I have the same phone number as Elvis.
It’s true, same number. I discovered this when the calls began, and they would usually go like this:
“Hello, Elvis?”
“Hi… may I speak with Elvis?”
“Is Elvis there?”
When these calls started coming in I thought I was being pranked and would get annoyed — but finally I asked somebody, “Hey — what number are you calling, anyway?” That’s when it became clear that Elvis and I shared a phone number, but with different area codes. This Elvis — not surprisingly — lives down South.
I should probably tell you that I love my cell phone number. It’s the sort of catchy and memorable combination that busineses crave. It’s really wasted on the likes of me.
So I called Elvis — it was apparently his work number and wanted to give him a heads up — but got his voice mail. I never heard back.
So, now when people call looking for Elvis, I politely tell them that they forgot the area code or dialed wrong. They always appreciate this. And I always close the call by saying, “Thank you very much.”
When I saw that someone posted this as their Facebook status, I instantly understood:
But what’s really funny is when you spot this thing on the rug at 5am, because before coffee and in dim light it looks exactly like a huge steaming pile of dog sh… ummmm…. poop.
