Cell Phones Versus Little Black Books, Round Two

Scorpy's post on the twelve steps of Blogging Singles Anonymous sparked a hilarious discussion on drunk dialing.

I am a notorious drunk dialer. Scratch that. I'm a notorious booty-calling drunk dialer. (Was that really my Valentine's post from last year? I'm such a tool.) If I'm going to call someone drunk, I'm going to have fun with it: I'm going to sing songs, tell stories, act out parts of plays, etc. There was the incident where Conor and I got drunk and played a tin flute into his mother's answering machine while singing about his roommate's magical forest. There may or may not have been a bongo accompaniment. I still remember waking up the next morning to his mother screaming in his answering machine over the message. So hilarious.

It's gotten to the point that I refuse to put a boy's number in my phone. My phone is just too accessible and I'm too unpredictable. If for some reason I do need to call a boy, I immediately delete his number from my call log, otherwise I'll scroll through it when I'm drunk. I'm less likely to drunk dial my friends, but when I do, they know me well enough to appreciate the message and take it for what it's worth. Conor is a huge fan of my messages.

Of course there is an incident that made me delete all boys' numbers. I hadn't heard from a particular boy in a month and after a happy-hour-turned-all-nighter, I slid open my cell phone and pressed the call button next to his picture. In between uncontrollable bouts of laughter, I sang this entire song on his voice mail:

Needless to say, I never heard from him again.

What was the worst drunk dial you ever made?