| Why? |
This article is part of Uncyclopedia's Why? series. See more Why's?
You're just some kid at school. You're just being all innocent when suddenly your bag starts to vibrate. Holy !@#$. What the hell is it? Some sort of monster?? No wait, it's just a text message. You knew that. Ok. Why does it say "Caller ID withheld"? Hell. This must be some sort of prank. Lets see, what does the message say anyways?
Hey Ricky!~<3 - Johnny
There are two Johnny's at your school. There's the gay-ass kid who shaves his legs, and there's that other guy, who bangs three girls per hour. Why do you get the feeling that this is the one who shaves his legs?
edit First Steps
Stay calm - It probably isn't as bad as you think it is. You should analyze the situation...
Analysis - He used the '~', '!', and '<3'. All at once. Holy crap shit !@#$! Your in possession of a genuinely gay text here. Hold on, this could still be a prank off of some jock. You need to confirm your suspicions
Confirmation - You look across the desk and theres Johnny (who doesn't bang three chicks an hour) giving you a big smile and some cheeky little wave.
edit Step Two
Oh God you start hyperventilating. This cannot be happening. You'll just ignore him. Yea! I mean, who waves back to some gaylord who puts hearts in his text message? Exactly. If you manage to get out of this class alive then hopefully he'll move onto some other victim and just leave you alone...
No no no! Forty seconds later, your phone buzzes again. It's flashing a number this time. Damn. Fucking gay stalker. Just keep ignoring him. It's the final class and hopefully you'll get out of here make it home safely with your anal virginity intact.
edit Step Three
You manage to avoid his attempts to play footsies under the table and when the bell rings you get out of there faster than Batman on crack. You run all the way home in the rain and hope to god that this whole thing will have stopped happening by tomorrow. But wait....
Who's that at the door? Ok. Calm down. Oh yes! Your Aunt Gracie is coming today! Oh phew. It's still raining outside. Shit. You hear the muffled conversation between your mum and whoever was at the door downstairs. Stuff listening to your mum babbling on all day. You decide to tell her to shut up or go into the living room. You walk over to the door, and wrench it open. And guess who it is. It's...
Where, no HOW did he find you? Is he spying or some shit??
Johnny's standing there, rain dripping off his 'Spongebob Rocks' shirt.
"Heeeyyyyyyy Ricky! Didja get my message?"
You make a mental note to tell your mum never let 'friends' into the house ever again. Ever. And I'm installing four way locks with finger print analysis just to make sure.
"Dude. What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here."
"Oh my gos- heck! You said the F-Word!"
"Dude. Get out. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck."
"Ok! Just checking if you got my message. This is your phone number right?"
edit What? Just happened??
You get another message from Johnny.
Watcha doing?~ Been missing company!
Don't answer it! on second thoughts you better straighten things out. Or he might get a guitar and start singing outside the window or something. So you message back,
Hi. Doing nothing.
Simple enough. Theres no way he could ever read anything into that. Just playing the simple friend card. Enough chicks have done it to you, so he has to give up. But before you even have time to put the phone down it's buzzing again.
So, wanna go play around at the school party?
Oh shit. Quick quick! Cut him off before he has the time to tell himself your even thinking about it! Reply! Reply as nastily as possible!
Dude. Go. Fuck. Your. Self.
An hour goes by. Yes! you're finally free! You've ditched your stalker! there's nothing left now but to tell the grandkids about it someday when you can look back on it and laugh.
Then you get another message. Crap! Can this guy not get a hint? What is he trying to say now?
Who you talkin' dirty to you asshole?
Wait. What the hell?
Wait a sec. Ohshit Ohshit
That wasn't Johnny. That was Eliza, the most hottest bitch at school . . .