PICK UP THE PHONE

The phone rings. The phone rings again. The phone rings a third time, and you look up from your game of scrabble, puzzled about who would call at this godless hour. Against the anxious words of your game-partner, you lift the phone from its dock and press it against your ear. The reciever is cold, too cold, and you wait for the greeting; the hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my rag-time gal. But that greeting doesn't appear. 

Instead your tender auditory meatus is assualted with a plethora of dial tones, beeping, heavy breathing, and Kraftwerk. One moment someone is looking for Scooter's Roofin, the next it's an angry principal, and then it's your lover on a dumping spree. You hang up. No, YOU hang up. NO YOU HANG UP, CONWAY TWITTY, AND NEVER CALL BACK.

Thankfully Max Richter is next on the line, he can call anytime. But when he asks you to join him for lunchtime buffet you get a little suspicious, and ask who else will be there. George Constanza, he says, and Soulja Boy. Young Thug. Weird Al, The Dude, Dr Dre, Sir Mix-a-Lot. All soundtracked by Coil jamming with Player. It sounds kind of like a party you want to be at.  

But as you are about to ask "Where?" a bout of unclouth screaming makes you drop the phone and scatter your scrabble tiles across the carpet. "Who was it?" your game-partner asks. You area about to answer when you see the word "xylosma" freshly played across triple word score and realize all is lost