25 August 2010

 

Anger Management

When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered, saying "Hello." I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn Carter?"
Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right f**in number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.
After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.
When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're an arsehole!" and hung up.
I wrote his number down with the word 'arsehole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an arsehole!" It always cheered me up.
When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic 'arsehole' calling would have to stop.
So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from Telstra. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?"
He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone.
I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an ARSEHOLE!"

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot.
Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.
A couple of days later, right after calling the first arsehole ( I had his number on speed dial,) I thought that I'd better call the BMW arsehole, too.
I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"
"Yes, it is", he said. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked.
"Yes, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd, in Vaucluse. It's a yellow house,and the car's parked right out in front."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"My name is Don Hansen," he said.
"When's a good time to catch you, Don?"
"I'm home every evening after five."
"Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"
"Yes?"
>"Don, you're an arsehole!" Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too.

Now, when I had a problem, I had two arseholes to call. Then I came up with an idea. I called Arsehole #1.
"Hello."
"You're an arsehole!" (But I didn't hang up.)
"Are you still there?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"Stop calling me," he screamed.
"Make me," I said.
>"Who are you?" he asked.
>"My name is Don Hansen."
>"Yeah? Where do you live?"
"Arsehole, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse, a yellow house, with my black Beamer parked in front."
He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers."
I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, arsehole," and hung up.
Then I called Arsehole #2. "Hello?" he said.
"Hello, arsehole," I said.
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..."
"You'll what?" I said.
"I'll kick your arse," he exclaimed.
I answered, "Well, arsehole, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."
Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse.
>I quickly got into my car and headed over to Mowbray. I got there just in time to watch two arseholes beating the crap out of eachother in front of six cop cars, an overhead police helicopter and a news crew.

NOW I feel much better. Anger management really works.


From all over the internet.

This particular version stolen from Amazing Australia


Comments:
I was a field instructor for a state fire school for 14 years. Taught a class in stress management. The byword word was...what is stress management?
STRESS MANAGEMENT: The minds ability to over come the body's desire to beat the shit out of some son-of-bitch who desperately deserves it.
Enough said.
 
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