It's my dance party: The Day That I Worried That My Kid Brother Had Become Suddenly Uncool or How The Writer Nearly Flipped Her Sh***. A Story In Pictures.

I made a phone call to my brother today.
The connection is made and this soothing, female voice on the other end asks me to "wait while my party is reached."
And then some crappy what-might-be-known-as-R&B-in-some-loose-terms comes on and some woman/man? is whining in my ear.
And I'm all:

I'm hearing what-might-be-known-as-lyrics-in-some-loose-terms along the lines of, "oh baaaaaby (blah blah blah) and your boooooody" and "oh gurrrrrrl you've got me gooooooin'" and then back to "your boooooody" and probably something else further about her boooooty but I had already tuned out cause at that point it was,

Because really, can this be FOR REAL?
I mean, I know my brother. He's kickass. He owns. He's hip. He jives. He's down.
He does not use his cellphone to broadcast statements like, "I'M A TOTAL DOUCHE BAG AND REALLY PROUD OF THIS FACT SO WHO WANTS TO KNOW. GURL."

He just doesn't.

And then it happened. I'm working on keeping my blood pressure down and thinking of the Come To Jesus talk that I am about to have with the kid brother in question...
"Hi. You've reached Chelsea..."

Wrong number.
There is a God.
Woo.

Chelsea was, I would say, roughly 14, 15 years old.
You know, of the generation that could run the world if the quadratic equation could be converted into text speech and sports shirts saying, "Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?"
And sadly, apparently one of those that feels like boys singing songs about her "gurl booty" and her "boooooody" is so cool that she should use her cellphone as a small radio transmitter to let everyone know:
"I dig douche bags."

Needless to say, I was relieved.

Yes. Chelsea.
You are in my thoughts. I'm there for you, gurrl. Don't let your boo get you down. Be strong baby girl.

And change your ringtone. For crying out loud.

RE: the restored status of aforementioned kid brother:

Props for being you and not being lame and, you know, stuff.
Close call buddy.