I had a brief dalliance with that old comedic chestnut known as the "prank phone call" when I was younger. We were crouched around the phone book, scanning for random numbers, dialing with shaking fingers (a lengthier process in those days of rotary phones), and then blasting unsuspecting people with hilarious lines like "Where's the beef?" "Wha chew you talkin bout Willis?", or the ever popular blurt of nonsense in a vaguely Muppetish voice that quickly disintegrated into giggling and a quick slam of the phone.
It was my turn and I had selected the local bowling alley as my target.
Keep in mind, we were young and fairly innocent, saying little that would have offended anyone, more likely leaving them to shrug their shoulders and move on with their day.
So it is with some embarrassment that I confess that when that nice sounding young woman picked up the phone with a chirpy, "Bowl and Grille, how can I help you?", I had a horrific, unplanned episode of Tourette Syndrome.
In a voice best described as a pre-pubescent Mr.T, I screamed "Suck my dick!" and smashed the phone back into its cradle with spastic force.
My fellow pranksters froze, their eyes wide.
I have no explanation; I could not even tell you where I had ever even heard that crude invitation, or why on earth it had burst out of me like B.A. putting his foot down about flying in a plane.
It just happened.
The others backed away from me, and fear settled over us. A line had been crossed. We had been pleasantly swimming in the pool of youthful hijinks, and I wrecked it all with a verbal turd that floated on the surface of our good times.
We shamefully replaced the phone book and scrabbled outside into the harsh light of day.