Something Better Than the Do-Not-Call List


“Hello, may I speak with Mister Tor, um, Torki, um, Torichelly?”


“I apologize. I may be mispronouncing the name.”

“Yes, you may.”

“I may speak with him?”

“No, you may be mispronouncing my name.”

“I apologize. How is it pronounced?”


“Interesting. Well, I’m trying to reach Mister Philip.”

“I bet you are.”

“Is this him?”


“Excuse me?”

“Is this he? Your grammar needs fixin’. So, what would you like, Sugarspike?”

“So, this is Mister Philip?”

“It might be. You see … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“This is Regina from Quote Select.”

“Nice meeting you, Vuh-gene-uh. Anyway, what are you selling? I hope it’s something to make my manhood more manhoodly.”

“No, sir. You recently requested health insurance quotes. Is this true?”

“Yes, something to stiffen the old pipe, so to speak.”

“All right. Well, I’m calling to give you some options for your insurance coverage.”

“I bet you are. Can you hold on one second?”

“Um, yes.”

“Sorry. I’m going to put on my headset so both hands are free. Now, where were we? Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, I can hear you.”



“Hell-oh-oh? God, I hate this fucking phone. Jesus. Are you there? Shit. I think I lost her.”

“No, sir, I am here.”

“Ah, there you are, you sexy little nurse. So, how are you going to help me grow this acorn into a mighty oak?”

“Sir, I’m calling …”


“… because your current health plan …”


“… is set to expire.”

“Fuck. Seriously?”

“Yes. Well, you filled out an online form asking for quotes.”

“Yes, this is Phil.”

“I mean, you wanted quotes, correct?”

“You see, Nurse Vuh-gene-uh, I watch these guys on TV using like two hands–all four fingers–and they still have cock to spare. I’ve got mine completely covered with a thumb and index finger right now. I mean the little fella is almost lost in there. Hi, little guy. This isn’t good. In his defense, it is chilly. You must have creams or pumps to help me out. I mean, what’s a guy supposed to do? I have to go around asking women if they have tiny vaginas before taking them home? I may be off-base here, but I’m betting most women don’t want to be asked about pussy size. They’d lie anyway. ‘Ooh, yes, Meester Phil, my vagina is quite petite and exquisite.’ Ha! Not buying it. I tell women all the time that I’m carrying a fuck-Howitzer in my jeans and they just laugh and throw bar nuts at me. Wait … I think he’s waking up. Hey there, buddy. I’m up to three fingers now. You know, you could help me out a little. Talk dirty. Do it. Hello? Yes? Have I lost you? Dag nabbit. Where or where did my Vuh-gene-uh go? Oh, where or where could she pee–on me.”

*Dial Tone*

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.