If 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.

One day recently I remembered a phone call I
had forgotten to make.  I found the number and dialed it.  A
man answered, saying, "Hello".

I politely said, "This is Fred Hanifin.  Could I please
speak with Robin Carter?"  Suddenly, the phone was slammed
down on me.  I couldn't believe that anyone could be so
rude.

I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her.  I
had transposed the last two digits of her phone number.

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 ***hole!" and hung up.

I wrote his number down with the word "***hole" 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 ***hole!"

It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic
"***hole" calling would have to stop.  So, I called his
number and said, Hi, this is John Smith from the Telephone
Company.  I'm just calling to see if you're familiar with
the Caller ID program?"


He yelled, "NO!" and slammed the phone down.  I quickly
called him back and said, "That's because you're an
***hole!"


One day I was at the super market, 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 had been waiting for the spot.  The
idiot ignored me.


I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his car window - so, I
wrote down his number.  A couple of days later, right after
calling the first ***hole, (I had his number on speed
dial), I thought I had better call the BMW (((hole too.

I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"
"Yes, it is."

"Can you tell me where I can see it?"

"Yes. I live at 1802 West 34th Street. 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 ***hole."  Then I hung up, and added his
number to my speed dial, too.

Now, when I had a problem, I had two ***holes to call.  But
after several months of calling them, it wasn't as
enjoyable as it used to be.  So, I came up with an idea.  I
called ***hole #1.

"Hello."
"You're an ***hole!" (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?"
"***hole, I live at 1802 West 34th Street, a yellow house,
with my black Beemer 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, ***hole."

Then I called Asshole #2.
"Hello?" he said.
"Hello, ***hole," I said.
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are?"
"You'll what?" I said.
"I'll kick your ***," he exclaimed.
I answered, "Well, ***hole, here's your chance. I'm coming
over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying
that I lived at 1802 West 34th Street, and that I was on
my way over there to kill my gay lover.

Then I called Channel 13 News about the gang war going
down on West 34th Street.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to 34th Street.
There I saw two assholes beating the crap out of each
other in front of six squad cars, a police helicopter, and
news crew.

NOW I feel better.
This is an email I got. Some of the words have been omitted to protect myself.