In honor of the upcoming weekly series by Jasper in Oak Cliff, we present this gem from the Ticket archives. The Ticktionary now presents: The Phone Sex bit featuring Mike Rhyner, Amy Viser and Susie Aron as the operator.
Operator: Handsome Hunk Phone Sex Services, may I help you?
Caller: Yes. Do you have a burly hunk of pure man available? 'Cause I'm
in the mood for love.
Operator: Hold, please. I'll transfer you.
(A few seconds of really bad hold music)
Rhynes: Mike Rhyner.
Caller: Hi Mike. My name's Barbara. What's yours?
Rhynes: (Becoming agitated) I just said it was Mike Rhyner. Now if
were gonna do this thing, you gotta pay attention.
Barbara: I'm sorry Michael. What are you wearing right now?
Rhynes: First of all, 86 any and all Michaels, Mikeys, Mikey-babys, and
especially, Michelles. I will not pretend to be a woman nor will I tolerate someone
that would request such a thing. My preference is to be called "Rhynes" and
that, and only that, is what you will call me. Second of all, any further references,
intentional or otherwise, to some sexual act or acts that I deem offensive or somewhat
socially unacceptable will place in the large category of women I have hung
up on. Lastly, and certainly not least, I not only think about baseball during the
real act of love-making, but also during these fictionalized episodes that occur via the
miracle of the Ma Bell Handheld Receiver. So, if I, for whatever reason, make reference to
the Great Game, or persons who have played the Great Game -- most notably, the great Ted
Williams -- you will patiently endure my diatribe or you will get hung up
on. Now, having said that are you, Barbara, ready to proceed?
Barbara: (Sounding a little unsure) I guess so.
Rhynes: Well, let's mosh man.
Barbara: O.K. . . . what are you wearing right now?
Rhynes: Well now, before I answer that and before we go any further, I
have to know something . . . .You're not fat, are you? 'Cause if you're fat, I don't know
if I can go through with this thing.
Barbara: (Indignant) I'm not fat!
Rhynes: O.K., O.K., proceed.
Barbara: I still want to know what your wearing.
Rhynes: I am, no doubt, decked out in the finest of suggestive
undergarments crafted by Haggar, Hanes, and other various sundry clothing manufacturers. I
am reclining, comfortably on a divan in a lascivious pose, guaranteed to produce arousal
in the most reserved of frigid females. My maleness is postured in a patriotic fashion and
I am prepared to spread my own unique brand of liberty and edification over your every
hill and dale for the next few minutes or less depending on whether you get hung up on.
Barbara: What's your specialty Rhynes?
Rhynes: Well, my particular phone specialty is something called the
"Two-Minute Drill." But I haven't perfected it yet and quite honestly don't have
the desire to patiently test it out on you.
Barbara: Well then I guess I'll try and get the ball rolling here. I'm
5'8", strawberry-blonde hair, 22 years old, 110 pounds, and I attend a small
Midwestern college where I major in Political Science and wild sex.
Rhynes: I just ain't buyin' any of this.
Barbara: It's true, I swear.
Rhynes: O.K., O.K., alright. Duly noted. (Rings bell)
Barbara: (Obviously jazzed) Ooh! A schoolteacher's bell. Rhynes,
you're kinkier than you let on.
Rhynes: Yeah, I kinda am.
Barbara: Let's say I'm a bad schoolgirl and you're an over-authoritative
teacher . . .
Rhynes: Hey Barbara, or whatever the hell your name is, just how far do
you want me to go in this little scenario you got goin' here?
Barbara: At least to first base.
Rhynes: (Getting excited) Let me tell you about first base sister.
There was no one who could cover first base like the great Norm Cash of the Detroit
Tigers . . .
Barbara: Rhynes . . . .
Rhynes: Completing the line-up, you had Dick McCollough at second base,
Ray Oiler at shortstop . . .
Barbara: Rhynes . . .
Rhynes: Move over to third, there was Don Wert. Out in left field, the
great Willie Horton . . .
Barbara: Rhynes . . .
Rhynes: Mickey Stanley, playing shortstop in the World Series, but center
field in the regular season.
Barbara: Rhynes! . . .
Rhynes: Jim Northrop in right field. Behind the plate . . .
Barbara: Rhynes? . . .
Rhynes: You had the great Bill Freand.
Barbara: Rhynes?
Rhynes: (Yelling) What!!!
Barbara: Could we get back to the fantasy?
Rhynes: Listen, you lyin', overweight, black-haired, gelatenous cow. I'm
talkin' greatness here. The kind of greatness you'll never know, except in jean
size, porker. I'm talking baseball. And I don't need some carbuncle-faced, 37 year
old, sexual miscreant who by den of promiscuity and general looseness and moral fiber,
probably got pregnant at 18 by some relative no doubt, and who now only finds time to
lambast the Great Game on a money-costing, monetarily-draining, phone sex service, which
normally wouldn't let a matress-back like you through the front . . . (Barbara hangs
up)
(Dial tone)