For all of you who occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I had forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered, saying, "Hello".
I politely said, "This is Fred Hanifin. Could I please speak with Robin Carter?" Suddenly, the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude.

I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her. I had transposed the last two digits of her phone number.

After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.

When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, "You're an *ssh*le!" and hung up.

I wrote his number down with the word "*ssh*le" next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an *ssh*le!"

It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic "*ssh*le" calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from the Telephone Company. I'm just calling to see if you're familiar with the Called ID program?" He yelled, "NO!" and slammed the phone down. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an *ssh*le!"

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot.

Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I had been waiting for the spot.

The idiot ignored me.

I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his car window - so, I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first *ssh*le, (I had his number on speed dial), I thought I had better call the BMW *ssh*le, too.

I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"

"Yes, it is."

"Can you tell me where I can see it?"

"Yes. I live at 1802 West 34th Street . It's a yellow house, and the car's parked right out in front."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"My name is Don Hansen," he said.

"When's a good time to catch you, Don?"

"I'm home every evening after five."

"Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"

"Yes?"

"Don, you're an *ssh*le." Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two *ssh*les to call.

But after several months of calling them, it wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be.

So, I came up with an idea. I called *ssh*le #1.

"Hello."

"You're an *ssh*le!" (But I didn't hang up).

"Are you still there?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Stop calling me," he screamed.

"Make me," I said.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Don Hansen."

"Yeah? Where do you live?"

"*ssh*le, I live at 1802 West 34th Street , a yellow house, with my black Beemer parked in front."

He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers."

I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, *ssh*le."

Then I called *ssh*le #2.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hello, *ssh*le," I said.

He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are?"

"You'll what?" I said.

"I'll kick your *ss," he exclaimed.

I answered, "Well, *ssh*le, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 1802 West 34th Street , and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.

Then I called Channel 13 News about the gang war going down on West 34th Street .

I quickly got into my car and headed over to 34th Street .

There I saw two *ssh*les beating the crap out of each other in front of six squad cars, a police helicopter, and news crew.

NOW I feel better !