March 26, 2004  
Volume 97, Issue 93  

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EDITORIAL

Done in by the denim vest: phone number follies

The Amazing Shadow
Mike Dewar

Associate Graphics

Before I get into the grim details of this rant, I’d like to begin by imploring anyone who may read this column to hang onto whatever burnt-out shreds of honesty they may have left.

My story begins on St. Patrick’s Day, the hallowed refuge of green beer and alcohol-induced pixie sightings. I was relaxing in The Spoke, with my feet firmly stuck to the grimy floor, when I noticed an acquaintance of mine sitting in a booth with her friends. I was introduced to the group, including one girl who I thought I had fallen for.

I may well have been hallucinating (in fact I know now I clearly was), but I could swear she and I hit it off fairly well. The strange thing is I wasn’t drinking, so I guess I just have too big an ego. In fact, I must have fabricated her arm around my waist at one point in time, but I digress.

Anyway, the night was winding down at around 10 p.m., as everyone had been drinking since 2 p.m.. As the object of my misplaced affection was leaving the bar, I asked her for a phone number just as a way to get in touch later, nothing more. And so she rattled off her number without hesitation.

I felt really swell... until I tried to call her the other day.

It was at this point that I realized the number I had been given was a complete fake. I first tried dialing it “straight up” but was informed by a recording that I needed to enter an area code for the call to be completed. I tried 519, 905, 416, 647 and so on until I just started punching in random three number combinations. No luck at all.

I found out later from a mutual friend that she is currently involved in a casual relationship, and thus the explanation for the fake phone number. Now that it’s over and done with I feel really stupid, and also just a little angry.

So here is what I propose to all ladies put on the spot for a phone number. If you aren’t interested, just say so and put the poor sod out of his misery — I would have been saved a lot of grief if but for that honest reply.

That was the first time I had ever tried to take down the number of a stranger, and I can say with equal honesty that it will likely be the last. After all, I don’t need any more attention from odd girls, since I seem to attract their attention exclusively. “Like moths to a flame,” as one of roommates accurately pointed out.

As for the girl who didn’t shoot me down, but rather lied to my face, feel free to call me anytime. My number is “667-1111. Call Pizza Pizza, Hey! Hey! Hey!”

 

 

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