12
Sep
09

When Cell Phones Become Weapons of Mass Destruction

We all have stories of cell phone usage gone horribly wrong. Who hasn’t looked at their text message history the day after a booze binge in sheer horror? From personal experience, I can tell you that my Blackberry should have a breathalyzer application. On one occasion, I was trying my hand at dirty texting and decided I’d attach a sexy boob shot to the message. I explicitly described the masturbatory techniques that should be used, and promised more pictures to follow. Unfortunately, the adorable picture of my three year old in her bathing suit I accidentally sent wasn’t exactly erection worthy for the recipient. On another occasion, I accidentally dialed a former boss from inside my purse after tailgating for six hours. I’m pretty sure he overheard my drunken plot to murder him. A co-worker and I concluded that death by icicle would be the way to go, since there would be no usable prints. A melting murder weapon… how genius is that? All I know is that the call lasted eighteen minutes.

The single best cell phone horror story ever led to a ridiculous chain of events. It happened the night of a rehearsal dinner for a wedding my two best friends and I were bridesmaids in. There was a superior level of intoxication from all parties involved. At some point in the evening, the group split up. The guys stayed behind at the bar, while the girls decided that puking in the church the next day might be ill-advised. My friend Shelley was visiting from Vegas and was staying at my place. In hindsight, I’m sure she’s glad she didn’t opt for the Days Inn. My husband at the time attempted to reach me on my cell phone a few hours later. He dialed, and was absolutely furious when a man answered. He asked the male on the other end of the phone if he was having a good time tagging his wife. This line of questioning was met with a sarcastic, “sure… best sex ever. What’s wrong with you?” The dude assumed it was a joke and made the regrettable choice to laugh at my drunken hubby. My man was now on a mission to uncover my illicit affair, but not before hurling his phone against the wall and busting it into a million pieces. He used a friend’s phone to dial home. He was screaming incoherently about getting the guy out of the house before he made it back home. I had no clue what the hell he was talking about, so I hung up on him.

A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was my brother…still laughing. It appears that my hubby had dialed ‘Jeff’ instead of ‘Jen’ and accused my little brother of banging me. I only wish the story ended there. We lived in a row of identical brick town houses at the time. This guy was so hell bent on catching me in the act that he stormed home to interrupt my imaginary sex fest. He burst through the front door like a crazed mad man, with his buddy at his heels trying to calm him down. He bellowed, “Who’s fucking my wife?” to the five stoners sitting around in the living room doing hits off a water bong. As one of the dudes exhaled his smoke, he inquired “ Depends… who’s your wife?” followed by a few coughs from his pot-filled lungs. At this point, my husband’s buddy taps him on the shoulder and whispers…. “You know this isn’t your house, right?” The stoners continued smoking and listening to the Grateful Dead without flinching. My husband was not about to give up now. After being directed to the right house by his friend, he stormed into the intended residence. He came flying up the stairs in a pathetic attempt to catch me red-handed doing it… with my freaken brother, evidently. It seemed he may have lost a little bit of steam on the second try. He was panting and his whole face was red and sweaty. I could hear Shelley’s muffled laughter in the spare bedroom as she called her husband and put it on speaker. She claimed it was more entertaining than anything Hollywood could produce. He was very resistant to admit that he might have been mistaken. It’s not like he could check his call history, since his phone had detonated.

The message here is simple. Be very careful with your phone, specifically if any amount of alcohol has been factored into the equation. If you have a work issued phone, leave it out of your weekend plans. You might not be able to resist the urge to respond to an e-mail with something as well thought out as ‘Suck it’. You should also be extremely vigilant when selecting people from your contact list. Mom and Monica should not be confused with each other. This could get very awkward. It’s also advisable to give people nicknames to prevent you from making drunken errors in judgment. If someone pissed you off, you might forget about it after a few long island ice teas. Save yourself by giving yourself little reminders. Currently, ‘Douche Rocket’, ‘Ass Clown’ and ‘Knocked up the Receptionist’ are all in my phone as contacts. I’m definitely not texting any of those jackasses tonight.

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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

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