The following is a transcript of one half of a telephone conversation from Phillip Mitchell, 24, of Stockton, California- 8:12 p.m. February 23, 2005. He was not aware that this conversation was recorded.
I wrote a poem for you. It’s not much I know, but I think that it says everything that I’ve been meaning to express to you, albeit in a more meaningful, deep and highly abstract way. What is the poem called? Oh, I suppose you would want to know that. It’s called ‘Dirty Dicks/Whiskey Nights: A Working Title’. What? Absurd. No, no, I don’t think you understand. The title is just to hook the reader, in this case the reader being you. Fucking worked didn’t it? Gotcha! Once you read the poem you will see that there is much more depth, compassion and raw emotion. So yeah, that title, don’t worry about that. The only person who is going to read that is going to be you anyway. So that can be our little joke. Our little ‘inside’ *wink wink, ‘nudge nudge’ thing. Ha, we’ll end up telling the grand-kids about that one huh? Good stuff. But anyway, that title is dead fucking serious. I’m not changing that.
The poem is so erotic. Well, I’m not gonna read it to you right now. I don’t have it memorized for Gods sakes. It’s really good though. If I had to compare it to something? Hmm...good question. I like the way you think. I would say a cross between the lyrics of Madonna’s "Erotica", the monologue at the beginning of "Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring" and then some crazy European trance shit that I heard some dude saying on ‘E! Wild on Ibiza’. That guy was so high! But his words struck me as being the truth. Hit me like a ton of bricks.
Well no, I don’t have the poem on me right now. I was waiting for the right time to give it to you. Oh Christ, stop asking me all these questions, you’re gonna ruin the surprise. You want it to be a surprise don’t you? You love surprises. Remember that time I surprised you on your birthday by taking you to Bennigan’s? That was awesome! I love that Monte Cristo sandwich. It’s SO bad for you, but I could eat like 3 of those. Are those deep fried? I don’t even care, I love them so much. Ha, remember I kept eating all of your fries and you were getting pissed and told me to order my own if I wanted some? God you were mad. Y our face got all red cause I kept eating em and dipping em in your ranch. Ha, you bitch. I love it. I was so drunk that night. Did I pass out? I did didn’t I? Classic! Happy Birthday...to me!
See, you love surprises so don’t ruin it. You think you have me figured out huh? Well this poem will blow...you...away. Literally. The poem will LITERALLY blow you away. What? Yes I know what literally means. Duh. Who do you think I am, your dumb cousin Scott? What..he’s retarded? No, shut up. No he’s not. No he’s not! Serious? Wow, that is awesome! I had no idea. I’m sorry. No, I’ll stop laughing...I just...wow. That is awesome. Shit, somebody is beeping in on the other line. I think that’s AIDS Steve. He doesn’t have really have AIDS, we just call him that. He hates it. I gotta go. But let me iron out a few kinks of that poem and you’ll have it in your ranch-lovin’ fingers in no time. I love you. So much. No I mean it. Don’t cry. Why are you crying? I’ll text you later when I’m drunk. We’ll work this out, don’t worry. No..shh..I gotta go. Bye.
I love you too Grandma.
Editor's note: This post was quite possibly written under the duress of shingles-related dementia.