The Lion, The Witch and The Voicemail

I’m a lot of fun on the phone.  I don’t know why but I free associate a lot on phone calls. Especially when leaving a message. 

I don’t plan on leaving weird messages. I don’t think about what I’m going to say. It just happens. 

I have most excellent friends who have a daughter, Kayleigh. I adopted her as my niece.

Now, Kayleigh doesn’t actually listen to the messages although she did overhear message #3 below. 

Examples of voicemail messages I have left Kayleigh’s parents over the years:

Voicemail Message #1. This was when Kayleigh was 6 or 7 years old. I started the message by pretending I was reading one of those naughty romance novels (verbiage I stole from a Naked Gun movie). Went something like this:

“…she trembled uncontrollably as he repeatedly thrust his purple-headed warrior into her quivering mound of love pudding. She clutched the bedsheets, arched her back and screamed….”….KAYLEIGH!!!! Uhhhh! Oops. Oh, uh, right. Uh-oh. Uh, forgot you might be listening to this. Tell me you’re not listening to this! Right. Yes, well. Uh, perhaps I, uh, right. So, let me explain. Kayleigh, just so you, um, know, the….., uh, Purple-Headed Warriors is the, uh, name of a….football team! That’s it. Yeah, that’ll work! The, um, yeah, the legendary Idaho Purple-Headed Warriors. You should see the team logo. It’s a stitch! The cheerleaders wear these outfits that look just like….let’s not discuss the cheerleader’s outfits, okay? And, let’s see, love pudding…love pudding….,uh. Love Pudding is a famous….recipe! It’s from Scotland. See, it was invented by the….giant….pygmies of….Glasgow….who transported it to America via the Louisiana bayou which really isn’t all that surprising since giant pygmies from Scotland are pretty fucking stupid. Argh, I said fuck. I didn’t mean to say fuck. Fuck, I said it again. Look, Kayleigh, the point is the passage I read earlier has nothing to do with sex. Fuck, I said sex. Shit, I said fuck. Argh! Look, Kay, let’s pretend none of this ever happened and I’ll leave with you with this important life-lesson lesson: don’t say fuck.

Voicemail Message #2. Another one. A few years later:

Now, guys, I know Kay’s at an age where boys, fornicating little rat-bastard boys, will start knocking on the door. If you are out and need a gate-keeper then I’d be thrilled to play the part.

I’ll use my special blend of psychotic rage and sheer hatred to screen the candidates and if any of the little dog-wipes say anything I don’t like, such as:

  1. “Bottom knocking”
  2. “Boinking”
  3. “Gettin’ me some poontang”
  4. Any other stupid euphemism children use for sex these days

Then I’ll gladly take the little boy’s penis and staple it to his forehead! 

“There’s your poontang, you little pimple-faced bag of puke. Tell you what, kid. Do society a favor: Die.

“As a matter of fact, shithead, come on in.  I’ll  turn on the oven so I can stick your head in it.”

I love children. 

They’re our future. 

Little bastards.

Oh, Kay. You know how adults talk about how children are our future and make it sound like it’s a great revelation? Yeah, you’re right. Those people should be eliminated. Talk about people having a firm grasp of the obvious. Children are younger than their parents. Unless they’re from West Virginia because you never know. In West Virginia, your SisterMother is probably younger than you and your UncleDad has remarried 5 or 6 times by now. The whole thing is a mess. Kinda like a barn full of cats. What with all the BrotherNephews and CousinDaughters and Father-in-LawGrandfatherSons out there, you’re pretty much related to…EVERYBODY. Which is really where the problem starts. 

You know those guys selling cheap, used mattresses in West Virginia where they say you can come on in and they’ll treat you like family? There’s a reason for that.

My thought is if you have some spare time over the weekend then I think it’s best if you relocate to Iceland and start from scratch. 

Voicemail Message #3. The one she overheard. Kayleigh was 5, maybe:

Sometimes a beautiful memory pops into my brain and I just have to share it with someone. My grandfather was a very wise man who shared some very unique insights. When I was, maybe 4 years old, I remember my grandfather telling me, “Son, love is like cunnilingus. Takes patience. And, more patience. And, MORE patience. Hours and hours and hours.  Sometimes, it’s just a total nightmare. Your mouth hurts, you’re completely cross-eyed, you can’t talk, your neck is killing you and you just wonder what the point is to the entire thing. That’s love, okay? But, you’re in too deep, no pun intended, to give up now. So, you just keep beating your head against the wall, or, well, somewhere. All you wanna do is find the happy-magic-fun-button and get on with your day because it’s Saturday and you gotta cut the grass but you can’t because you did something thoughtless and stupid the night before and now you gotta make it up to her.  

“And, another thing, you hear all those love songs on the radio? Love songs are nothing but a government conspiracy to make you get married and pay more taxes. Remember that. 

“That’s how love works. 

“Do they teach you about the happy-magic-fun-button in nursery school? No? Things have changed since my day. They should have taught you that by now.  

“You know the song that goes, ‘Day by day I’m falling more in love with you, and day by day my love seems to grow, there isn’t any end to my devotion, it’s deeper dear by far than any ocean’?

“That’s not love. That’s the IRS trying to screw you on the deal. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me then I’m gonna go upstairs and see your grandma for a while because I was thoughtless and stupid last night. 

“If any process servers come by then tell them I moved to Fiji. If any of them try to come into the house then shoot ’em. Don’t kill ’em. Just shoot ’em in the dick. Here’s my rifle. 

“What did you say your name was again?”

Oh, Kayleigh, just in case you’re curious, “cunnilingus” is a Latin word for “please clean up your room.

Voicemail Message #4. No clue where this came from. 

Um, yes, hi. I’m having a, uh, bit of an issue. Well, um, I’m thinking it may be a, uh, more than just an issue. Yeah, uh, it’s now a, uh,  problem.

See, this is a little embarrassing but my problem centers around my ex-wife and my chainsaw. Whenever I see the two of them together, I’ve been getting really bad….thoughts. So, last night….this is so embarrassing, errr, see, I was in the garage and we had these trees. Well, I had to cut them at some point, okay? 

And, of course, SHE decides to storm in so she can yell and scream about getting more of MY money, okay? I MEAN, I WORK FOR A LIVING AND THIS LITTLE LEECH GETS TO SIT AROUND ALL DAY DOING NOTHING!!! FINE, HONEYYYYYYYYY!!! So, I got my chainsaw and…..I’m sorry, is this Employee Assistance?

Perhaps…..I got the wrong number. Uh, right. Listen, just, um, never mind, this call never happened. ThankYouVeryMuchHaveANiceDayGoodByeDon’tCallBack.


[I call back]

Kayleigh, if you heard that message then please don’t be…concerned. It’s just, uh, I was….rehearsing….lines from a, uh, play. New play. Doesn’t have a title….on accounta it’s new and all. 

Did I sound believable? So, yeah, let me know….if you,  uh, think…uh….yeah. See, the chainsaw… is a…metaphor for….I was metaphorically cutting down… the emotional trees….of…life….or…like…so….ah….to hell with it.


Voicemail Message #5. Last one. For now: 

“Yes, hi. This call is from the Psychiatric Institute of Washington

“In preparation of your upcoming appointment, please listen to these instructions before coming to the office. 

“If you are suffering from paranoia and have an appointment then please check in at the front desk and, very soon, everyone will be out to get you. 

“If you have OCD then please go to the end of the hall and use the phone located there to call 555-555-5555. Then press 5. Then press 5 again. Then press 5. Then press 5. Continue pressing 5 until you’re told to stop. Even then, continue pressing 5 until you’re escorted out of the building. 

“For those with social anxiety, the Meet-and-Greet starts at 3pm on the entire 4th floor followed by Happy Hour followed by Group Therapy followed by a verbal assessment of your genetic defects from an assembly of medical professionals followed by your extemporaneous 20-minute speech delivered with your clothes off followed by a re-enactment of your father yelling at you and slapping you upside your head for not looking him in the eye then followed by 3 hours of speed dating. 

“If you are experiencing self-esteem issues then we’d really appreciate it if you’d stay the hell away from our office because you make us sick. But remember, God loves you even though no one else does.  

“Those with persecution complexes are advised to arrive 600 minutes prior to their appointments. Failure to do so will result in you receiving a technical foul, a 15 yard penalty, a $700 fine,  a red card and 10 minutes in the box. Plus, your mother says you’re grounded.” 

Kayleigh, I’m not saying YOU’RE grounded. Well, maybe you are. I don’t know. Perhaps you could verify that with your mother. Look, I’m not getting involved with any of this. This is between you and your parents so stop trying to drag me into all this drama. I can’t take it anymore. So, go to your room right now, Young Lady, and think about what you did to get grounded in the first place!

I’m not kidding. This is the kind of psycho-babble I leave in some poor, innocent person’s voicemail. See, this is why I’ll never be rich. It’s because I’m too busy doing….THIS.

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