Once upon a time when I used to date human people, I remember being “butt dialed”.
I was remaining faithful to what we in the field like to call a “non-monogamous-unbeknownst-to-the-bish-he-was-dating” dude at the time. To his credit, he was an excellent liar. But he was, unfortunately for him, very stupid when it came to putting in all the peripheral work it requires to protect a good lie. So, when I got a phone call from his posterior and subsequent lengthy unintended voice message from he and the young lady he was with, I couldn’t wait to share the recording with him.
Not yell, mind you.
Rather, I longed to see the self-assured “I got this shit” expression he usually wore, drain along with the color from his face into a countenance cocktail of “Oh…fuuuuu-…”. He didn’t disappoint me! Beautiful, it was. Ah, in those dark times of mine, inducing that transmogrification of others’ egos was the kind of transcendent ephemeral elixir to my soul which only benzodiazapene could ever hope to match. So, naturally something like a pocket call would not be ignored.
And you know who else doesn’t like to let a good booty call go?
The cops.
While you’re discussing the drug deal you’re about to go make.
Like some idiot in Tennessee did.
You see, landing a drug bust as a boy in blue signifies some serious overtime cash.
So whoever got that call hit the lawman lotto without even buying a ticket.
The hapless criminal in question was sitting in a restaurant when it happened, enjoying a meal with a lady friend, and discussing the logistics of the illegalities the two were about to carry out. Then, while making plans of the chemical cosmonaut genre, his rectum wrecked ‘em via accidentally sphincter ringing the clink. Ah, body betrayal. The worst kind. The questions and commentary on this story are endless, so I’ll stick with the main thoughts that come to mind. Like:
A. Why wasn’t his phone on lock?
B. Why is the Man on his speed dial anyway if homie’s not a snitch?
B. Putting a phone in your back pocket effs up your hips and spine anyway #realtalk
C. Perspective: As shit-for-brains as this was, and as much as I don’t condone crime-life if you’re not smart enough to get away with it… this is still better than the bish who absentmindely called the cops on herself because someone sold her “low quality meth”.
D. Bigger Perspective: In my heart of hearts, I feel like jailing all of the stupid people in the world is only preventing evolution from doing its job of naturally weeding their genes out sooner from the population.
Still, I tend to think that if given the choice between an unintended booty-call to your sig other (while with your actual booty-call is with you) versus getting in trouble for fanny phoning the fuzz, most people would choose the night or two behind bars. And then call the main squeeze you’re cheating on to come bail you out.
Just make sure you don’t, ya know, call her the wrong name if she picks up.
