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I Waited For You, Fry
After several months of physical rehab and applied medical voodoo for my injuries, I am able to return to work in a very limited capacity. But low, they hath waited for me. Oh how they waited. Like gleeful children on Christmas Eve, how they have waited for this day. I had barely sat down when their feral excitement sprayed henceforth upon my unsuspecting person.
Yes.
SC: "Oh, hey, I'm right across the street from you guys. But I thought I'd call first and ask: Is it faster to order something through you or just walk across the street?"
It's good to know you take the time to really give life's little challenges the proper amount of thought and consideration, sir. But to answer your question, I suppose that depends on whether not you can manage to cross a street in under 3-5 business days.
If you can, then by all means, please visit our local store. If, on the other hand you are, say, a disembodied head someone is keeping in an old fish tank in the back of a closet; Kept alive only through unspeakable pacts with dark forces and the occasional tender caress of a Swiffer duster then yes, it may be faster for me to simply place the order for you.
Alternatively, if you reside on the first or second floor of your building I can contact the store directly and see if they can physically throw your purchase through an open window. If you cannot open a window yourself, I will need to charge you an additional shipping charge of $3.99 to cover the cost of the brick.
My Glasses Are Not That Good
Me: "Are you 19 or older, sir?"
SC: "What? Of course! Don't I look it?"
Look, I know I've been gone a while. But I assure you it was because I was undergoing extensive physical therapy. I was not actually deep in the mountains meditating under a waterfall to unlock the arcane power of my mind. I have not ascended to a new plane of human existence nor did I at any point kill a bear with my bare hands.
So you're just going to have to accept the fact that I still can't see through a fucking telephone.
What Was That Again?
Me: "And your postal code, please?"
SC: "It's......hang on......what is that-OH MY GOD"
I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't quite catch that. Is that somewhere in Ontario or is that more towards Quebec? Oh wait wait, I remember now. It's a suburb of SHITFUCKGETITOFF, Ontario, right?
At Least Try To Care
Me: "And your name please?"
SC: "Susan"
Me: "Is that S-U-S-A-N or S-U-Z-A-N-N-E?"
SC: "Sure, whatever"
I hate to intrude on your perfect sphere of teenage apathy, but surprisingly enough credit card companies actually care about whether or not you spell your name properly. I know, I know, its stupid. You should just be able to use any credit card number and write in whatever the fuck for your name, right? But it turns out they're real sticklers about this, trust me.
Well, That Just Happened
SC: "Oh my god! What and I'm going to do?! I can't find it anywhere!"
Me: "........."
I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll have to give me a second or two. I was not actually aware it was possible for a full grown adult to have a borderline emotional break down over...what was it again? Oh yes, a misplaced garbage can. Don't get me wrong, its not that I'm unsympathetic to your....um....plight. It's just that this call is so absurd that the dark, seething nugget within my heart that was created by all my years in this industry would like another moment or two to really enjoy this.
Charlie & The Chocolate Factory
Picture if you will: You're just getting home from a long day of shopping and errands. You have an entire car full of delectable bulk goods from Costco. But you live on the 8th floor of an apartment building. No matter, of course, for your apartment naturally has an elevator.
But fate is not so kind this day. For upon reaching the lobby you discover the elevator is out of order. Because someone has finger painted a complex, insightful mural using only one colour of paint that can only be described as "Hersey Brown". It is safe to say from the overpowering aroma that the paint is 100% natural, organic ingredients.
Not to be defeated, you begin to drag your groceries up 8 flights of stairs to reach your apartment. It will take more than an unwarranted box of chocolates to ruin your day. But alas, the cruelty of the gods has already planned ahead for your cleverness. The carpet in the entire hallway of your floor is riddled with unexpected surprises. It is a veritable minefield of homemade macaroons.
No, I'm not exaggerating either. The caller actually used the term "Minefield" and indicated he literally had to watch where he stepped in order to avoid any tragic mistakes. All the while carrying two armfuls of groceries.
While the culprit was not immediately apprehended, the manager indicated he left a pretty clear trail back to his apartment from the front door.... >.>
I Waited For You, Fry
Me: "Are you calling to place an order?"
SC: "Uhhhh...."
......*sigh*.
Me: "Hello?"
SC: "Huh?"
Me: "Can I help you?"
SC: "Uhhhh.....um...."
Just...just say yes. Just, just fucking say yes, okay? Its not that hard! Oh my god, it's been 3 months. I had just managed to begin to forget about you people and yet, here I am again! Caught between an intellect on the level of a flickering neon light in a gas station restroom and it's unspeakable object of fashion lust: Denim.
Me: "........is there something I can help you with?"
SC: "...umm...can you order me?"
I'm sorry, sir, but there's no way I could afford the shipping costs of an object that dense.
Me: "You mean you want to place an order?"
SC: "Yeah"
Okay, just....let me get through this. We're on track, its okay. We can do this, you and I. I know this sort of rudimentary exchange of words is beyond you but don't worry. I am a trained professional. Everything is going to be alright. You just...I don't know, just flop on the ground and try not to break anything or hurt yourself. I'm going to see if I can tie the rope of basic understanding around your waist and drag you across the ice flows of comprehension before either of us succumbs to exposure.
Me: "And your postal code please?"
SC: "....postal code?"
Me: "Yes"
SC: "What's that?"
Oh fuck me. Just, fuck me. Fuck me with the candlestick in the ballroom.
Me: "It's part of your address."
SC: "Uhhhh....."
Me: "Do you know your postal code, sir?"
SC: "Pants?"
Alright sir, I've checked the dictionary and unfortunately there no specific word in the English language for that sort of silent incomprehensible rage where you move your mouth but no sound comes out. Sadly, this throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the next thing I was going to say to you. But, I assure you, I am a trained professional and I will do everything in my power to properly communicate the situation......
.....Alright, it seems I owe you two apologies. The English language also seems to distinctly lack a word for "I will find you and transpose a lawn chair into your colon t the soundtrack of Inception".
Again, I am very sorry sir. Please accept my apologies on behalf of our company.
Me: "........no. It's part of your address, sir. Without it, we can't mail anything to you."
SC: "Oh, uhhhhhh.......okay. Bye then. <click>"
With all due respect, sir; There are many, many objects currently within arm's reach that are of a size and weight whereby they can be hurdled at great speed towards the imagined apparitions of your slack jawed face which now haunt my personal reality.
It is only through sheer force of will that your cross eyed phantoms have not died a 1000 deaths by the blunt edge of a Wireless Wave keyboard desperately clutched in my quivering simian hands.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: Have a nice day, sir and thank you for calling.
annnnd rest.
Fun Fact: My coworkers so are convinced I attract these kinds of callers by virtue of my existence that they self fulfill the prophecy by making sure to route certain types of calls to me. >.>
Yes.
SC: "Oh, hey, I'm right across the street from you guys. But I thought I'd call first and ask: Is it faster to order something through you or just walk across the street?"
It's good to know you take the time to really give life's little challenges the proper amount of thought and consideration, sir. But to answer your question, I suppose that depends on whether not you can manage to cross a street in under 3-5 business days.
If you can, then by all means, please visit our local store. If, on the other hand you are, say, a disembodied head someone is keeping in an old fish tank in the back of a closet; Kept alive only through unspeakable pacts with dark forces and the occasional tender caress of a Swiffer duster then yes, it may be faster for me to simply place the order for you.
Alternatively, if you reside on the first or second floor of your building I can contact the store directly and see if they can physically throw your purchase through an open window. If you cannot open a window yourself, I will need to charge you an additional shipping charge of $3.99 to cover the cost of the brick.
My Glasses Are Not That Good
Me: "Are you 19 or older, sir?"
SC: "What? Of course! Don't I look it?"
Look, I know I've been gone a while. But I assure you it was because I was undergoing extensive physical therapy. I was not actually deep in the mountains meditating under a waterfall to unlock the arcane power of my mind. I have not ascended to a new plane of human existence nor did I at any point kill a bear with my bare hands.
So you're just going to have to accept the fact that I still can't see through a fucking telephone.
What Was That Again?
Me: "And your postal code, please?"
SC: "It's......hang on......what is that-OH MY GOD"
I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't quite catch that. Is that somewhere in Ontario or is that more towards Quebec? Oh wait wait, I remember now. It's a suburb of SHITFUCKGETITOFF, Ontario, right?
At Least Try To Care
Me: "And your name please?"
SC: "Susan"
Me: "Is that S-U-S-A-N or S-U-Z-A-N-N-E?"
SC: "Sure, whatever"
I hate to intrude on your perfect sphere of teenage apathy, but surprisingly enough credit card companies actually care about whether or not you spell your name properly. I know, I know, its stupid. You should just be able to use any credit card number and write in whatever the fuck for your name, right? But it turns out they're real sticklers about this, trust me.
Well, That Just Happened
SC: "Oh my god! What and I'm going to do?! I can't find it anywhere!"
Me: "........."
I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll have to give me a second or two. I was not actually aware it was possible for a full grown adult to have a borderline emotional break down over...what was it again? Oh yes, a misplaced garbage can. Don't get me wrong, its not that I'm unsympathetic to your....um....plight. It's just that this call is so absurd that the dark, seething nugget within my heart that was created by all my years in this industry would like another moment or two to really enjoy this.
Charlie & The Chocolate Factory
Picture if you will: You're just getting home from a long day of shopping and errands. You have an entire car full of delectable bulk goods from Costco. But you live on the 8th floor of an apartment building. No matter, of course, for your apartment naturally has an elevator.
But fate is not so kind this day. For upon reaching the lobby you discover the elevator is out of order. Because someone has finger painted a complex, insightful mural using only one colour of paint that can only be described as "Hersey Brown". It is safe to say from the overpowering aroma that the paint is 100% natural, organic ingredients.
Not to be defeated, you begin to drag your groceries up 8 flights of stairs to reach your apartment. It will take more than an unwarranted box of chocolates to ruin your day. But alas, the cruelty of the gods has already planned ahead for your cleverness. The carpet in the entire hallway of your floor is riddled with unexpected surprises. It is a veritable minefield of homemade macaroons.
No, I'm not exaggerating either. The caller actually used the term "Minefield" and indicated he literally had to watch where he stepped in order to avoid any tragic mistakes. All the while carrying two armfuls of groceries.
While the culprit was not immediately apprehended, the manager indicated he left a pretty clear trail back to his apartment from the front door.... >.>
I Waited For You, Fry
Me: "Are you calling to place an order?"
SC: "Uhhhh...."
......*sigh*.
Me: "Hello?"
SC: "Huh?"
Me: "Can I help you?"
SC: "Uhhhh.....um...."
Just...just say yes. Just, just fucking say yes, okay? Its not that hard! Oh my god, it's been 3 months. I had just managed to begin to forget about you people and yet, here I am again! Caught between an intellect on the level of a flickering neon light in a gas station restroom and it's unspeakable object of fashion lust: Denim.
Me: "........is there something I can help you with?"
SC: "...umm...can you order me?"
I'm sorry, sir, but there's no way I could afford the shipping costs of an object that dense.
Me: "You mean you want to place an order?"
SC: "Yeah"
Okay, just....let me get through this. We're on track, its okay. We can do this, you and I. I know this sort of rudimentary exchange of words is beyond you but don't worry. I am a trained professional. Everything is going to be alright. You just...I don't know, just flop on the ground and try not to break anything or hurt yourself. I'm going to see if I can tie the rope of basic understanding around your waist and drag you across the ice flows of comprehension before either of us succumbs to exposure.
Me: "And your postal code please?"
SC: "....postal code?"
Me: "Yes"
SC: "What's that?"
Oh fuck me. Just, fuck me. Fuck me with the candlestick in the ballroom.
Me: "It's part of your address."
SC: "Uhhhh....."
Me: "Do you know your postal code, sir?"
SC: "Pants?"
Alright sir, I've checked the dictionary and unfortunately there no specific word in the English language for that sort of silent incomprehensible rage where you move your mouth but no sound comes out. Sadly, this throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the next thing I was going to say to you. But, I assure you, I am a trained professional and I will do everything in my power to properly communicate the situation......
.....Alright, it seems I owe you two apologies. The English language also seems to distinctly lack a word for "I will find you and transpose a lawn chair into your colon t the soundtrack of Inception".
Again, I am very sorry sir. Please accept my apologies on behalf of our company.
Me: "........no. It's part of your address, sir. Without it, we can't mail anything to you."
SC: "Oh, uhhhhhh.......okay. Bye then. <click>"
With all due respect, sir; There are many, many objects currently within arm's reach that are of a size and weight whereby they can be hurdled at great speed towards the imagined apparitions of your slack jawed face which now haunt my personal reality.
It is only through sheer force of will that your cross eyed phantoms have not died a 1000 deaths by the blunt edge of a Wireless Wave keyboard desperately clutched in my quivering simian hands.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: Have a nice day, sir and thank you for calling.
annnnd rest.
Fun Fact: My coworkers so are convinced I attract these kinds of callers by virtue of my existence that they self fulfill the prophecy by making sure to route certain types of calls to me. >.>
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