps on the frozen driveway to the cab, grabbed the phone, and resumed walking to the room. After five seconds it was clear that the phone did not belong to any of the four of us. Having lost a phone recently, I wanted to make an effort to get it back to the owner and make contact as soon as possible, because it was probably driving that person nuts looking for it.
The phone was a high tech piece of equipment. The enV. It folds out the long way and has a full keypad inside as well as a camera with a zoom on the outside. We arrived back to the room drunk and intent on kicking it into another gear with manhattens and PBR. Contacting the owner seemed like a bad idea at that particular time, as we were in no condition to make any arrangements for meeting up or mailing the thing--that would have to wait until the next day. We were, however, in fine condition to snoop through the phone looking for a name or number of the owner. The first name in the contacts was "Brittany", who had a 702 number. None of us had any idea what area of the country that was, but it was later determined to have been a Miami number as the picture on the front of the phone contained the word Miami. The next name was "Britt's mom", so the owner was clearly a dude and Brittany was his girlfriend.
The text messages in the inbox were not all that special, unlike some in the outbox.
- "Where are you? I am so fucking worried."
- "Stay fucking there."
Both were to Brittany. As bombed as we were, nothing could have been more hilarious. Days later, both of these are highly amusing to me and probably to the other three good friends of mine on the trip. Somehow the phone ended up getting put down for the night as the drinking, shithead playing, and log burning in the fireplace continued.
After skiing the next day I decided that I would figure out a way to let the dude know that we had the phone so we could set up a plan to get it back to him. First, I unsuccessfully tried to send a text message to Brittany telling her that the phone was found and to call my number to get it back. Message failed. Up next was the voicemail option. I was unable to find the number, but someone else--Jeremy or Joe I think, found it. I called the number and it made the fast busy signal.
At this point we realized that the guy had either canceled or suspended his service. He must have wanted the phone back, unless he has the loss insurance, but even if that was the case there must be phone numbers and other things he'd want back...like pictures.
We went straight to the photo gallery. The first few photos were of pretty views, some girl with lots of piercings, and the like. Then BAM!!! Picture after picture of someone's (= Brittany's) pussy, with various numbers of fingers stuffed in depending on the photo. Wow! These were followed up with a picture of a girl flashing what looked to be faux fun bags and a couple of the dude looking down at his crotch while on the business end of a hummer.
Needless to say, we were quite pleased with this find. Brittany, Brittany, Brittany...I had no idea you were such a dirty little minx! Rawwwr!!!! Does your mother know?
The thought of sending Britt's mom a picture of her snatch crossed Jon's mind, but it was just an idea--we're not that evil.
Later on the night of discovering the puppet stuffin' photos, and this was the day after the phone was adopted, I decided after some heavy drinking that it was high time to give our girl Brittany a call. The phone battery was on the way out and if the phone was going to get returned it was going to have to go through Brittany.
I dialed up her 702 number on my phone. It rings...several more rings....no answer, goes to voice mail. I relay this information to the others in the room who were standing or sitting around enjoying this immensely. I took a deep breath, then it came: BEEP!
"Uh, hi. My name is ___ and the other night we found the phone of someone with the number 702.... in the back of a cab..."
In the background I could hear my friends yelling things like "Brittany, stay fucking there!" and "How do you like my fingers, Britt?" and "Call back Brittany. Where are you? We are so fucking worried!". I of course started laughing hysterically to the point of tears. About 30 seconds of uncontrolled laughter would be followed by me pulling it together. Briefly.
"So yeah, we found this phone and we saw your number in it."
And again from the background: "I'm so fucking worried!...finger BANG!"...and another 30 second pause during my uncontrolled fit of laughter.
"So if you could let the person with number 702... to call 202..., we can set something up to get the phone back. Thanks."
It has been almost two days since the message and I have not heard back from dirty-dirty or her boyfriend, so I think that the message probably wasn't as well received as I initially had intended for it to be. I'm guessing that Brittany was extremely disturbed and angry at dude, and they probably broke up. Whatever is going on, I certainly am not getting a call back.
The phone's battery is totally dead. I am considering buying a charger for it to look through the phone's videos, other outgoing texts, and contact names, then writing a book or short story about the dude's trip to Tahoe using the information about dude's life in the phone that I can find. Sounds like a winner to me. What do you think?
Have a safe and happy MLK day!
Labels: awful chief
posted by Trader Rick @ 12:33 PM
2 Comments:
At 8:28 PM,
Anonymous said…
Keep the idea of writing the book right fucking there. Don't fucking get worried and chicken out--it would shoot to the top of the NY Times bestseller list, for sure.
At 7:08 AM,
Trader Rick said…
already started it
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