That Wasn’t Even Sexy

Good evening. Tonight’s piece, “Calvin Carson’s Cavalcade of Cars, Cards, and Cardigans,” has fortunately been misplaced on account of gratuitous sex, violence, and pedantry. In its place, we dispassionately offer a mostly flaccid, partly turgid bit of tale titled, “That Wasn’t Even Sexy,” already unpackaged, reheated, and ready for you to do with as you please.

(NOTE: the safeword is, “mukluks.”)

And now, the bit:

A phone rang, and someone accidentally answered when they actually meant to ignore the call. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Oh, good. You’re not a complete idiot.”

“Surprises await us both, I suppose.”

“Truer words have been spoken. May I speak with Throbbing Fistwood, please?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Did I say, ‘No?'”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Because I meant to say, “‘Yes.'”

“So, I may speak with Throbbing Fistwood, then?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m sorry. I must have bludgeoned myself to death on my faux hardwood floor, because I appear to be in Hell.”

“Would you like to call back another time?”

“May I speak with Throbbing Fistwood then?”

“No.”

“Then, for God’s sake, why would I call back later?”

“I was wondering that myself.”

“I swear, this is the number the young lady gave me when I inquired with her about Throbbing Fistwood. Are you sure this isn’t Throbbing Fistwood?”

“Fairly certain.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”

“It doesn’t have to be a total waste, does it?”

“How so?”

“I mean, you’ll have to give me a moment, but I may be able to help.”

“You can help locate Throbbing Fistwood?”

“Well. At my age, you never can be too sure without a bit of ‘assistance,’ if you will.”

“No. No, thank you. I’m afraid I’m a bit tight on time at the moment. Perhaps I’ll try calling back later.”

“Wonderful.”

“Who should I ask for?”

“Dick Squat-thrust.”

“Got it, Dick. May I call you ‘Dick?'”

“I do certainly hope so.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

The phone went click, and never rang again.