A few days ago, while dashing through my yard yelling at squirrels (I don’t like the way they look at me), I started to hear a phone ring. It started just as I bent over to wrestle one of the tree rodents for his nuts (yes, I left myself wide open. Enjoy.). I initially paid it no mind because, after all, I’m known for hallucinations (Elvis at the proctologist) and hearing things (I’m telling you, those squirrels are hatching a plot against me).
So, I figured I was just being “old man crazy” again.
As it kept ringing, though, I glanced at the neighbor’s yard. Ever since I walked through their front door with my Wal-Mart vest on, they’ve been very reluctant to leave their house. Still, it was a nice day, so maybe they thought it was worth the risk of engaging me in conversation.
But, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
Eventually, I heard someone say, “Hello?”
Terrified, I spun around, desperately seeking the identity of the disembodied caller. Since it was the day of the Apocalypse (NOTE: Now rescheduled for October 21st. A Friday! That effin’ Harold Camping dude really likes to dork up weekends, doesn’t he?), I was afraid Jesus had come to collect me.
After concluding that the deity wouldn’t use a phone to contact me (although he mayyy text me. We’re BFFs), I relaxed.
As I continued to listen, I heard a familiar voice. “Al? Al? Pick up the damn phone!” It sounded like Mrs. Penwasser.
Looking all over the yard (the squirrel long since escaped to the safety of a tree-I swear that little SOB gave me the finger), I neither saw hide nor hair of my wife or a phone.
(NOTE: Using the term ‘hide’ when describing my wife may be ill-advised).
The voice continuing to badger me, I finally looked down at my front trouser pocket. Coming from within my pants (which kinda sounds like the title for a porno, doesn’t it?) were demands that I answer.
I quickly grabbed my cell phone and said, “Hello?”
“What do you mean, ‘hello’? You called me.”
“No, I didn’t. My phone just started ringing.”
“That’s crazy, you-oh, I know what you did. You ‘Butt-Dialed’ me.”
Thinking about it, though, I wondered how I could have Butt-Dialed her. I mean, the phone wasn’t in my back pocket, but the front.
In fact, how many people carry their phones hanging off their rear ends? I’m sure some do, but not nearly enough to rate the distinction of the term “Butt-Dial.”
I’ll bet you most people put their cell phones in their front pockets (unless they’re female. They have the option of using the black hole known as a purse).
So, I’ve decided to call this practice by a much more accurate term: “Dick-Dial.”
Dick-Dial is a much more precise description of how an accidental call could happen. As a man shifts, his favorite friend could very easily punch up the number for the local Chinese restaurant, haberdashery (NOTE: I have no idea what that is), or Directory Information for Bangkok (Gratuitous, cheap joke).
Unfortunately for me, I’ll never have to worry about being charged for an inadvertent overseas call. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I’m physically unable to dial a long-distance call.
It’s a curse.
Thank goodness I’m a witty conersationalist.