"Hi.  We can't come to the phone right now but if you'll leave your name, number, and a short message after the beep we'll get back with you as soon as we can.

     "Yes, of course you're right.  It's possible that we can come to the phone right now but merely prefer to continue sitting, eating, cleaning the oven, or engaging in perversions with the cat instead.  Please don't take that personally.  It's not that you're not a human being entitled to acknowledgment, respect, understanding and love - it's just that we're not always prepared to give you all those things on the spur of the moment, and especially not when we've finally gotten the cushions just so, a good grip on our fork, or the leather straps adjusted for the maximum comfort of all concerned. 
     "Oh, sure, I suppose we could take a second to acknowledge you without even thinking about it, but the respect, understanding, and love take time - more time than we have just now, what with the caterwauling having alerted the neighbors again.  Why, the out-of-town rehearsals alone for a proper show of respect, understanding and love require three weeks minimum - and that's if we skimp on the brass band!

     "Yes, I suppose we could just drop everything, grab the receiver while cursing under our breath, and fake a 'meaningful' conversation like we have so many times in the past, but really - you deserve better than that, you really do.  Just think how much more the conversation will mean when you finally get ahold of someone who's been waiting for your ring because of you and not merely because they were in the mood for a good, strong buzzing from anyone at all - even a telemarketer with a mechanical dialer.
     "If you happen to be a telemarketer with a mechanical dialer yourself, please don't take that putdown the wrong way.  We're sure you're a fine, outstanding person and a credit to your gender, race, and region - you just need to familiarize yourself with Plato's belief that a person is rich not according to the number of his or her possessions but according to the fewness of his or her wants.  We really don't want anything at all, thank you, although it would be nice if you'd leave us alone while we go to the door and attempt to convince the neighbors that the sounds they heard were merely coming from our TV.

     "Of course it's possible that you're actually not a telemarketer at all but a 'wrong number.'  Let's go with that a minute. 
     "Why do you think of yourself as just a number?  In what sense can any number really be 'wrong'?  Have you ever tried to think of yourself as a 'right person' instead?  Might not that be a healthier attitude, all in all? 
     "Think about that and next week we'll see if a cat or two might not boost your self-esteem as much as that species of animal has boosted the self-esteem of others I know.

     "If you're actually a Russian who's calling, well, what can I say?  I'm told your culture really, really loves telephonic communications, so it's understandable that you've eventually reached this number as a result of your dervish-like dialing.  I regret to inform you that not all cultures are quite so easily amused by small electrical devices with mouthpieces.  Mine is one of them.  This doesn't mean that my culture is better, or that I'm a better person than you for being part of it, but it does mean I want you the hell off this line, and I want you the hell off this line NOW. 
     "Thank you.

     "Regardless of whether you're someone looking for a tawdry crumb of acknowledge, a Plato-ignorant telemarketer, a deluded wrong number, or even a telephonically intoxicated Russian, it's possible that you've only reached me at all because of an acute need for remedial area code instruction.  In 1991 the U.S. had a mere 119 area codes.  We now have no fewer than 215, so it's easy to see how one might become confused.  I sympathize with your plight.  I'd sympathize even more if I wasn't crying my eyes out over the fact that, had I invested in those area codes back in 1991, I would now be almost twice as rich in numbers as I am.  As it is, I seem not to have so much as a beep to my name.

     "Yes, the secret's finally out.  I've been shamelessly stalling for time here as I've tried to think of some way of breaking it to you gently, but there's simply no way of sugar-coating it - and sugar-coating it would only attract cat hair, anyway. 
     "The fact is that... there is no beep.  There never was, and there's never going to be.
     "Hell, there's not even an answering machine!  They took that away from me after I greeted one too many callers with obscene mooing.  Truth is, I've merely been reading you this message I keep in a bottle next to my phone, live.  It's a sickness, I know - the result of bad genes, a bad upbringing, too many comic books, and too much inhaled cat dander.  
     "Please don't hate me as a result of these forces beyond my control - it's quite unbecoming in a person with complete free will like you.

     "As for me, well... I'm so terribly sorry.  If there was anything I could do to make it up to you, I would.  Instead - hard as it may be - I think it best if you just quietly hang up now and allow the healing process to begin.
     "Or call up Graffiti Rounded Up To The Nearest Whole Thought to see where all the creative energy that should have gone into this message went instead.
     "I mean, if you've listened this long, it's not like you have a life - right?
     "Hello? 
     "Hello...?

     "Moo."