Way back in the day, when I walked back home from the glorious Teaneck High School, I would -- from time to time -- engage in the occasional prank phone call. (Side note: Hey Side Bar, nice to have you back, but can you stop underlining all your precious side notes? Hey, here's a thought: By putting it in parentheses, I get it -- it's a "side note." I don't mean to be a prick, but when you also underline side bar, it seems like that part is way more important than what you were saying beforehand. But if you want to see how to properly accentuate a "side note," I encourage you to read on. I'll even start my post again. Read!)
Way back in the day, when I walked back home from the glorious Teaneck High School, I would -- from time to time -- engage in the occasional prank phone call. (***SIDE NOTE***: Why do some people call it a "crank" phone call? You're clearly pranking the person, right? Prank, not crank. I don't know if there's a legitimate difference, but I've always called it a "prank" phone call. Oh, and I didn't even underline my "side note" introduction, so if anyone was confused, please forgive me. I'm not a lawyer. [Side note: Lawyers work really long hours. If you doubt that, read this. There's mad underlining, and that's proof beyond a reasonable doubt.])
So where was I? Oh yeah -- back in the day, prank phone calls an' shit. Chuck was there for a good many of these, along with Angry White Dave and Dr. Lee (and occasionally Guy-Who-Couldn't-Whisper-During-Risk -- whose mom drove slower than anyone I've ever seen, and LJT can back me up on that -- and...well shit, I can't even think of a nickname but I don't think he'll ever read this, so let's call him "Gianluca" [pronounced "John-Luke-a" for our ignorant readers.])
Wow, this is the most difficult-to-understand post I may have ever written. I guess that's what happens when you get totally hammered on a Monday and decide to talk shit about your co-blogger. But, in my defense, Side Bar deserves it. He wrote a great post earlier (Seriously, that was a quality post, SB. How 'bout some more now, huh?), but I still feel like I can rip on him if I want. I changed the header back to "Wheeeeeeere's Luke?" I wonder if anyone who reads this blog besides the people who write it (that means BOTH OF YOU!) even noticed. If you did, put it in the comments and I will buy you a beer the next time we see each other.
So back to the pranks. Chuck, a few other folks, and I would occasionally make prank phone calls from the pay phone in the parking lot outside the Biddy Gym. We called many different places, but the one I remember most is 1-800-29-ARMOR, which was a business that sold -- wait for it -- body armor. This became a regular thing, and I was usually the one to call, and to this day I still remember the woman who answered the phone most of the time. Sonja. She had the voice of an angel and the patience of Nelson Mandela. Except for when she finally lost it on me and yelled like a banshee. I don't remember exactly what she screamed at me (I think I collapsed in laughter), but I will always respect her. How many times can you have someone ask you, "But will this bulletproof vest protect my face?" before you finally crack. She knew, just as I did, that bulletproof vests do not, in fact, guard your face. But I kept asking her if it would. Day after day. Week after week. Until she knew my voice, until she could expect my inevitable call at around 3:15 p.m. on any given weekday.
I think it was around mid-January 1996 or so when Sonja lost it on me. I can't blame her. But I will always love and respect her. At some point in the future, I feel like destiny will lead me to some bar, where I will be drunk, and then direct me to some strange woman there. And this woman will have an angry, "don't-come-near-me" kind of look on her, as she sips her gin-on-the-rocks in the corner. She'll mutter things from time to time, and occasionally yell at her manager -- who isn't even there, of course. She hasn't worked for that armor company in years.
But for some reason, I'll approach her. It could be on a dare. It could be that I want to save her from falling out of her seat. It could be that I have to reach over her to sign up for beer pong. I'll say something to her ("Hey sweetie", "Whoa! Careful!", or "Where's the chalk?", respectively.), and she'll give me that look.
That look that speaks volumes. And by "That look that speaks volumes," I mean she growls.
Have you ever seen a woman growl? Weird.
Sonja growls at me, and before I can even say, "Sonja, stop!" -- in the same voice she has just recognized after all these years -- she sinks her teeth into my ribs. I try to beat her off, but she's a woman possessed. The bouncers come over. One of them tries to yank her off of me, but her jaw does not release me. I go flying up off the floor along with Sonja. Seeing this, the bouncer drops her (and me).
I'm in pain. Beyond the huge gash Sonja has inflicted on my ribs, I've now been picked up and dropped. My head and back must deal with some serious fucking impact.
Finally, Sonja stops. As she pulls off, I see the blood -- my blood -- dripping from her teeth down to her chin, down to the floor. She smiles. As the bouncer pulls her away from my broken body, she smiles, and says, "Shoulda bought that vest, huh?"
The bouncer yanks her away. I look down at the gaping wound on my side, blood gushing everywhere. Everything goes dim.
But before I totally pass out, I remember: I don't have health insurance.
My mom is gonna be so mad.
In the honor of a truly good prank, I present the prank war that has taken place between Amir and Streeter at College Humor over the past year. (If you already know about this stuff, then just skip to the bottom for the latest one.)
It's really amazing how far people will go with a prank:
(Oh, and this is all totally safe for work, you office drone. Tell your boss what's up! Don't be afraid. Read some Karl Marx, you proletariat bastard.)
This just happened. Amir took months before responding. Go Anil!
Hey Sonja -- I'm sorry!