Here’s another bunch of genetic defectives who have been turned loose on answering machines: these guys who cannot resist the urge to put music on their outgoing message.

You know some guy spends $8 in Radio Shack and suddenly he’s a fucking record producer. And because he’s busy in the basement jacking off his dog, I have to listen to substandard music. And it’s always rotten music you know. It’s either New Age. That pointless meandering zombie noise played by pseudo-spiritual lunatics who think wind chimes are a musical instrument. Or else it’s Soft Rock. Soft Rock: that lame-ass, weak, non-threatening suburban white boy junk played by bands like "Men Without Testicles".

Oh, and folks? On these answering machines? Do me a favor, would you please? When you record your outgoing message, don’t bother telling me you can’t come to the phone. I understand that. Apparently, that’s why we have these machines. And don’t tell me leave my name and number because somehow, I figured that out! And if you work in an office, never mind that stuff. I'm away from my desk. If you had to take a shit, SAY SO! Just say, "Hi, this is Mary Louise, I had the Mexican Jalapeno bean chile dip, and I washed it down with a gallon of gin. I’ll be in and out all day."