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2004-07-27 - 1:16 p.m.

In the background you can hear a couple seconds worth of various grunts and wheezes. Eventually, a tired scraggily voice comes on scrawling across the phone:

“Oh…so many drugs…”

The voice suddenly brightens. “Happy Halloween.”


Even more disturbing is the forty-five second message chronicling an extended cackle looping up and down, from a little chortle all the way to a diaphragm shaking belly laugh, and then back again. Up and down until finally exhaustion settles in and the voice forms words.

“You’re messed up, man.”


That particular message was a response to one of mine, wherein I with assumed Puerto-Rican accent detailed my instructions for my friends evening. I have no record to check, but I believe this message contained phrases akin to:

“We need ta get you dat pussy, son.”

If the voice and the late hour weren’t signals enough, the use of the word pussy gave every indication I was trashed when I left that message. I have nothing particular against the word, it just sounds funky, in the smelly-sock ‘funky’ kind of way. I have found going David Chapelle on it, as in “Puss-Saaay!” with all the emphasis on the “say”, makes it funky in the George Clinton, ‘So Wide you can’t get around it’ kind of way. Still if you’re going to ride on the funk mother ship, you might as well head straight to ‘Poon-na-nay!’

Suffice to say, these are all examples in the newest and most expressive form of performance art; The Drunk Dial.

I wish I knew what part of the brain spurs the thought, ‘Hey, I’m drinkin’ with my buds, feelin’ gooooood, room spinnin’ a little, maybe I should call up that ex-girlfriend who shattered my heart into a thousand pieces in a Gallager-esque manner. This’ll be a big ole bucket o’ happy!” If I knew where that thought emanated from, I’d probably perform a little impromptu brain surgery with a nail gun.

With the booze soothing all inhibitions and catty internal censors, one becomes free to cry havok let loose the hounds of stupid. Be it the anger, the happy or just the idiot that's been welling up inside, it comes flying out, and you suddenly find yourself calling the girl whose number has laid dormant in your cell phone for months. "Hey I've been really busy, but I don't suppose you're still feeling as Horned-up and Hunky-Dory as you were on new years, cause we're headed to this party and..." Or else you're calling a friend from middle school. "You were such a dork, man! You were like, dork central. You were the high potentate of dorks. All other dorks bowed to your superior you run a fortune five hundred company now...dude that is soooo dorky!"

So much effort have been made in this particular milieu in the past years, I feel there is a moral imperative evident to start up a museum chronicling the history of the Drunk Dial, and present its most inebriated and loquacious practitioners.

Small answering machines littering sparse halls, all painted white, with unnecessarily tall ceilings. Push a button and out come the words of wisdom that could only be mustered by a being so deep into the bottle they could build a circa-1473 galleon inside. Possibly a picture of the artist could be shown over the machine. Hopefully a shot taken while the phone call was taking place.

Somewhere in said museum would be a picture of me, piggy backed on a friend, trying to reach over and grab my cell phone from his hands.

A curious passer-by could take in this uncomfortable looking picture, reach down and press the blinking play button on the machine below.

“I will fucking cut you. I’ll gut you like a pig. I’ll eat your intestines with chopsticks, motherfucker. I will fucking cut you!”

The museum attendee will stare at the machine for a moment in silence, wondering if the message is over, before hearing.

“Who is this?”


Add to this the wonder that is the Drunk Email. The Drunk Dial only really allows you a thirty second sound-byte's worth of insainity. The Drunk e-message allows for a full torrid tirade of liquor loosed language. You have all the time in the world to wax poetic on all topics available, usually with the worst spelling and grammar seen since the invention of language in the caveman days.

I write my entries here during lullish moments at work, so there are few occations where I'm all sloshy when I come to you. Still, should I ever get my DSL back, you may well find an entry covered from head to toe in "teh"'s, and possibly containing the accidental Annie Hall reference:

"I luff you guys!!! I lurve yuog [email protected]! Oop...tumbled over."

Just wanted to give you something to look forward to.

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