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Its that time again... ( You know, when I suffer for your amusement. )
867
Me: "By credit card or COD?"
SC: "Uh, COD……yeah, COD. My credit cards are maxed."
Now, I don't claim to be any sort of accountant, stock broker or any other sort of economically inclined professional. But even I can figure out that if you've maxed out your credit cards now may not be the best time to be ordering $200+ worth of pants. The average credit card has a limit of $500-$1000. So you're already at *least* that much in the hole. Since you're calling me from the accursed 867 area code its not like you can depend on bankruptcy to save you either. I'm pretty sure the only things of value inside your depressing, possibly wheeled trailer like abode is whatever you bought to max out your credit cards to begin with.
However deliriously luxurious these items may be to you, I highly doubt it'll be worth it for them to repossess 50 kilos of ranch beer nuts, half a ton of two ply toilet paper ( Sometimes you have to treat yourself to something fancy after all ) and the God knows how many pairs of pants you purchased. There isn't enough bleach in the world to make those pants resell able even at a Salvation Army level. There's no telling what kind of unspeakable groinal stains you've soaked into them, but I'm pretty sure they're the kind of thing that can only be unmade in the fires of Mount Doom.
I Bow to the Master
( This is the coroner's office.... )
TM: "Oh hi, it's detective Sasha such and such, badge number xxxx of such and such division. We cover <insert list of all the crimes covered by said division here>. We have an aggravated assault victim that’s passed away. I guess it's going over to homicide now! Teehee."
Wow, you know, I'm a bitter, festering desensitized shell of a human being but I haven't quite reached THAT level yet. Detective Sasha, I salute you. Its reassuring to know that while I'm probably going to hell for half the stuff I write in my journals, at least I'll have company. Teehee.
Right.
Me: "Good evening, <client company>"
SC: "Is this <my actual company, not client company>?"
Me: "Yes, it is."
SC: "Is E-dot there?"
Me: "…E-dot?"
SC: "Yeah, Edot"
Me: "There's no one here by that name at the moment. Are those their initials?"
SC: "<snicker giggle> <click>"
Soo…..which one of you is the illustrious E-Dot? It seems you have groupies.
Swamp Thing
Me: "Good evening, <company name>, are you calling about our roofing systems?"
SC: "What the hell is this Poco thing?!"
Me: "Pardon?"
SC: "Is this Securitas?"
Me: "…no"
SC: "Oh."
The lengthy elaborate greeting didn't clue you in, eh? Well, on one hand you did just stumble mindlessly into the murky swamp of fail in flip-flops and a thong. But on the other hand, I do actually know what Poco is. So while you may have blindly flailed into the peat moss, at least you found a twoonie.
( Side Note: Poco = Port Coquitlum )
Sitting Arrangements
So there I am, actually standing on the Skytrain as there are no open seats to be seen. Which is rather unusual for this time of night at Edmond's. But none the less I grabbed a pole and persevered ( Get your mind out of the gutter, Becky ) until the glorious moment that a seat opened up. Unfortunately, while I saw a large hufflelumpagus shaped man leave the seat, when I sat down in the seat and sniffed I discovered it must have been a damp St Bernard. Which is odd, because I could have sworn it was the mighty hufflelumpagus. So not only did he leave the seat with an uncomfortable amount of residual butt warmth, but it also smells like wet dog. Glee~
So now not only do I smell like wet dog, but my butt cheeks are unpleasantly warm. Thank you, Mr. hufflelumpagus.
867 - I'm Learning!
Me: "and your phone number?"
SC: "Uh…<to background> hey what's our number!?"
Moments later…
Me: "What size would you like?"
SC: "Uh…<to the background> hey, what size?!"
Ok, tirlinaaqpaa, obviously you are merely an underling or perhaps even some sort of translator for whoever this mysterious deep throat like character in the background is. Is there some reason he cannot speak with me? Has he gone into hiding from some sort of dog sled mafia? Did they try and get him to throw the race, but he courageously refused? Are they holding his girlfriend/wife/sister/dog/beer cooler/engine block/Canadian Tire money hostage in an attempt to lure him out? Tell me! I must know! I can't handle the suspense! Will he be able to save his beer cooler? Or will the dog sled mafia beat him to death with snowshoes in a brutal kind of hit known in the northern lands as "snow coning"?
Yes, that's right, I went through all the trouble of learning how to say "dumbass" in Inuktitut. I have feeling that as far as dainty pearls of wisdom go, it may be one of the more useful ones in my immediate future.
($@&ing Voodoo Magic, Mon
( Brownie points if you get the reference. )
Me: "Our travel agents will be back in at 8am pacific. So in 4 hours."
SC: "Ok, I'll call back in an hour."
Me: "They'll be in, in 4 hours."
SC: "10 hours?"
Me: "4 hours."
SC: "I'll call back later."
You do that. Much later. Preferably after I have left and have arrived home. Where I will gleefully conduct an elaborate voodoo ritual against you and all you hold dear using the only things I have on hand: My old Grumpy Carebear from the 80's and those little yellow pick things you stick on the ends of corn cobs to hold them.
Because We Care
Me: "Ok, the number is 1-800"
SC: "1-800"
Me: "246"
SC: "5 what?!"
Yes, that's right. 1-800-5-WHAT?!. Also known as the mouth breather outreach program assistance hotline.
Oh God, War A Second Front!
( I rarely mention coworkers, but one of the new hires in a different division is irking me.... )
( For reference we have a security camera on the front door + intercom. The building is locked before 7 and after 5. Not to mention all day on the weekends. So you have to come up and buzz the intercom. We then go to the intercom, look at the camera monitor and ask who it is. You say who you are and if you're on our staff list, we let you in. We ask for your name even if we recognize you just for security purposes. )
So the intercom goes off....I go over, glance in the monitor. Never seen this girl before. So she's either a new hire or someone from a different company that pushed the wrong intercom button.....
Me: "Who is it?"
SCW: "<My Company Name>!"
Me: "Yes, but who are you?"
SCW: "I'm here for <Company Name>!"
Me: "Yes, but what is your *name*?"
SCW: "<Snarks her name at me really loudly>"
I buzz her in. Then I walk by her in the hall a fe wmoments later. I say good morning, she just gives me the blank stare of unpleasantness.
Jeebus spare me, I don't need this kind of stupidity from INSIDE the office too.
><
867
Me: "By credit card or COD?"
SC: "Uh, COD……yeah, COD. My credit cards are maxed."
Now, I don't claim to be any sort of accountant, stock broker or any other sort of economically inclined professional. But even I can figure out that if you've maxed out your credit cards now may not be the best time to be ordering $200+ worth of pants. The average credit card has a limit of $500-$1000. So you're already at *least* that much in the hole. Since you're calling me from the accursed 867 area code its not like you can depend on bankruptcy to save you either. I'm pretty sure the only things of value inside your depressing, possibly wheeled trailer like abode is whatever you bought to max out your credit cards to begin with.
However deliriously luxurious these items may be to you, I highly doubt it'll be worth it for them to repossess 50 kilos of ranch beer nuts, half a ton of two ply toilet paper ( Sometimes you have to treat yourself to something fancy after all ) and the God knows how many pairs of pants you purchased. There isn't enough bleach in the world to make those pants resell able even at a Salvation Army level. There's no telling what kind of unspeakable groinal stains you've soaked into them, but I'm pretty sure they're the kind of thing that can only be unmade in the fires of Mount Doom.
I Bow to the Master
( This is the coroner's office.... )
TM: "Oh hi, it's detective Sasha such and such, badge number xxxx of such and such division. We cover <insert list of all the crimes covered by said division here>. We have an aggravated assault victim that’s passed away. I guess it's going over to homicide now! Teehee."
Wow, you know, I'm a bitter, festering desensitized shell of a human being but I haven't quite reached THAT level yet. Detective Sasha, I salute you. Its reassuring to know that while I'm probably going to hell for half the stuff I write in my journals, at least I'll have company. Teehee.
Right.
Me: "Good evening, <client company>"
SC: "Is this <my actual company, not client company>?"
Me: "Yes, it is."
SC: "Is E-dot there?"
Me: "…E-dot?"
SC: "Yeah, Edot"
Me: "There's no one here by that name at the moment. Are those their initials?"
SC: "<snicker giggle> <click>"
Soo…..which one of you is the illustrious E-Dot? It seems you have groupies.
Swamp Thing
Me: "Good evening, <company name>, are you calling about our roofing systems?"
SC: "What the hell is this Poco thing?!"
Me: "Pardon?"
SC: "Is this Securitas?"
Me: "…no"
SC: "Oh."
The lengthy elaborate greeting didn't clue you in, eh? Well, on one hand you did just stumble mindlessly into the murky swamp of fail in flip-flops and a thong. But on the other hand, I do actually know what Poco is. So while you may have blindly flailed into the peat moss, at least you found a twoonie.
( Side Note: Poco = Port Coquitlum )
Sitting Arrangements
So there I am, actually standing on the Skytrain as there are no open seats to be seen. Which is rather unusual for this time of night at Edmond's. But none the less I grabbed a pole and persevered ( Get your mind out of the gutter, Becky ) until the glorious moment that a seat opened up. Unfortunately, while I saw a large hufflelumpagus shaped man leave the seat, when I sat down in the seat and sniffed I discovered it must have been a damp St Bernard. Which is odd, because I could have sworn it was the mighty hufflelumpagus. So not only did he leave the seat with an uncomfortable amount of residual butt warmth, but it also smells like wet dog. Glee~
So now not only do I smell like wet dog, but my butt cheeks are unpleasantly warm. Thank you, Mr. hufflelumpagus.
867 - I'm Learning!
Me: "and your phone number?"
SC: "Uh…<to background> hey what's our number!?"
Moments later…
Me: "What size would you like?"
SC: "Uh…<to the background> hey, what size?!"
Ok, tirlinaaqpaa, obviously you are merely an underling or perhaps even some sort of translator for whoever this mysterious deep throat like character in the background is. Is there some reason he cannot speak with me? Has he gone into hiding from some sort of dog sled mafia? Did they try and get him to throw the race, but he courageously refused? Are they holding his girlfriend/wife/sister/dog/beer cooler/engine block/Canadian Tire money hostage in an attempt to lure him out? Tell me! I must know! I can't handle the suspense! Will he be able to save his beer cooler? Or will the dog sled mafia beat him to death with snowshoes in a brutal kind of hit known in the northern lands as "snow coning"?
Yes, that's right, I went through all the trouble of learning how to say "dumbass" in Inuktitut. I have feeling that as far as dainty pearls of wisdom go, it may be one of the more useful ones in my immediate future.
($@&ing Voodoo Magic, Mon
( Brownie points if you get the reference. )
Me: "Our travel agents will be back in at 8am pacific. So in 4 hours."
SC: "Ok, I'll call back in an hour."
Me: "They'll be in, in 4 hours."
SC: "10 hours?"
Me: "4 hours."
SC: "I'll call back later."
You do that. Much later. Preferably after I have left and have arrived home. Where I will gleefully conduct an elaborate voodoo ritual against you and all you hold dear using the only things I have on hand: My old Grumpy Carebear from the 80's and those little yellow pick things you stick on the ends of corn cobs to hold them.
Because We Care
Me: "Ok, the number is 1-800"
SC: "1-800"
Me: "246"
SC: "5 what?!"
Yes, that's right. 1-800-5-WHAT?!. Also known as the mouth breather outreach program assistance hotline.
Oh God, War A Second Front!
( I rarely mention coworkers, but one of the new hires in a different division is irking me.... )
( For reference we have a security camera on the front door + intercom. The building is locked before 7 and after 5. Not to mention all day on the weekends. So you have to come up and buzz the intercom. We then go to the intercom, look at the camera monitor and ask who it is. You say who you are and if you're on our staff list, we let you in. We ask for your name even if we recognize you just for security purposes. )
So the intercom goes off....I go over, glance in the monitor. Never seen this girl before. So she's either a new hire or someone from a different company that pushed the wrong intercom button.....
Me: "Who is it?"
SCW: "<My Company Name>!"
Me: "Yes, but who are you?"
SCW: "I'm here for <Company Name>!"
Me: "Yes, but what is your *name*?"
SCW: "<Snarks her name at me really loudly>"
I buzz her in. Then I walk by her in the hall a fe wmoments later. I say good morning, she just gives me the blank stare of unpleasantness.
Jeebus spare me, I don't need this kind of stupidity from INSIDE the office too.
><
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