I said, call me Betty!

I was going to write about "Apocolypto" and how it was a decent movie. How the over- all meaning was good and deep. How materialism and conspicuous consumption destroys a civilization. (Hello, America??) How humanity and revenge will kill a nation, a civiliation. How when the credits rolled I said very audibly, "Good Lord, I'm exhausted." Turning to my girlfriend, "I was going to see if you wanted to go to dinner, but I could seriously throw-up right now." Seriously. Lots o' blood. But, that's not any fun. I was way too cynical today. Then I went and saw a bloody movie and well, I'm all happy and hyper, so I called Billy. I thought I would relay the convo. In case you haven't figured it out by now, all of our conversations take place through laughter and I'm pretty sure there are hyenas looking for their mate when we're on the phone.

The conversation started by Billy telling me he got a phone call from a guy he hasn't heard or seen from in 20 years. The guy clearly had alternative motives when he called Billy. Billy wasn't up for it. Why? Because it was after 9 p.m.

PG: Jesus, you are so old.
Billy: I know. 8:59 I would have been all for it. 9, no good. Can't leave the house. I can't leave the house for a geriatric booty-call.
PG: Cause ya got your rollers in? Blowing your nails dry? Have your white bathrobe pulled up to your chin and your face is slathered with cold cream?
Billy: Yes. And call me Betty.
PG: So sad. This is like when I told you I had a date to go bowling and you were excited about the possibility of the bowling alley food. You went on and on about the greasy cheeseburger, pitcher of beer, and cheese balls. And my response was, "...I don't think I would be up for sex after all of that. Jesus. Talk about bloaty and farty. Yeah. No, sex. I can't have, bloaty-after-bowling-sex." And your response was, "Oh, I wasn't even thinking about sex." Which was a clear testament to where your life is right now.
Billy: Oh, yeah. Forgot all about that. Yeah. Sad. It's funnier the second time around though.

Then somehow the conversation merged over to strap-ons. I have no idea how. Or why.

PG: God. I could so get into that. Maybe not in terms of a relationship, but definitely for one night. Oh yeah. (...and drift off into visual...)
Billy: Really. Well, there is a long cold winter coming up.
PG: Oh, yeah. I could SO get out some of my aggression...
Billy: Oh. No. I'm not down for that...
PG: Call me Betty! Call me Betty! I don't care that it's not my name! I said, say it!
Billy: The visual I have right now....
PG: ...Are you on all fours and am I smacking your ass with a riding crop and are you calling me Betty?
Billy: No.
PG: Hmm, well in my head you are. And you like it.
(Side note: My phone makes weird quiefing sounds. It makes this really high-pitched pussy farting noise every now and again and usually when I'm on the phone with Billy.)
PG: I said to call me Betty!! Mistress Betty! I said, quief, bitch. Squeeze out another quief!! Squeeze it out! Squeeze it! Do it! I said, do it! Hey, how do you spell, "quief?"
Billy: Q-u-i-e-f. "I" before..
PG: "I" before what, "Q-U"? That's a grammar lesson I missed out on.
Billy: Betty.
PG: Martha. I said, "Quief, bitch."
Billy: Is this going to go on your blog?
PG: What do you think? "Apocolypto" or this. Yeah, tough.

Half an hour later...
PG: Hey. How do you spell, "quief?"
Billy: Q-u-i-e-f. Why? Are you writin' something?
PG: Uh-huh.
Billy: That's a conversation starter. "How do you spell, quief? There wassn't even a, 'hello.'
PG: I said, call me, Betty. Now, quief!