Man Posts Epic Craigslist Missed Connection for Girl Who Held His iPhone Hostage
I picked up my girlfriend's phone, she was calling from one of her friend's phones and wanted to know what was going on. Roughly thirty seconds after I informed her of the basics of our situation, I saw your countenance assume that pure, unmistakable expression of absolute, palpable terror that one can only adopt in the face of being charged on a city street by three twentysomething Long Island girls, dressed as Peg Bundy and "Titanic's" Jack and Rose, respectively. You must have been pretty scared because you started crying and bounded sloppily into the pizzeria. I, my girlfriend and her friends, and your friends, followed you. My constituents chased you around the pizzeria, calling you a "bitch" and other ladylike epithets while I blocked the door, barring the exit. Literally backed into a corner at this point, you did naught but cry more violently while still demanding your twenty dollars. Thinking back, I really do admire your tenacity; I would have probably given the phone back but you must have really, truly wanted that twenty.
The owner of the pizzeria forced my party outside while I dialed '311' to ask for the police and report a theft. Your friends reposed at tables while you remained in the back corner by the bathroom door, crying and enduring shouts from a few of the patrons, who were lambasting you to "just give him the fucking phone back and get out, already." You took out my phone and started calling someone on it. I later found out that you'd called my mother around ten times, crying hysterically, asking why we were "being so mean" to you, and telling her that we were trying to "beat [you] up." You little tattletale, you.
A few short moments later, the police were in full abundance. It must have been a particularly slow Halloween night because the force saw fit to spare us no less than a dozen of its most capable, well-mannered, intelligent officers. As the owner of the pizzeria emerged from behind the counter, the officers separated the parties and mine went outside to deliver our account of the situation. We quickly learned you'd informed the police that my girlfriend and her friends had hit you which was, of course, a complete fabrication.
The police asked everyone for identification and it was at this point that I reached into my back pocket to grab my wallet. It wasn't there. I checked my jacket pockets, the ones outside and inside the coat, and it wasn't there, either. I panicked. Where the fuck was my wallet? I asked my girlfriend if she had it; she didn't. The officers searched your purse and you didn't have it. Where was it? It was then that my mind flashed with sheer, horrific realization. The bums. As I'd argued with you, there were so many gathered around, all standing so close to us, so intent on observing the fracas. They'd seen me take the wallet out of my back pocket to offer you the six dollars and they'd seen me replace it. The goddamn, fucking bums.
The police told me that I'd have to report the theft to the local precinct and furthermore, that I could not press charges on you, as my girlfriend and her friends had been accused of striking you in trying to retrieve my phone. Prodded by the police, you walked out of the pizzeria and said tearfully, "I just wanna give this to you," handing me my iPhone. Gone was my wallet, gone were the bums who'd nicked it from my pocket. And soon you'd be gone, too, off into the waning Samhain night.
The bum who pick-pocketed me made off with six dollars, two canceled debit cards, and one really nice Tommy Hilfiger wallet (luckily, my license was in my jacket pocket, as we'd been barhopping that night). I retired to a nearby bar to lick my wounds; my girlfriend bought me a PBR and a triple of Seagram's, neat. As for you, I don't know where you went but I hope, you troglodytic guttersnipe, that a stranger does something terrible to you, something unfortunate and inconvenient. I don't believe in karma or subscribe to any belief, really; I don't purport to be any sort of moral compass but you, lady, are absolutely inept, both morally and pragmatically. You are a denizen of a level in the contemporary hell of modern living that is reserved for people who mistreat complete strangers--you're a very, very bad person.
There's really nothing else to say except, this is clearly the best "missed connection" of 2011. The greatest aspect of this is how the writer skates over details like his older female friends yelling "bitch" at the offending teen, chasing her around a pizza place, and trying to "strike" her like it's nothing. We're trying to get in touch with the author to see how everything shook out in the end and will update if we hear back.
[via Bowery Boogie]
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