Who the hell called me at 10:15 last night on my cellular?
You're a piece of shite, whoever you are. Mainly you're a piece of shite because you were calling ANYONE at 10:15 on a Sunday night, and your number is unlisted, so I can't look in the phone book to see who you are, and Switchboard doesn't show you either. Have you no sense of courtesy at ALL? You don't call anyone's house past 8 pm, you bucket head. No earlier than 8 am. You think people want to hear your whiney little voice on their mobile in the middle of the night? I've got news for you--they don't.
Secondly--if you've got some sort of moronic buddy on the other side of town who is waiting for your call at 10:15 on a Sunday night, why don't you DIAL THE DAMNED NUMBER RIGHT? For pity's sake you ass clown, learn to use your phone. It's one of the simplest of household instruments, right up there with a toaster. Either that or have yourself chemically castrated so you don't go and get the gene pool even more cluttered with useless material.
Thirdly--if you haven't realised yet, you woke me up, from a VERY sound sleep. I had just finished 11 straight hours of grass cutting, tree trimming, laundry, and house and yard cleaning, had a nice supper, watched a little tele with the wife, smoked a cigar on the back patio and watched the sun set, and I was about DEAD to the world at 9 pm when I went to bed. I woke up at 10:15 to hear my phone going off, and ordinarily I turn it off at night in case some mental pigmy calls my number by accident, but I had forgotten and left it on last night, so I had to wake up to the phone singing at me, go groping around for it, and have it stop before I got to it. So THEN I tried to find it, so muddled by being waken from a deep sleep, and could't find it because I was so damned tired I thought it was in the room with me, when it was across the HOUSE. So I went back to bed frustrated and with my adrenaline up, and had to lie there losing MORE sleep while I settled back down, wondering who the F would call me, and if it was important.
Naturally, it was not. It was your moronic ass, trying to reach your vacuous pubescent girlfriend so you could go by and sneak her out of the house in your racing Civic so you could knock her up in the Kroger's parking lot, or you were trying to reach your homies so you could buy some crack, which I hope bursts your heart and burns a hole through your skull, or you were drunk and bemoaning your lost girlfriend and decided to call her to beg her forgiveness, and I sincerely hope that when you reached her she was kicking boots with the Satanist Grand High Dragon down the street.
I really sincerely dislike discourtesy. Be glad I'm not discourteous enough to post your area code and phone number here, because I've got it.