....May 29, 2006
Me: "911. May I help you?"
Caller: "I just come home and found my husband laying on the kitchen floor. He ain't moving."
Me: "You just came home. You found your husband lying on the floor. He isn't moving."
Caller: "That's right."
Me: "Yes, I'm sure it is. Is your husband breathing?"
Caller: "I can't tell. It don't look like he's breathing or nothing."
Me: "Doesn't. It doesn't look like your husband is breathing. Or anything."
Caller: "That's what I said! What are you, a parrot? Please hurry!"
Me: "Your husband. Is he fat? I mean, why can't you tell if he's breathing?"
Caller: "What did you say?"
Me: "I asked whether your husband was fat. I have this picture in my mind of a fat redneck sprawled across a linoleum floor, the refrigerator door ajar, and he's still clutching a fried chicken drumstick in his short, meaty fist."
Caller: "Looka here. Ain't you going to ask me for my address or nothing."
Me: "I get the feeling you're not trying."
Caller: "Sir, my husband's done turned blue."
Me: "What color shirt is he wearing?"
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© 2006 by the beastmaster