The Archive

Officially an idiot - Vol II

I was trying to phone my friend yesterday. I dialled his number. Just as I did so, my mobile started to ring. It was a private number calling, so I decided to answer it. But just as I hung up my desk phone, the caller gave up on me.

So I hit redial. My mobile starts ringing again, but as I answered it, the asshole on the other side hung up.

It was only some time later when I came to redial again that I realised that I had dialled my own number instead of my friend’s. So I was actually phoning myself AND hanging up on myself as well.

So basically I’ve crank-called myself.

Where is this going to lead? Am I going to start phoning myself in the night to ask me what I’m wearing? Will I find myself crouching in the bushes outside my flat with a pair of binoculars?

Frankly, I’m afraid.

***

At the pub last night with friends, we’ve come up with a no-lose business idea. Now I’m no entrepeneur, so instead of hoarding the idea, I’m going to put it up here and if any of you reading this (just you then I guess Ben) decide to put it into action, all I ask is a 10% cut and free use of the service once a month.

The idea actually started when we noted how hard it was to find a prostitute between the hours of 4am and 6am (don’t ask how we knew this. Just don’t).

You know the time, when your body and your brain have ‘the talk’.

Brain: Hey Body, I think this would be an excellent time to go home. We’ve had a lot to drink and you no longer appear to have any feeling below the knees. If we go home now, there’s a small chance we won’t die in a puddle of our own vomit.

Body: Nah bollocks I feel great. We need more drink. And sex. Drink and sex. Did I mention drink?

Brain: Now seriously, I think we should go home.

Body: That horse is looking at me funny. What’s its problem eh?

Brain: That’s a police horse. With a policeman on it. I really don’t think…

Body: (punches horse).

Anyway, the point was it’s hard to find a prostitute very late at night.

This surprised as the more we thought about it as, we thought, by that, by that time of night 80% of the customers are likely to be so bombed they couldn’t actually do anything, so you’d rarely actually have to have sex with anyone, you could just show them your tits and take the money. So we really couldn’t figure why there weren’t more women willing to do the graveyard shift.

None of this is really relevant anyway. The point is, we’ve invented the service every drunk man needs – Pizza Prostitution.

You get home, hungry and horny. What could be better than phoning up for a large ham and pepperoni which is then brought to you by an attractive woman who will have sex with you for money?

It’s perfect. You could even share the pizza with the woman so it seems more like a date and less like the sordid, commercial act of depravity it really is.

And remember, ‘if you don’t come in thirty minutes, the pizza’s free’

So all you Richard Bransons (or Larry Flynts) get on it.

Remember a 10% cut and once a month is all I ask.

posted by Peter The Great @ 9:48 AM