Waaazzzzuuuppp? What’s the 4-1-1, my peeps? This here’s your boy, Trevor. I’ve been out of circulation for the past twenty years thanks to a falling safe on the old noggin (ouch!) that left me in what “doctors” call a “vegetative state.” You can’t see me, but I’m doing the old air quotes which I’m now able to do thanks to regaining full use of my arms and hands (look out ladies, am I right? Your boy, Trevor, is awake, alert, and ready to mingle). That’s right; this here is a booty call going out to all of the little hotties… Trevor’s no longer trapped in an ethereal limbo.
I’m back, girls. Let’s get jiggy with it!
Do I make you horny? Yeah, baby! I’m dealing with a little cognitive dissociation that’s causing me to refer to myself in the third person, though my “doctors” tell me it’s just temporary. Trevor’s got his feeding tube out and he’s ready to rock some special lady’s world. Are you down with O.P.P.? No, I mean seriously. Trevor’s catheterized and so whoever he chooses as his best girl can’t be shy around my junk since my catheter needs to be changed regularly. Old Trevor needs to pee (“Yeah, you know me!”).
What? Don’t want to come back to my crib for a hella good time? Talk to the hand! The Zima is chilling on ice, Matchbox Twenty is in the CD player, and Trevor’s all sexy up in here with his puka shell necklace on. Do I make you randy? I bet you’re just dying to drag your nails across my back. Don’t go there! No, seriously. You don’t want to go there. Trevor’s got some bed sores that haven’t quite cleared up yet.
If I can be honest here for a moment, Trevor is finding it a bit difficult adjusting to life in the present. Things sure have changed. Like, for example: where have all the boy bands gone? How come chicks no longer like to be called… chicks? Where can a guy get replacement cassettes for his answering machine?
Show me the money! Seriously, can someone show me the money? I want to be sure we’re all still using USD. Are you all that and a bag of chips? If so, hit me up on my pager and we can hook up tonight. Actually, my pager doesn’t seem to be getting a signal. Guess old Trevor will have to pop into Circuit City and get it checked out. Technology, am I right? Tell you what, send me an “email” (that’s lingo for “electronic mail”), and Trevor will dial up the old Information Super Highway, sign onto AOL and…” You’ve got mail!”
Whoomp! There it is!
Trevor is splashing on the Drakkar and waiting for you in a private chat room named “Trevor’s Private Chat Room.” So if your phat (that’s “pretty, hot, and tempting,” though Trevor doesn’t discriminate), stop in, give me your digits—or better yet, let’s take this chat to 976-HOT-GIRL. If we hit it off, we can take a trip to Blockbuster, get the latest Tom Hanks-Meg Ryan video, and bump uglies.
The last twenty years haven’t been kind to Trevor. That “Backstreet Boys 4ever” tattoo is looking a little dated. Know what? Trevor doesn’t need to be so picky. You don’t have to be a Claudia Schiffer to win my love. In fact, I don’t care what you look like. Trevor’s been traveling the astral plane solo for two decades. He’s lonely. He’s just looking for a little kindness.
You had me at hello… you had me at hello.