Getting Somewhere

I use two Bounce sheets when I dry my clothing.
Outwardly it's because I'm passionate about making my clothes smell extra nice.
The fact is, though, that static cling fucking terrifies me.
"He's talking about laundry again."

Alright. Big deal.
I'm going to interview Mike MacDonald* tomorrow.
Over the telephone.
He's in L.A.. Because he's not a hack like I am.
If the interview goes well, I'm thinking of asking him to reimburse me for the phone call.
"When you get a chance, could you just send me some cash to cover this call.
I don't know what this is costing me, but I know my long distance plan isn't covering it."
I want the interview to go well.
That way, I can meet him when he comes here for the comedy festival that's going down.
And maybe he'll drop by The Victory and watch me do a set.
And then I'll go on tour with him.
Which would be great.
Because then I would finally have an answer when people ask me, "What are you up to all the time?"
Knowing my luck, he'll probably find me boorish and daft.
It'd be pretty good if he got my name wrong.
"Alright Phil, well it was great talkin' to ya, but I've got a roast on, so I'd better get going."

I once was the victim of a prank call.
This kid called up, and he said, "We're calling from McDonald's in Bay Roberts.
You've won a free Big Mac!
To claim it, stop by the store tomorrow morning at 7a.m."
Giggling in the background.
So, I just patiently call him out, "Alright buddy. Sure I have."
He argues a bit further, saying, "No, really. You won. Blah blah, et cetera."
I keep saying, "Sure, good one, okay."
And then suddenly the kid interrupts me and says, "Alright, I've gotta go. I've gotta take a shit."
And hangs up.
To this day, I still feel as though the kid bested me when he did that.

*This is the only clip I could find so far.
Which is bullshit.
I keep finding clips of some other guy named Mike McDonald.
And a Michael McDonald. Who looks like Kenny Rodger's aborted fetus.