I'm Telling Mom

It's happened to all of us.  You get a phone call and all you hear is weird ambient noise, a faraway voice from another dimension, possibly ordering a sandwich, or a mob hit.  It's very hard to tell.  "Wah-wah--tomatoes."  "Wah-wah-take-out-Tony."  This phenomenon, according to my sons, is called the Butt Dial.  The thought of someone's butt dialing me is disturbing on many levels.  My sons assure me the Butt Dial is unintentional, and now, with the advent of the uber-sensitive iPhone keypad, it happens more often.  I should know.  Yesterday, my brother John tushy-dialed me.  "Hello?"  "Wah-wah-wah."  "John?"  "Wah-wah-wah tomatoes."  "What?"  "Wah-wah."  "Oh @#$%, I'm hanging up."  I called him, immediately, using my fingers and my best accusatory tone.

"John?  Did you call me a second ago?"  "No."  "Don't deny it.  My phone rang and your number came up." "But I didn't call you."  "Oh, yes you did."  "I didn't."  "Then your butt did."  "How dare you."  "You heard me, you butt dialed me, your sister.  How could you do that to me?"  "I didn't mean to."  "But you did and I'm traumatized.  Trauma.  Tized!!! "  "I apologize, profusely, from the bottom of my bottom."  "You don't sound terribly sincere."  He started singing, "You gotta be sincere."  "Don't you Bye Bye Birdie me.  You butt dialed me.  I'm telling Mom."  "You do that."  "Good day, sir."  Click.
(12-13-11)