Her Name Was Maria
And she was from Manila, or so she told me. It was late, the night was cloudy and so the sky was black.
I was sitting on the couch reading Newsweek when the phone rang. It was my wife’s phone and it was 11:15 at night. With a perplexed look on my face I grabbed the phone before it woke up my sleeping brood and said hello.
“Hi, my name is Maria and I am in Manila in the Phillipines,” she said.
“I am Jack, what can I do for you,” I replied.
“Jack, that is a nice name, do you know where the Phillipines are?”
“Do I win a prize,” I remarked. Sarcasm is never far away and I was curious why Maria from Manila was calling. Not only that, but when I asked if she knew “Minnie the Moocher” she didn’t understand. Somewhere Cab Calloway’s corpse was spinning.
“Jack, I am very lonely,” she said.
“Maria, I am sorry to hear that, but I am currently spoken for and there is a waiting list. Would you care to take a number?”
“Jack, please speak with me,” She said ignoring the waiting list. I hate when people cut in line. Lines create order and without order there is anarchy. Besides, with my fragile male ego I rather liked the idea of a waiting list.
“Maria, you called on my cellphone. I am going to be quite irate if I am stuck paying an international call. My apologies, but I must hang up.”
“Maria, my motto is always leave them wanting more. More importantly your motto should be find a friend in the Phillipines. It will be far more gratifying” and then I hung up the phone and returned to reading Newsweek.
What an odd experience.
Anonymous December 17, 2004 at 12:03 pm
I’ll talk to anyone who send me pics of their titties.
Stacey December 17, 2004 at 12:04 am
“Her name was Maria.”
No, her name was Lola.