No Method, Just Madness

Checking voicemail rates highly up there on the list of things I’d gladly trade for the chance to have hot accupuncture needles jabbed into my eyeballs.  It’s right up there with euthanizing lab rats, running uphill, and listening to any song (rap, opera, yodeling or otherwise) that violates the rules of syntax and grammar for the sake of having the lyrics rhyme.   (I’m going to go ahead and call you out on this one, Juvenile, the words “ass” and “bad” cannot be made to rhyme by just adding “yeah” to the end of them.)  So, anyway, what I’m sayin’ is, I don’t enjoy checking voicemail messages.  Don’t ask me to rationalize it, there’s no explanation for it.  Just…no me gusta. 

The only reason I mention this is because the other day,  I unexpectedly got out of work early enough to go to the SF municipal transport office (to see about getting a residential street parking permit) before it closed.  I took a number and the only remaining empty seat in the room only to realize moments later that I’d wedged myself  between a guy who was checking his voice mail ON SPEAKER PHONE and another guy who was listening to his headphones loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear the atrocities being perpetrated against grammar in the particular song he was (we were)  listening to. 

I’m about to strip and I want it quick
Can you handle me the way I are?

You have SEVEN!! new messages!!  Message number…one from… four…one…five…three…three…nine…two…four…seven…seven on Monday…March twenty…third at…four…fifteen…pee…emmm:  Hi Doug!  DUDE!!!  Are you coming out tonight or WHAT???…[DELETE] Message number…two from…four…one…five…

Somewhere, out in space, the planets and the stars were aligning against me.  Surely a litter of innocent lab rats minding their own business was being brutally murdered somewhere while Celine Dion* was signing to the tune of something Kenny G* was playing on sax…ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

* Also on the list.