E
ver since he bought that iPhone it'd been ringing day and night. But every time he answered, there'd be dead silence on the other end of the line. And every call came from a “private number” so he couldn't phone back.
What was going on? Who was calling? Was his phone broken? He just couldn't figure it out. It was driving him crazy, though, the constant calls. Finally he got fed up and angrily dialed customer service to complain.
What was going on? Who was calling? Was his phone broken?
However, when he called customer service, the only thing he got was a constant maze of menu options, press “1” for this or that. Not a single human being would actually answer.
He tried several different customer service numbers, and they all netted the same result. Except for one which got through to someone speaking an Oriental sounding language he couldn't understand.
Aggravated, he gave up and stormed over to the Apple store. On his way there, he passed by an electronics shop with a large display of plasma screens in the front window. The televisions were tuned to Fox News. Looped footage of Mitt Romney smiling and laughing gregariously showed on every screen.
When he entered the Apple store, the salespeople glared at him suspiciously. He slammed his phone down on the checkout counter and demanded a refund, declaring that it was defective.
The salesman behind the register, a chubby fellow with bad acne, shot him a quizzical expression and remained silent for a minute, then asked cautiously, “what phone?”
“This phone!” He screamed back, pointing down at the counter. He fished out his receipt and stuck it right in the salesman's face.
“S-Sir,” the salesman stuttered, “th-that's a campaign flyer...”
He drew back the paper and what he saw was clearly a credit card receipt. Again the phone started ringing, again from a “private number.”
“You see! This is why...” He began to shout, when he felt a tap on the shoulder. Two burly security guards stood in back of him. They were about to say something, but he shook his head dejectedly, scooped his phone up, and walked briskly out of the store.
The foam cell phone man stopped and started to point and laugh and do the “Dougie.”
Stepping into the street, a man dressed as a big foam cell phone danced by and imitated a ringing sound. On the foam cell phone man's chest read, in red spray paint, “private number.” The foam cell phone man stopped and started to point and laugh and do the “Dougie.”
Enraged, he cursed and screamed and went after the foam cell phone man, chasing him up the street. The foam cell phone man ran like hell and ducked into the electronics shop he'd passed by earlier.
He followed the foam cell phone man into the shop. Inside were televisions and computers everywhere, all tuned to Fox News, which was still showing the same looped footage of Mitt Romney laughing. He peered around but couldn't see the foam cell phone man anywhere.
His phone vibrated and rang. It was once again from a “private number.” He answered. This time, though, there was a sound on the other end of the line.
It was a hysterical, cackling laughter that increased in volume by the second, so much so that it quickly became unbearable. He was about to press the “end call” button but froze when he noticed that all the plasma screens and computers had suddenly switched to a live video feed of him, standing in the electronics shop.
Dressed as a big foam cell phone, he was holding an empty hand up to his ear.
