Sending prank SMSes from others’ cells (and getting caught doing so) is the best way to do unto death whatever little social life you may presently have.
But then, what’s life without a little risk? And if you, like yours truly, will never win a congeniality contest, the only risks that you take by sending prank SMSes is that of being physically assaulted.
Note: The receiver HAS to be a she – detailed studies have proven that except under exceptional circumstances, guys never react as interestingly and entertainingly as females do, when bombarded with prank SMSes.
Prank SMSes can be on a variety of topics, from the morbid to the simply ridiculous. But for best results, try the following tried & tested prank SMS series– tested under stringent conditions at Dr. Siddhu’s ISO 666 certified laboratory at the National Institute of Technology and Science.
‘Help me, I need a fix – and HOW!!!’
It was during an exceptionally tortuous stretch of extreme boredom that this idea struck me.
I was thinking deep thoughts about the fly that I had found in my curry at the canteen yesterday when I noticed one of my classmates fiddling away furiously with his new Reliance IndiaMobile, while another stared at her ancient mobile, probably waiting for it to reveal to her the secrets of the universe. (The mobile was ancient enough to have been around during the creation of the universe)
My mind, indelibly perverted by a lifetime of sitting through boring lectures, raced at the possibilities of sending her interesting (to say the least) messages from his cell. And considering the fact that she was one of the most hyperactive and short tempered girls in class, an explosive reaction would almost definitely result.
I shared the idea with my neighbour – a bloke named Gandhi who wasn’t impeded by any of the scruples that his illustrious namesake was so unfortunately saddled with. He assured me it was a pippin.
I turned to the chap who was still immersed in the wonders of his new Reliance and requested him to show me the piece for a bit.
The bloke, whose name I decline to reveal for obvious reasons, hesitated. But after I’d praised the looks of the phone (though it looked ugly enough to be the property of the neighbourhood scavenger – and in fact, lots of scavengers did possess them) and compared it with the ancient phone which the aforementioned female was fiddling around with, he gave in. The all-important cell changed hands. Gandhi and I got to work almost immediately.
Hi ____, I knw u vry wll. I m ur clssmte. I knw u r on drugs. I cn say by lukin at ur face.
The message was received a few seconds later by ____, who was still thinking of how useful Babur had probably found her cell during the first battle of Panipat.
She saw the phone light up with the message. Her face lit up just like the phone’s screen, the only difference between the two being the absence of the green backlight on her face.
But after reading the message, her expression changed entirely to one of total shock. Gandhi and I suddenly began to suspect whether we had actually hit the nail on the head when we decided to talk about her drug addiction.
She began to type feverishly into her cell. We could almost hear the keys, aged veterans of a million SMSes, creak in agony and protest as she typed it in.
Who are you?
It was the Reliance’s turn to light up in all its glory.
I knw u knw who I am. I dnt wnna play arnd. All I need is a lil dope. I knw u knw whr to get it- pls meet me at ‘Coffee’ wt the stuff in evening 7 30.wil pay u thr.
She looked really flustered and began fingering her dupatta which she’d tightly wound around her neck by then. She got into a deep discussion with her neighbour who seemed to favour the ISI conspiracy angle from the look on her face. After frenetic consultations, she messaged me –
I dnt knw who u r or wht u r tlkin abt.
Gandhi’s face lit up with ill-concealed malice. He told me how we could facilitate an admirably violent twist in the kahaani.
Till that date, I had underestimated Gandhi’s flair for villainy. He came up with a masterstroke – an idea so clever that I concluded that if there ever was anyone who could write a sequel to Machiavelli’s The Prince, here stood he. It was truly exceptional that anybody who so resembled Magilla the Gorilla could possess such a wonderfully devious mind. But so it was.
All I could say was, ‘Gandhi, my boy… I’m proud of u…!’
He punched in -
Call me at 12:45 durin lunch brk.I wil tlk to u n tll u abt the cash 4 the dope. Stop playing dumb wit me or I wil tel ur parents u do drugs.
‘At 12:45, guess who’s gonna be carrying this mobile?’, said he, with a straight face.
‘Stop giggling,’ , said he, rather sternly and offered me the chance to type in ____’s number and press the send button - ostensibly to give me an opportunity to participate in this momentous event. I gleefully accepted the warm, generous offer.
There was, quite predictably, no reply to this message. All we could see was that she was frantically consulting her neighbour.
We handed the phone back to the chap who went back to fiddling with it. Gandhi and I got on with our favourite task of composing lewd couplets about our professor who was waxing eloquent about the vagaries of the varactor diode.
We waited for the golden moment. A couple of times, I noticed a flicker of a wicked smile play on Gandhi’s lips as he talked to me. I didn’t like the smile. But I dismissed the thought from my mind – I decided it would be unfair to blame Gandhi for not having a winsome smile.
‘It isn’t his fault that he’s got a mug like the lower class of mafia don’, I rationalized…
To be continued...