David Solves Problems

  

On Friday night, my roommate Andy and myself decided to cap off our latest FIFA binge by going to Public bar in Tenley, grabbing a beer or two, playing some shuffleboard, and calmly strolling back home. After successfully completing the first three of those tasks, we decided to embark upon the fourth. We get out of the bar, onto the street, and walk about a block before the most ridiculous perversion of modern technology since Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull punches calmness in the mouth and makes it bleed its own blood. Namely, I get this text from an unnamed number:

You are an ass hole cunt!!!

I begged to differ, so I responded accordingly:

I would beg to differ.

I was, nonetheless, concerned by this verbal affront, so I tell Andy what just happened. The only information I have on the unknown texter is that his or her number has a 310 area code. Andy gets on the iPhone to do some recon: the 310 apparently represents the lovely township of Santa Monica, California. I quickly think of all the easily upset, foul-mouthed Santa Monicans I know. I settle on Emilio Estevez.

Meanwhile, Andy's trying to convince me that my response to the initial text should have been handled in a more even-handed manner, personally suggesting I respond with more poetic turns of phrase like "I will shit in your mouth" or "I will fist you with a boxing glove." 

In the meantime, I get another text.

(310): Really?! U beg to differ? U think ur perfect u dick?

At this point I'm really not sure what I did, exactly, to anger Emilio, but he apparently perceives an arrogance on my part which, adoring faithful, could not be farther from the truth. I start to wonder if it actually is Emilio after all.

(DW): Who is this? 

(310): Im ur worst nightmare

Andy and I begin brainstorming. By the time we're debating between Richard Simmons and a hot chick with a Patriots tattoo on her left tit, we come to the 24-hour McDonald's down the block from us and decide to stop in for a bite. As I'm ordering, my phone is blowing up like a Palestinian activist, but I decide to be respectful to the patient McDonald's employee across the counter from me and finish ordering before answering. I open my phone to find the following vital pieces of information:

(310): Butt face
(310): Cunt
(310): Poonani
(310): Twat

Having just been called a "butt face" and a "poonani" within a matter of seconds, I'm a little taken aback. I still maintain my calm, however, and advise Emilio to get back on topic.

(DW): Anatomy is not helping here.

Emilio then uses a pretty nice segue to get back to the heart of the matter:

(310): U think ur so smart... U don't even know

My calmness, however, quickly disappears, but the truth of the second part of that statement inspires quite the texting outburst in me. Standing slightly to the left of the McDonald's cash register, I put my angry face and my point-making thumbs on and hammer out a response:

(DW): Apparently, considering I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT'D GOING THE FUCK ON.

Andy, seeing both my angry face and point-making thumbs, reads the text from over my shoulder and tells me that he can hear me saying exactly what I typed. We sit down in a booth with our food, and I begin working on my fries. Unfortunately, Emilio would have to put a damper on fry time and direct me to my typographical error.

(310): U can't even spell!

I quickly go over my last text, and notice that I hit 'D' instead of 'S.' I'm mildly embarrassed, but I take the high road and, rather than point out Emilio's equally brutal spelling, apologize for my egregious error:

(DW): You're right. I'm a retard with clumsy thumbs.

At this point, chomping on my double cheeseburger, I'm almost certain that the mystery-texter is Emilio Estevez, and the next text only serves to back up that point. (WARNING: Those members of my adoring faithful who are sensitive to sexually explicit material and/or extremely fallacious logical leaps should think twice before reading on).

(310): Omg!!!!! So u mean u can't give urself handjobs?

Whoa, Emilio, that took a dramatic turn.

(DW): That is none of your concern. Also, that is quite the logical leap.

I finish up my McChicken and we head out. As we're walking in the door to our apartment, I get a new text:

(310): Who are you?!?!

This biddy wants to know who I am?

(DW): Bitch, who the fuck are YOU?

Andy and I get into our room and go to our respective beds. Emilio is not pleased with the choice words I offered him, and let's me know it:

(310): Woww you are calling meh a bitch? Fuck you Johnp

At this point, I'm not so sure Emilio meant to text me. Probably just accidentally hit my name in his contact list while looking for this Johnp guy. I inform him of his mistake.

(DW): Johnp? My name's nothing like Johnp. For one it's David. For 2, Johnp's not entirely a name.

I expect Emilio's response to apologize profusely for accidentally calling the wrong person a "poonani," and Andy and I happily await his revelation that he's been texting the wrong person all along. Instead, we get this gem of a reply:

(310): Wow typo. It was John, sorry asswhole. I hope you like sucking your own dick. U should have just said u weren't John. Thanks asswhole.

Let's ignore the reversal of Emilio's previous policy of typo-intolerance and instead focus on the meat of this text. Imagine yourself in Emilio's shoes. You've just been texting a person a string of insults only to find out it was the wrong person. Do you:
a) apologize and get on with texting the correct person, or
b) AMP UP THE FUCKING PROFANITY

If you chose option (b), you and this person might get along, except you probably wouldn't considering the combination of severe antisocial tendencies you both display would cause spontaneous mass murder-suicides to occur in any room you two happen to occupy simultaneously.

Although Emilio was prepared to let the emotions of the moment get the better of him, I knew I had an obligation to get back to being the voice of reason.

(DW): Well you've just got to start this whole conversation over again with John. I'm sorry that I responded negatively to your string of insults to the wrong person. I'll promise to work on that if you promise to work on your conflict resolution skills/phone number research. What, may I ask, did this John character do anyhow?

(WARNING: Children, avert your eyes.)

(310): He fucked my BFF

Yeah, John was two-timing Emilio with his best friend. Not cool, John.

(DW): Whoa. Well, fuck his ass up. But with the right phone number this time. Also, check your BFF.

And this is my favorite text I've ever gotten (by the way, I've been imagining Emilio as a girl in a biddy huddle in the corner of a bar somewhere angrily showing these texts to her friends):

(310): Thank you for your support sorry about all that. Where r u from?

I use this to show Andy the benefits a subdued response has on a crazed person. I let her know I'm from South Carolina and, so as not to sound like I actually went through the trouble of asking my roommate to look up the area code on his iPhone, ask Emilio where he's from.

(310): Oh I'm from la sorry I meant to txt Baltimore whopsie

She meant to text Baltimore??? There are two Baltimore area codes, 410 and 443. My area code is 803. Somewhere in that first text, mistakes were made. Anyways, I try to keep the conversation up:

(DW): Ah, gotcha. Good luck then. Be strong and you'll be fine.

I was hoping that my sweet, kind, supportive nature coupled with the fact that I already had her phone number would result in some sort of in-person meeting, wherein I would play to her emotional distress, sleazily hook up with her, and then, inevitably, sleep with her best friend. Unfortunately for her and, especially, her best friend, Emilio never texted me back.

As for John? Well, that's the next mystery we have to solve, gang.