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Schlongdor
...was a man.
Hot Tips for America
Me: “Good evening, <Bastion of America>”
SC: “I’m protesting against censorship in Canada and the UBC president! <click>”
Me: “….”
Ok….just a few quick points, if I may. You might want to grab a pen and some paper so you can jot these down.
1) Why are you protesting Canada to the US?
2) What power exactly do you believe the US holds over Canada or the University of British Columbia?
3) How exactly do you think your opinion, slobbered into a phone line at 3am, is going to impact any of this?
4) What exactly was the purpose of hanging up after slobbering? Are you afraid of my response? Did you think The Man™ would come down on you if you gave me enough time to trace and pinpoint your location?
5) What precisely do you think the US is going to do with your opinion? Because frankly, it’s not going past me and I don’t give a rat’s ass hair. All you’re doing is providing the fine people at <my company> with additional fodder at which to laugh bitterly.
All of these points, much like The Planeteers, have combined their powers to form a single useless, questionable and ultimately irrelevant construct.
Hot...er...HALP ME AMERICA
You got in a fight with your husband and he took away your passport. You want to know if we can get you a new passport because I guess you need to flee the country for some reason at 2am. Simply asking him for it back is a completely foreign concept. However, asking the police to help you get it back is also not an option because it’s not like you want to divorce him or anything. You’ve been married for 36 years and how better to keep that marriage strong then by seeking marriage counseling from a faceless operator at the <Bastion of America> at 2 in the morning who could not care less if he tried. An operator who is actively cheering for the complete and total collapse of your happiness in the hopes that it will get you off the line faster and prevent you from ever calling again.
The Crib
You know that little convenience store at the top of the escalator from the new Granville station exit? The one next to Starbucks? For some reason that was still open when I arrived downtown this evening. But rather than a store, it appeared to have revised into what is more commonly referred to as a “crib” by the youngin’s. The door’s were thrown wide open, half the lights were off and a stereo was blasting what I assume are “phat beats” out into the ticket machine area. The mastermind behind all of this was standing behind the counter in an unusual pose I assume to be “chillin’ like a villain’”. He possessed a rather remarkable amount of bling and for no apparent reason was wearing sunglasses despite A) It being night time and B) Him being underground.
I’m not sure if he actually worked there or if he had merely jimmied the doors open and set up shop.
....
( This is the after hours news desk for a TV station )
SC: “Why is my show not on?”
Is <TV channel> even on the air at 3am? What could you possibly be watching at 3am on <TV channel>? I mean, far be it for us to deprive you of your late night Skin-A-Max feature and what not. But naughty nurses aren’t exactly an emergency.
Edit: Now that I look, he was actually missing American Gladiators. The original American Gladiators.
Yes, and?
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Hi, this is Danny from <company>.”
Me: “Alright, what city do you need support for?”
SC: “Um…..”
Me: “……”
SC: “This is Danny from <company>.”
Yes, we’ve established that. Go back to the part where you were trying to justify wasting my time.
867
Me: “Ok, and your name please?”
SC: “Grant.”
Me: “Ok, and the last name please?”
SC: “Uh…Grant.”
Me: “Alright, then what is your first name please?”
SC: “…..Grant?”
For I moment I was beginning to suspect that I was speaking with a parrot, but then I remembered where the call was coming from. I highly doubt anyone that far north owns a parrot. Hell, the only reason they even have shoes is because I’m here. Yes, that’s right. Me. I have shoed Nunavut. At least 3 times over in the past 5 years. If it wasn’t for me, they’d be barefoot, hatless and wandering around without pants on. Scraping out a meager existence in the arctic tundra, their dull lives forever untouched by the chromatic rapture that is pink camo. Heck, if it wasn’t for me they may not even exist. Without pink camo and tacky, brand seared hip hop gear normally worn only by high school kids under the tragically mistaken impression they’re cool and adults whose primary goal in life is cannabis and poontang; however would they signal courtship to potential mates?
Eddie
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Is Eddie there?”
Me: “No, sorry. This is the afterhours desk.”
SC: “Who are you?”
Me: “The afterhours desk.”
SC: “Is Eddie there?”
Me: “No, you’ve reached the afterhours desk.”
SC: "<click>"
10 seconds later…
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi”
<At this point he begins to dial again. Or rather, begins to just randomly mash his keypad as if attempting to obtain a special dialing wand. >
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi, can I help you?”
SC: “Oh, hello.”
Me: “Hi.”
<He starts aping at the keypad again>
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi.”
<Few more for good measure>
Stop, stop, STOP. The call has already connected. Your persistence is note worthy yet pointless. Continuing to punch in numbers at random will not get you to whomever this mystical “Eddie” is and whatever ancient secrets, power ups or piece of a heart container he might possess. Your journey ends here, for I am all that lays at the end of this road and I am not a boss that can be defeated by mere random dial tones.
867
SC: “Do you still have them in stock?”
Me: “Yes we do.”
SC: “Mhmmmm~”
….ok, while there might be situations where an unsettling erotic moan is appropriate, ordering a hooded sweat shirt for your 8 year old son is not one of them. Please stop that. My mind is fragile enough as is without you adding new dimensions to my fears.
Just, no.
If you own one of those little rat designer dogs and you call after that dog, there are some things I don’t expect to hear. “Hey, Simba!” is one of them. Simba? Simba? You named it Simba? I can see a name like Muffin or Mrs Fluffykins or maybe Ratpuff. But Simba? No. Just no.
Firstborn
Yes, I know you’re locked out. You already called me and told me that. You called around…let’s see, the time stamp says 1:24am. The time now is…1:25am. Wow, you bore with it for a whole 45 seconds. I mean, it must be freezing out, it being the middle of September and all, plus there could be wolves out there. Yet you bravely endured for a full 45 seconds. You are my goddamn hero, you know that? Seriously, you are inspiration to us all.
In fact, my first child will bare your name. Even if “Dumbass Keeper” gets him or her beaten regularly at school.
Why me?
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Wha?”
Me: “<company>.”
SC: “What’s that?”
Me: “I think you may have the wrong number.”
SC: “Yeah, well F*&@ YOU.”
Why is the failure of others always my fault somehow?
A Series of Unfortunate Events
Me: “Ok, and which credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “Credit card?! Aren’t you going to ask for my address or anything first!?”
Me: “We usually verify that you have a valid credit card before proceeding.”
SC: “Fine, it’s-“
Moments later….
Me: “Ok, and your phone number please?”
SC: “Phone number?! Don’t you want my address?!”
Moments later…
Me: “Ok, and what’s your postal code please?”
SC: “Postal code?! Don’t you want the address?! Am I even calling the right place?!”
Me: “…..y-“
SC: “This is <company> right?!”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “and why didn’t you answer my question!?”
Me: “I’m sorry?”
SC: “I asked you about the ticket numbers and you just sat there in silence and didn’t answer!”
Me: “……”
Alright, two points you frothing little rage toad:
1) I don’t want your fscking address yet. When I want your address I will ask for your address. Until then, please answer the questions in the order they’re actually being asked not in the order your diseased mind thinks they should be asked.
2) You did not ask that question. That question exists only in the realm of your imagination. Much like the sequence of questions you believe I should be adhering too. If you require proof I can play back the call a few times and you can desperately try to find where you spoke your inquiry. But I assure you it’s not there.
Pessimism
SC: “Actually, you know what? Give me a 4 pack of tickets.”
Me: “Alright.”
SC: “I have a good feeling about the 4 packs!”
I sincerely hope that good feeling is crushed by the disappointment of loss and the realization you’re now out $275 that you could have spent on something that would actually benefit you, your life or your family.
Er, I mean, thank you and good luck.
KHOGR~!
SC: “Ok, my name is K-H-O…hello?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “Ok, it’s K-H-O-G-hello?”
Me: “…yes, go on.”
SC: “K-H-O-G-R-hello?”
Me: “Yes?”
Just. Finish. Your. Name. If I don’t say anything for 1.3 seconds it’s because either you’re speaking already and I’m listening or I’m breathing. So unless you’re going to shut up or I suddenly suffocate, I won’t be speaking. Well, I won’t be speaking anyway if I’m desperately struggling for air. But still, just fscking finish saying your name.
Right-o
The appropriate response to discovering the location of the calling cards in 7/11 is “Oh hey” or “There they are” or “Ah ha!” not and I quote: “aieeee ooooo, woo haha, weeeee!”.
Breaking News
( This is the TV station again )
You are…somewhere, at a hotel, and there is a crying child in the next room. You have called the police. That was 45 minutes ago. Now you’re literally in tears hysterical because the cops are taking too long and this kid could be dying, trapped, fending off hyenas or missing the little mint from his pillow or any other number of horrible fates one might encounter in a hotel room at a Best Western. So now you’re calling everyone you can think of to let them know you called the cops and it’s their fault they haven’t arrived yet so in case this kid dies or something you can make sure to cover your own ass. Very gallant of you.
Mid way through your ranting you mentioned that you and some other people ( I’m assuming your other personalities ) already went into the room to check on the kid and the kid was perfectly fine and told you he was ok. He only cries when you’re not in the room. Or something. I don’t know. Seriously, what the Hell is going on here? Put the phone book down, go find the nurse and tell her you missed your bedtime meds.
867
Me: “and what size would you like?”
SC: “7 and…um, whatever that thing is. I don’t know.”
Me: “…7 1/8th?”
SC: “Yeah.”
That’s known as a “fraction”. Most people learn about them in their formative years at a place known as a “school” as part of a topic known as “math”. Stop me if I’m going too fast.
867
Me: “Ok, and would you like it by COD or credit card?”
SC: “Separates!”
Me: “….separates?”
SC: “Yeah!”
…what is “separates”? Is that some form of currency or bartering from the north lands that I’m unaware of? Am I committing some sort of cultural faux pas by asking you for COD or credit card? Should I have prostrated myself before the ritual circle of pants and then punched the ceremony harp seal before presenting my wares?
What?
SC: “I have a <direct competitor's product>, is that any good?”
How would I know? Why don’t you run along, call Pepsi and ask them if Coke is any good. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.
Persistence
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Oh, sorry. Wrong number.”
5 seconds later
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Oh. Wrong number.”
And the hat trick..
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Uh, wrong number.”
But wait!
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Wrong number.”
There's more!
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Oh, I think have the wrong number, sorry.”
Ok, seriously. Once is a wrong number. Twice? Honest mistake. Three times? Kind of a dumbass. Four times? OCD.
Leave me alone. Seek help.
Schlongdor ( SCHLOOONGDOOOOORRRR~ )
Schlongdor was a man! I mean, he was a half naked man. Er, maybe he was just naked.
The story of Schlongdor begins early one morn in downtown Vancouver, in front of a Starbucks no less. At first we were unaware of the fate that would befall us and had only the barest inklings of the terror that would come.
It began when two of our morning ops came in and indicated that the Starbucks next door had become home to a incoherently raging half naked fat man. Whom I shall call Schlongdor. This muffin topped rampaging butterwhale had pulled his shirt off and was now menacing passersby by out front of Starbucks.
A little while later another morning op arrived and indicated that she had to slip around a raging naked man to get to the elevator.
Schlongdor had come. ( IN THE NIGHHHT~ )
Now none of us were about to venture downstairs and confront Schlongdor. There was no telling what he would do, how he would react or what potentially moist parts of himself he'd attempt to strike us with. No, we were content to stay upstairs behind our various security doors while awaiting the authorities.
By the time I got off shift and nervously ventured forth from the building, Vancouver's finest had corralled Schlongdor back by the Starbucks. Thankfully they had managed to get his pants on him. Although the rest of his various garments were still strewn about the sidewalk. At some point in his deliciously rotund tantrum he had managed to bust his head open too and the cops were trying to keep him steady so they could staunch the crimson flow of stupid from his head.
Where is Schlongdor now you ask? Who knows, who knows....but each night I return to the office I glance over my shoulder nervously, fearing his return.
annnnd rest.
Hot Tips for America
Me: “Good evening, <Bastion of America>”
SC: “I’m protesting against censorship in Canada and the UBC president! <click>”
Me: “….”
Ok….just a few quick points, if I may. You might want to grab a pen and some paper so you can jot these down.
1) Why are you protesting Canada to the US?
2) What power exactly do you believe the US holds over Canada or the University of British Columbia?
3) How exactly do you think your opinion, slobbered into a phone line at 3am, is going to impact any of this?
4) What exactly was the purpose of hanging up after slobbering? Are you afraid of my response? Did you think The Man™ would come down on you if you gave me enough time to trace and pinpoint your location?
5) What precisely do you think the US is going to do with your opinion? Because frankly, it’s not going past me and I don’t give a rat’s ass hair. All you’re doing is providing the fine people at <my company> with additional fodder at which to laugh bitterly.
All of these points, much like The Planeteers, have combined their powers to form a single useless, questionable and ultimately irrelevant construct.
Hot...er...HALP ME AMERICA
You got in a fight with your husband and he took away your passport. You want to know if we can get you a new passport because I guess you need to flee the country for some reason at 2am. Simply asking him for it back is a completely foreign concept. However, asking the police to help you get it back is also not an option because it’s not like you want to divorce him or anything. You’ve been married for 36 years and how better to keep that marriage strong then by seeking marriage counseling from a faceless operator at the <Bastion of America> at 2 in the morning who could not care less if he tried. An operator who is actively cheering for the complete and total collapse of your happiness in the hopes that it will get you off the line faster and prevent you from ever calling again.
The Crib
You know that little convenience store at the top of the escalator from the new Granville station exit? The one next to Starbucks? For some reason that was still open when I arrived downtown this evening. But rather than a store, it appeared to have revised into what is more commonly referred to as a “crib” by the youngin’s. The door’s were thrown wide open, half the lights were off and a stereo was blasting what I assume are “phat beats” out into the ticket machine area. The mastermind behind all of this was standing behind the counter in an unusual pose I assume to be “chillin’ like a villain’”. He possessed a rather remarkable amount of bling and for no apparent reason was wearing sunglasses despite A) It being night time and B) Him being underground.
I’m not sure if he actually worked there or if he had merely jimmied the doors open and set up shop.
....
( This is the after hours news desk for a TV station )
SC: “Why is my show not on?”
Is <TV channel> even on the air at 3am? What could you possibly be watching at 3am on <TV channel>? I mean, far be it for us to deprive you of your late night Skin-A-Max feature and what not. But naughty nurses aren’t exactly an emergency.
Edit: Now that I look, he was actually missing American Gladiators. The original American Gladiators.
Yes, and?
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Hi, this is Danny from <company>.”
Me: “Alright, what city do you need support for?”
SC: “Um…..”
Me: “……”
SC: “This is Danny from <company>.”
Yes, we’ve established that. Go back to the part where you were trying to justify wasting my time.
867
Me: “Ok, and your name please?”
SC: “Grant.”
Me: “Ok, and the last name please?”
SC: “Uh…Grant.”
Me: “Alright, then what is your first name please?”
SC: “…..Grant?”
For I moment I was beginning to suspect that I was speaking with a parrot, but then I remembered where the call was coming from. I highly doubt anyone that far north owns a parrot. Hell, the only reason they even have shoes is because I’m here. Yes, that’s right. Me. I have shoed Nunavut. At least 3 times over in the past 5 years. If it wasn’t for me, they’d be barefoot, hatless and wandering around without pants on. Scraping out a meager existence in the arctic tundra, their dull lives forever untouched by the chromatic rapture that is pink camo. Heck, if it wasn’t for me they may not even exist. Without pink camo and tacky, brand seared hip hop gear normally worn only by high school kids under the tragically mistaken impression they’re cool and adults whose primary goal in life is cannabis and poontang; however would they signal courtship to potential mates?
Eddie
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Is Eddie there?”
Me: “No, sorry. This is the afterhours desk.”
SC: “Who are you?”
Me: “The afterhours desk.”
SC: “Is Eddie there?”
Me: “No, you’ve reached the afterhours desk.”
SC: "<click>"
10 seconds later…
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi”
<At this point he begins to dial again. Or rather, begins to just randomly mash his keypad as if attempting to obtain a special dialing wand. >
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi, can I help you?”
SC: “Oh, hello.”
Me: “Hi.”
<He starts aping at the keypad again>
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi.”
<Few more for good measure>
Stop, stop, STOP. The call has already connected. Your persistence is note worthy yet pointless. Continuing to punch in numbers at random will not get you to whomever this mystical “Eddie” is and whatever ancient secrets, power ups or piece of a heart container he might possess. Your journey ends here, for I am all that lays at the end of this road and I am not a boss that can be defeated by mere random dial tones.
867
SC: “Do you still have them in stock?”
Me: “Yes we do.”
SC: “Mhmmmm~”
….ok, while there might be situations where an unsettling erotic moan is appropriate, ordering a hooded sweat shirt for your 8 year old son is not one of them. Please stop that. My mind is fragile enough as is without you adding new dimensions to my fears.
Just, no.
If you own one of those little rat designer dogs and you call after that dog, there are some things I don’t expect to hear. “Hey, Simba!” is one of them. Simba? Simba? You named it Simba? I can see a name like Muffin or Mrs Fluffykins or maybe Ratpuff. But Simba? No. Just no.
Firstborn
Yes, I know you’re locked out. You already called me and told me that. You called around…let’s see, the time stamp says 1:24am. The time now is…1:25am. Wow, you bore with it for a whole 45 seconds. I mean, it must be freezing out, it being the middle of September and all, plus there could be wolves out there. Yet you bravely endured for a full 45 seconds. You are my goddamn hero, you know that? Seriously, you are inspiration to us all.
In fact, my first child will bare your name. Even if “Dumbass Keeper” gets him or her beaten regularly at school.
Why me?
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Wha?”
Me: “<company>.”
SC: “What’s that?”
Me: “I think you may have the wrong number.”
SC: “Yeah, well F*&@ YOU.”
Why is the failure of others always my fault somehow?
A Series of Unfortunate Events
Me: “Ok, and which credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “Credit card?! Aren’t you going to ask for my address or anything first!?”
Me: “We usually verify that you have a valid credit card before proceeding.”
SC: “Fine, it’s-“
Moments later….
Me: “Ok, and your phone number please?”
SC: “Phone number?! Don’t you want my address?!”
Moments later…
Me: “Ok, and what’s your postal code please?”
SC: “Postal code?! Don’t you want the address?! Am I even calling the right place?!”
Me: “…..y-“
SC: “This is <company> right?!”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “and why didn’t you answer my question!?”
Me: “I’m sorry?”
SC: “I asked you about the ticket numbers and you just sat there in silence and didn’t answer!”
Me: “……”
Alright, two points you frothing little rage toad:
1) I don’t want your fscking address yet. When I want your address I will ask for your address. Until then, please answer the questions in the order they’re actually being asked not in the order your diseased mind thinks they should be asked.
2) You did not ask that question. That question exists only in the realm of your imagination. Much like the sequence of questions you believe I should be adhering too. If you require proof I can play back the call a few times and you can desperately try to find where you spoke your inquiry. But I assure you it’s not there.
Pessimism
SC: “Actually, you know what? Give me a 4 pack of tickets.”
Me: “Alright.”
SC: “I have a good feeling about the 4 packs!”
I sincerely hope that good feeling is crushed by the disappointment of loss and the realization you’re now out $275 that you could have spent on something that would actually benefit you, your life or your family.
Er, I mean, thank you and good luck.
KHOGR~!
SC: “Ok, my name is K-H-O…hello?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “Ok, it’s K-H-O-G-hello?”
Me: “…yes, go on.”
SC: “K-H-O-G-R-hello?”
Me: “Yes?”
Just. Finish. Your. Name. If I don’t say anything for 1.3 seconds it’s because either you’re speaking already and I’m listening or I’m breathing. So unless you’re going to shut up or I suddenly suffocate, I won’t be speaking. Well, I won’t be speaking anyway if I’m desperately struggling for air. But still, just fscking finish saying your name.
Right-o
The appropriate response to discovering the location of the calling cards in 7/11 is “Oh hey” or “There they are” or “Ah ha!” not and I quote: “aieeee ooooo, woo haha, weeeee!”.
Breaking News
( This is the TV station again )
You are…somewhere, at a hotel, and there is a crying child in the next room. You have called the police. That was 45 minutes ago. Now you’re literally in tears hysterical because the cops are taking too long and this kid could be dying, trapped, fending off hyenas or missing the little mint from his pillow or any other number of horrible fates one might encounter in a hotel room at a Best Western. So now you’re calling everyone you can think of to let them know you called the cops and it’s their fault they haven’t arrived yet so in case this kid dies or something you can make sure to cover your own ass. Very gallant of you.
Mid way through your ranting you mentioned that you and some other people ( I’m assuming your other personalities ) already went into the room to check on the kid and the kid was perfectly fine and told you he was ok. He only cries when you’re not in the room. Or something. I don’t know. Seriously, what the Hell is going on here? Put the phone book down, go find the nurse and tell her you missed your bedtime meds.
867
Me: “and what size would you like?”
SC: “7 and…um, whatever that thing is. I don’t know.”
Me: “…7 1/8th?”
SC: “Yeah.”
That’s known as a “fraction”. Most people learn about them in their formative years at a place known as a “school” as part of a topic known as “math”. Stop me if I’m going too fast.
867
Me: “Ok, and would you like it by COD or credit card?”
SC: “Separates!”
Me: “….separates?”
SC: “Yeah!”
…what is “separates”? Is that some form of currency or bartering from the north lands that I’m unaware of? Am I committing some sort of cultural faux pas by asking you for COD or credit card? Should I have prostrated myself before the ritual circle of pants and then punched the ceremony harp seal before presenting my wares?
What?
SC: “I have a <direct competitor's product>, is that any good?”
How would I know? Why don’t you run along, call Pepsi and ask them if Coke is any good. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.
Persistence
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Oh, sorry. Wrong number.”
5 seconds later
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Oh. Wrong number.”
And the hat trick..
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Uh, wrong number.”
But wait!
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Wrong number.”
There's more!
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Oh, I think have the wrong number, sorry.”
Ok, seriously. Once is a wrong number. Twice? Honest mistake. Three times? Kind of a dumbass. Four times? OCD.
Leave me alone. Seek help.
Schlongdor ( SCHLOOONGDOOOOORRRR~ )
Schlongdor was a man! I mean, he was a half naked man. Er, maybe he was just naked.
The story of Schlongdor begins early one morn in downtown Vancouver, in front of a Starbucks no less. At first we were unaware of the fate that would befall us and had only the barest inklings of the terror that would come.
It began when two of our morning ops came in and indicated that the Starbucks next door had become home to a incoherently raging half naked fat man. Whom I shall call Schlongdor. This muffin topped rampaging butterwhale had pulled his shirt off and was now menacing passersby by out front of Starbucks.
A little while later another morning op arrived and indicated that she had to slip around a raging naked man to get to the elevator.
Schlongdor had come. ( IN THE NIGHHHT~ )
Now none of us were about to venture downstairs and confront Schlongdor. There was no telling what he would do, how he would react or what potentially moist parts of himself he'd attempt to strike us with. No, we were content to stay upstairs behind our various security doors while awaiting the authorities.
By the time I got off shift and nervously ventured forth from the building, Vancouver's finest had corralled Schlongdor back by the Starbucks. Thankfully they had managed to get his pants on him. Although the rest of his various garments were still strewn about the sidewalk. At some point in his deliciously rotund tantrum he had managed to bust his head open too and the cops were trying to keep him steady so they could staunch the crimson flow of stupid from his head.
Where is Schlongdor now you ask? Who knows, who knows....but each night I return to the office I glance over my shoulder nervously, fearing his return.
annnnd rest.
)
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