Taxicab Depressions

You went out to the bar Friday night a few weeks ago, knowing full well that you would be an obnoxious wasted moron by closing time, so you called my taxi company to take you there. A safe, courteous, and professional driver took you to the bar, and because that driver likes to hang out at that bar looking for fares, that very same driver had the good fortune to take you back home that night, no doubt saving you from an arrest for Drunk And Disorderly, at the very least.

And the next day, in the blinding agony that your Jagermeister and Hennessey induced hangovers always cause, you realize that you can’t find your phone. You rifle through the vomit-stained clothing you wore last nite, but to no avail. You lost it.

But more than a week later, you chain together enough undamaged brain cells to realize that you are a really smart mutherfugger, and you find a website that allows you to track that sweet phone that you lost… and yup, there it is… driving around the beach, then going downtown, to all the hotels, all over town… And then it hits you: You lost your phone in the taxi! That scumbag taxi driver has stolen your phone! You racked your brain… try to remember… what did he look like…?

Oh, yeah… a short old guy with white hair and a white beard. That old prick has stolen your phone.

So you call the taxi company to tell them that you are a very important person, you are not someone to be fucked with, that stealing your pimp cell phone is unacceptable, and that you demand that the short old guy with white hair and white beard report immediately to return your phone. You are told that the driver in question is not working tonight. But you know that is bullshit, because you are watching your phone move all over town on your computer, and these thieving taxi assholes are lying to you. You hang up, but then you call back several times to bitch and threaten and make demands, but you keep getting told that the driver in question is not working tonight, and you can call back tomorrow during daylight hours if you wish to speak to someone with greater authority.

So what is a smart mutherfugger and badass tough guy such as yourself to do in this situation…? Send a threatening and poorly composed text message to your own phone, that’s what you do! You borrow your roommate’s phone and type in something approximating, ” U stole my phone bich n I’m tracking u on the internet mutherfugger don u ditch my phone or ill kick your ass i know you work for the taxi compy and I remember whut u look like turn this phone in too ur dispacher right now and Ill let yu get away witout a serious ass-beating pyunk bitch”

You get no response. So you go into the taxi company office the next day and make a scene, yell at the ladies in the office, but you do manage to get your phone back. This is the story you are telling your homeboys… boasting how you bullied that old bitch-ass taxi driver that stole your phone into giving it up, and how you screamed and swore at the nice ladies in the office and threatened to bring down this whole fuggin’ ripoff company over your stolen cell phone. You showed them bitches, dawg… aaaaaaahhh-ight…! They knew better than to fuck with badass baller mutherfugger such as yourself. Werrrrrrrrd….

Whatever… Now, let me tell you what REALLY happened, you brain-damaged wigger dipshit.

The old guy didn’t have your phone; I did. You see, I went to that very same bar on that very same night, got out of my car to stretch my legs, and saw your phone laying in the gutter in front of the bar. It was almost dead, but I plugged it into my car charger and brought it back to life. My guess was that someone with a nice phone like this would be grateful to get it back, and might even throw 20 bucks to the guy who was considerate enough to return it. So I carried it around for more than a week, waiting for someone to call so I could say, “Hey, if you know another way to reach this guy, tell him that I have his phone, and here’s my phone number.” I thought about calling random contacts in your address book, but decided to just wait until it rang.

But your phone never rang. Not once. No missed calls in more than a week. I was beginning to think the owner of this phone was buried in a shallow grave somewhere. So in the event that you should ever lose your phone again, let me kindly offer a simple suggestion: TRY CALLING YOUR OWN PHONE, DUMBASS.

You did get lots of text messages… but almost everybody that texted you seemed to be looking for OZ’s or QP’s of that good sticky green bud you are slingin’, and they seemed really pissed off that you were not responding to their frequent and repeated messages. I decided that it was best to not interact with your weed clientele, homie… sorry…

Then one night, your phone makes the new message chime, and I got the threatening text message you sent out. What an asshole… threatening me with violence, when I’ve been hoping you would call and maybe offer a token reward for delivering your expensive phone to you. It is indeed fortunate for you that I’m a decent and honest guy, because my first instinct after I read that text was to chuck this phone out the window and off a bridge, and let you track it to the bottom of the intercoastal waterway. Or maybe toss it in the back of a northbound pickup pulling a trailer with Montana plates. Or even better, pull the SIM card and battery and drop it off at a toll booth… they will give it to a soldier in Afghanistan to call home and talk to his family through the “Cell Phones For Soldiers” program. I would sleep just fine in the knowledge that a hero in Kandahar was talking to his daughter on this pimp phone, instead of some dumbass wigger weed dealer. And, they would have given me a tax-deductible receipt so I could knock 3 or 4 hundred bucks off my taxes next year… better than the 20 or 50 I was hoping for from you.

Or best idea of all, swing by the Sheriff’s Office and see what their narcotics detectives think about your text messages from so very many people that seem to think you can hook them up with a quarter pound of high quality marijuana, “same price as last time”. It looks to my admittedly untrained eye that you are doing a brisk business in this slow economy…

They would probably be interested in your photos and videos, too… all your homies smokin’ up your killer weed, red-eyed and acting stupid… dumbass white boys mugging for the camera, wearing Rocawear and baggy shorts with chains and sideways ballcaps while they shoot gang signs and pass the bong around. Someone as observant as an average Sheriff’s narcotics detective would probably notice the mirror on the kitchen counter with the razor blade and the large pile of suspicious white powder on it, too. Of course I went through your photos, and so did the people in the office after I turned your phone in… the computer says you are a somewhat regular customer, and they were trying to figure out who you are and confirm who might have driven you.

Now think back… what was the very last photo you took before you lost your phone? When we opened your photos, what was the very first image we would see?

Yeah, dawg… that’s the one. The photo of your brand new penis piercing, the ring with the little silver bead.

Speaking of little, all the girls in the office couldn’t help but giggle at your little dick. For a badass gangsta ganja dealer, you sure are hung like a hamster. That might even qualify you for a handicapped parking permit. I routinely drive lesbians with bigger index fingers.

So when I punched out that night and took the car back to the yard, the dispatcher is asking everyone coming in if they found some idiot’s phone, and I said that I believed I had it. I didn’t turn it in to the “lost and found” basket because I didn’t find it in the taxi, I found it in the street. It was only a coincidence that you rode with the same taxi company that I work for on the night you lost it. Now, what would have really been funny would be if a taxi driver from another cab company had found it and was driving all over town with it. That would have been a conundrum your room-temperature IQ could have never resolved.

See, I’m a pretty smart mutherfugger, too… I know that cell phones can be tracked. If I wanted to steal your pimp phone, all I had to do was pull the battery, wait a month or two or four until you gave up looking for it, and then it would be mine. But I kept it charged up and turned on, hoping you would call. And just in the last few months, I have turned in numerous phones, wallets, sunglasses, a digital camera, umbrellas, a box of condoms, a baby rattle, and I even drove several miles out of my way one night to return a twelve-pack of beer some drunk left behind my seat, so my integrity was never in question. Your screaming about thieving taxi drivers and demands that people get fired didn’t carry any weight in the office, and certainly didn’t affect my standing with the company.

So, if the ladies in the office seemed to be smirking at you a little, it was only because they knew that the badass wigger gangsta weed dealer that is yelling obscenities and making threats in the lobby is really just a petty criminal… a drunken punk with a tiny dick. You might think you are a tough guy and one badass mutherfugger livin’ the thug life, but we just think you are moronic assclown.

And while it is highly unlikely that you will ever actually read this letter, I feel compelled to close with a friendly warning. If you are contemplating screwing with the driver that you mistakenly believed had stolen your phone, just remember that you are in the company computer system, so we know who you are and where you live. I have your address, and obviously, your phone number. In fact, after your threatening text message, I turned on the voice recorder on my phone and read out the names, phone numbers, and email addresses of pretty much all the people in your contacts list. Then I turned on the camera in my phone and took pictures of your customers’ frenzied text messages begging you to return their texts because they are out of your killer smoke, and their plainly-stated desire to make felony-sized purchases from you ASAP. I was surprised; the pictures came out big and really clear. Then, for good measure, I downloaded the entire contents of your phone to my computer.

So if that other driver has any problems with you in the future, I’ll burn all this shit to some DVD’s and give it to the Sheriff’s Narcotics division, and you can show everybody what a badass thug you are whilst serving a trafficking stretch in Raiford. With that thumb-sized willie and narrow little white ass of yours, I’m guessing your dance card will be full every nite. Then, just for shits and giggles, I’ll create a free Hotmail account at the library and email all the drug pictures and the photo of your miniscule little dick to all your contacts, so all your boys can laugh at your tiny pierced Vienna sausage, and you can explain to Aunt Millie why she got emailed photos of you smoking a bong and your Cub Scout-sized cock.

Oh, and let’s not forget about your girl… you know, the cute brunette with the big nipples and slutty shoes that took all those beaver shots with her phone in the mirror and sent them to you… not the horsefaced, tired-looking blonde with the dim-looking kid that I am guessing is your babymama, I mean the brunette in the mirror… yeah, dawg, that girl. I’m not sure how you landed a chick like that with your tiny dick… must be all the free weed. Personally, my favorite photo is the one with her finger buried in her ass. I bet her Daddy would be so proud of what his baby has become. Those pictures will go out to all your contacts, too.

Think I’m lying…? Think I’m kidding…? Try me, bitch… that’s just how I roll, dawg. Werrrrrrrrd….