One sunny day, I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone
call I had forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.
A man answers saying “Hello.” I then politely said, “This is
Mike.” Could I please speak with Robin?"
Suddenly the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn’t believe anyone could be so rude.
I tracked down Robin’s correct number and called her. I had
transposed the last two digits of her phone number.
After hanging up with her, I decided to call the ‘wrong’
number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled,
“You’re an acepole (a–hole)!” and hung up.
I wrote his number down with the word ‘acepole’ next
to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks,
when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him
up and yell, “You’re an acepole!”
It always cheered me up.
When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic
‘acepole’ calling would have to stop. So, I called his
number and said, “Hi, this is John Smith from the
telephone company. I’m calling to see if you’re familiar with our
Caller ID Program?” He yelled “NO!” and slammed down
the phone. I quickly called him back and said, “That’s
only because you’re an acepole!”
One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into
a parking spot.
Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the
spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled
that I’d been waiting for that spot.
The idiot ignored me. I noticed a “For Sale” sign in
his car window, so I wrote down his number.
A couple of days later, right after calling the first
acepole (I had his number on speed dial,) I thought
that I’d better call the BMW walaa acepole, too.
I said, “Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?”
“Yes, It is.”
“Can you tell me where I can see it?”
“Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th Street. It’s a yellow
house, and the car’s parked right out in front.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“My name is Don Hansen,” he said.
“When’s a good time to catch you, Don?”
“I’m home every evening after five.”
“Listen, Don, can I tell you something?”
“Yes?”
“Don, you’re an acepole.” Then I hung up, and added
his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a
problem, I had two acepoles to call.
Then I came up with an idea. I called acepole #1.
“Hello.”
“You’re an acepole!” (But I didn’t hang up.)
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Stop calling me,” he screamed.
“Make me,” I said.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Don Hansen.”
“Yeah? Where do you live?”
“Mr. Acepole, I live at 1802 West 34th Street, a yellow
house, with my black Beamer parked in front.”
He said, “I’m coming over right now, Don. And you had
better start saying your prayers.”
I said, “Yeah, like I’m really scared of you, acepole.”
Then I called Acepole #2. “Hello?” he said.
“Hello, acepole,” I said.
He yelled, “If I ever find out who you are…”
“You’ll what?” I said.
“I’ll kick your ace,” he exclaimed.
I answered, “Well, acepole, here’s your chance. I’m
coming over right now.”
Then I hung up and immediately called the police,
saying that I lived at 1802 West 34th Street, and that I was
on my way over there to kill my gay lover.
Then I called Channel 13 News about the gang war going
down on West 34th Street.
I quickly got into my car and headed over to 34th
street.
There I saw the two acepoles beating the crap out of each
other in front of six squad cars, a police helicopter and a
news crew.
Now I feel much better. You know, this anger
management stuff really works.
O God i cant believe this…
