Okay, phones don't really sound like that any more, but stick with me.
Checks caller ID . . . ahh, it's Gubby. Must've forgotten something. So I say . . .
"Well, hello, Laur!" Chuckle chuckle.
Oh crap. Not Gubby. So Not Gubby. To illustrate, allow me to share with you the EXACT text from the e-mail I just sent Gubby:
You have to change your cell phone number.
I just answered the phone in a very cheeky way because I thought it was you calling me back . . .
. . . and it was Nick Asshat.
'Cause I write like a loser, even in my e-mails, yes, yes I do (ask Gubby). And now, please note the answer I just got back from Gubby, my FRIEND, Gubby:
With a friend like Gubby, who need enemies? Especially enemies with a cell phone ONE NUMBER OFF -- no, well, it's more like THREE NUMBERS OFF, which is CLOSE ENOUGH when you're NOT REALLY PAYING ATTENTION -- from NICK ASSHAT'S CELL NUMBER.
And tell me, how is it that a husband will risk exposing his poor, poor wife to all manner of telephone asshattery just to keep his asshat golf partner?
Somehow this is all Mr. Foolery's fault. When he gets home I'm gonna blame him.