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Public Transit Pr0n
<shudder>. I'll give you fair warning. Turn back now. We are going to a dark, unhappy place.
Theories
Me: “and your zip code please?”
SC: “Um….I think its xxxxx”
Me: “Hmm, that doesn’t come up as anywhere. Xxxxx?”
SC: “Maybe its xxxxx?”
Me: “That comes up as either Town A or Town B?”
SC: “Nope….should be Town C….um….lemme see if I can find it.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “Sorry, I’m fuzzy from the drugs you know.”
Yes, actually, yes I do. Simply because it’s one of the many theories I’ve devised for why you people call at the times you do. Heavy drug use is just one possible explanation. Others are of course raging alcoholism, childhood head trauma and of course the most universal explanation: That the local gene pool is simply so shallow it could be wiped up with a single sheet of paper towel. Not even Bounty, the quicker picker upper either. No name brand.
867
Me: “Ok, anything else?”
SC: “Nope, that’s everything.”
Me: “Alright, by credit card or COD?”
SC: “COD”
Me: “Ok t-“
SC: “WAIT! I FORGOT THE PANTS!”
OH SWEET BLESSED MOTHER OF MARY JOSEPH BUDDHA BAST, NO! Not the pants! Anything but the pants! That was close, dude! You almost made a tragic mistake. But luckily you realized your boy bits were dangling unshielded in the bitter arctic winds and realized at the last second: Oh $@*%! I have no pants! I am freeballing temperatures normally reserved for large fur laden mammals and aquatic creatures with thick, insulating layer of blubber to shield them from the chill hand of the north. Whereas I am a half naked only moderately fuzzy genetic link between man and ape and am ill equipped for the climate within which I dwell. PLEASE, MAIL ME TESTICULAR THERMAL SHIELDING.
867
Me: “Good morning, <company>-“
SC: “I’m trying to order a jacket!”
Thus came the battle cry as a lone ape creature hobbled ungainly over the hill, spied us with one beady eye and with a great bellow began to lope in an ill-advised charge on our ranks, it's loin cloth flapping in the breeze and offering periodic glimpses of a sight no mortal should ever have to see.
Me: “Alright, and your phone number please?”
SC: “uh….don’ have no phone.”
Me: “Hmm, well, I need a phone number to place an order for you.”
SC: “……..”
Me: “……..”
SC: “uhh…..”
Me: “…….do you have a phone number you can be reached at?”
SC: “Reach to where?”
Me: “…..do you have a phone number?”
SC: “Uh……xxxx?”
Me: “…o-“
SC: “xxx?”
Me: “…xxx-xxxx?”
SC: “xxx-xxx-xxxx?”
Alas, his mighty charge, while determined, crashed futilely upon the great pike line that was basic comprehension. His gangly, misshapen form beaten back. The great arctic beast bellowed with rage and confusion.
Me: “Ok, and can I have your postal code please?”
SC: “Uh…….postal code?”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “Uh…….”
Me: “…….”
SC: “…….”
SC: “PO Box?”
Me: “No, I need a postal code.”
SC: “Postal code…..”
Me: “Yes, I can’t send an order without a postal code.”
SC: “……….”
Me: “………”
The air rang silent for a good 15 seconds as the world hang in the balance.
Me: “So do you have a postal code?”
SC: “Postal code…..”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “uhh…..00087497?”
Me: “…no, I need a postal code.
SC: “Postal code……”
Again, dead silence for a good 30 seconds while his few remaining brain cells screamed for help, but their desperate pleas only echo’d vacantly about the vast, dark, empty chamber within which they dwelled. He could muster no resistance, no renewed assault.
Me: “Do you have a postal code?”
SC: “Wafghaszilg?!”
( Thats really about the noise he made. )
Me: “….pardon?”
SC: “<click>”
And thus the great beast fell, panting and shuddering from its wounds for a moment before succumbing to the cold embrace of death. Cold. Defeated. Pantless.
You Do That
SC: “Yeah, uh, I got a water leak that’s leaking through the ceiling through a light fixture.”
Me: “Alright, well just so you know afterhours service is $xxx/hour with a 2 hour minimum.”
SC: “So like? 2 hours? So $xxx x 2?”
Me: “Yes”
SC: “That’s the whole cost? Like it can all be fixed for that?”
Me: “That’s for labour. Materials would cost extra.”
SC: “Ummmm….ok, I’m going to give it 15 minutes and see if it fixes itself then I’ll call you back.”
….you’re going to give a water leak 15 minutes to see if it gets better? That’s generally not how these things work. But hey, if you want to give the flow of water another 15 minutes to pass through a live electrical current to see if it somehow fixes itself, by all means. It’s true that we charge $xxx/hour, but hey, the fire dept is free.
867
Me: “what size would you like?”
SC: “Uh…..47929?”
Ok, I’m going to assume you’re merely confused and do not actually want a jacket capable of being used as a pool cover. So I’ll make it easy for you: The garment manufacturer has had the foresight to categorize its products in precisely the same way as McDonalds. You do have a Mcdonald’s there don’t you? You must. Your town could be nothing more than an airstrip, an ice fishing shack and a house you built yourself out of drift wood and Coors Light boxes and you’d still get a McDonalds. They’re honorarily granted to any town with a population above 4.
So, it’s very simply, follow with me here: Small, Medium, Large or Supersize? Take your pick. Oh, but you can’t have fries with it. Well, you could, but I wouldn’t recommend trying to ingest them upon their arrival. Our shipping isn’t that swift.
Hot Tips for America
Me: "Good evening, <agency>"
SC: “Before you do something and make me disappear, can I just say something?”
Me: “…say something?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “Well, we wouldn’t do anything to you unless you <Felony A>, <Felony B> or <Felony C>. Have you done any of these things?”
( I can't say what they are, because you could likely figure it out from that. >.> )
SC: “Un..…no.”
Me: “Well then you’re fine.”
SC: “…..um…so can I tell my nieces and nephews or my kids or my grandkids, if I have kids?”
Me: “Tell them what?”
SC: “Like if they could touch the shuttle or the hedron collider and be like “Wow, this is uncle Vick””.
Me: “Well, we have no jurisdiction over either. So sure, why not.”
SC: “Ok, thanks. Bye.”
Me: “Bye.”
Everyone has at least one uncle who is full of complete bullshit stories he insists on telling the only people gullible enough to believe him: kids. This uncle is Uncle Vick. Uncle Vick helped build the space shuttle and the large hedron collider. Uncle Vick once got in trouble with the <agency>. Uncle Vick single handedly saved a French village from the Nazi’s even though Uncle Vick was born in 1972. Uncle Vick is a direct descendant of Genghis Khan. Uncle Vick once punched out a shark.
Uncle Vick drinks because you cry.
Hot Tips for America #2
SC: “Hi, my name is Vick.”
Me: “Hello.”
Uncle Vick! We missed you!
SC: “The next time you guys go to build a space shuttle, can you drop me a line?”
Me: “That’s not really our jurisdiction.”
SC: “Well I called the Pentagon and told them, so now I’m calling you.”
Me: “You should try calling NASA.”
SC: “I don’t have their number.”
Me: “Neither do I, so there’s not much point in telling me.”
SC: “Well can you just call me next time you build a shuttle? I have a wicked design for a shuttle engine.”
Me:“…..”
SC: “See the last two shuttle engines had problems since you had those two accidents.”
Me: “We’ll keep it in mind.”
But Uncle Vick! Didn’t you build the last two shuttles? What happened? Where did you go wrong? How could you fail America?
867
SC: “Can I like, place an order?”
…ok, you seem to have the same speech pattern and manner as the classic “valley girl”. However you’re in Nunavut. Which sounds like the basis for a Disney movie. Perhaps “Beverly Hills Elk Hunter.”.
Me: “Alright, what would you like to order?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size?”
SC: “<Seems to be giggling with her fellow airheads in the background.>”
Me: “….what size would you like?”
SC: “Oh, I’m not talking to you.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “…..”
Me: “Right, what size would you like?”
SC: “Oh, 29.”
Me: “Ok-“
SC: “Hey are those like, stretch?”
Me: “I’m not sure, it doesn’t specify in the product description.”
SC: “Well can’t you just like, open a pair and stretch em?”
Me: “…..no.”
Even if I was sitting in the warehouse at 2am rifling through women’s clothing for some reason that would undoubtedly cast my motives in a questionable light, I still wouldn’t open a product simply to find out whether or not its…stretchy....for you.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size would you like?”
SC: “<Again, too busy like omigawding with the rest of her tribe in the background.>”
Me: “Hello?”
SC: “Not you.”
Me: “……”
SC: “……”
Me: “Hello?”
SC: “Oh, hi.”
Me: “What size would you like?”
SC: “Oh, 29.”
Perhaps you’d like to call back later when you’re not obviously engaged in such a vitally important conversation over which Backstreet Boy had the cutest ass? I realize this is a topic that is almost life changing in its importance. So it might be best if you just hang up now so you can focus your full attention and collectively shriveled minds upon it amid the glitter and nail polish remover fumes.
SC: “Hey, I like ordered a jacket a while ago, can you tell me when it’s going to arrive?”
Me: “Sorry, you’d have to speak with customer service during business hours to check on the status of an order.”
SC: “Can’t you like just punch in my name?”
Me: “No, sorry.”
SC: “I ordered like 10 other things before too, when are they going to get here?”
Me: “You’ll have to speak with customer service.”
SC: “You’re not like, customer service?”
Me: “No, I’m the order desk for afterhours.”
SC: “Can’t you just look in your computer?”
Me: “That’s the problem, it wouldn’t be in my computer. Customer service isn’t in until 8am.”
SC: “8am? Holy sh*t! Ok.”
Me: “So your order should arrive in about 2 weeks”
SC: “Thank you. You’re so sweet.”
That avenue of attack will not work either, ditz beast. I’d rather make out with an old couch I found in Surrey amongst the trash on someone’s curb with a “FREE” sign written on it with green sharpie the morning after it’s been raining all night. It’d be much less annoying to deal with, still be around the same intellectual level and probably smell more pleasant.
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “It’s a jacket on, uh…page 15.”
Me: “Ok, what’s the id number beside it?”
SC: “…..uh…..”
Me: “……..”
SC: “……..”
SC: “….help me out?”
Me: “….it should be right next to it.”
SC: “…..uh….oh, xxxx-xx”
Any other incredibly simple tasks you need to ask for a hint on? Hey, I’ve got one that will likely be the key that unlocks one of the great mysteries of your daily life: When you’re in the bathroom, unzip your pants first.
JOE SMISH
I’d like you to meet someone. Let’s call him Joe. Tonight, Joe almost punched out a 64 year old lady. Why you ask? What could possibly drive Joe so close to the edge to want to break an old lady’s face? Well, you know that little bar on the inside of your fridge door that holds stuff on the ledge? Yeah, well, Joe’s is broken. So somehow Joe got from broken fridge rail to “Punch out a senior citizen.”. Let’s explore exactly how this came to be and try to guess what sort of psychological issues Joe might have along the way:
See, Joe is some sort of colossal fuckign idiot and insists on continuing to put things on that little door ledge despite the bar being broken. Which means of course EVERY time he opens the fridge, they fall onto the floor. The impact causes noise which causes his neighbor to become upset and bang on the ceiling as her way of communicating “Stop dropping things on the floor all the damn time you ape.”. This banging on the ceiling in turn enrages Joe, who goes to yell at her and almost breaks her face. This, of course, is all my fault.
If I would just send someone to fix the rail he wouldn’t have this problem. Has nothing to do with him being so much of an idiot he keeps putting things back on the fridge door despite there being nothing to hold them there when he opens the door. I'm just ignoring his pleas. Which of course has nothing to do with him calling the resident manager, the property manager or the main office for 2 weeks yelling to get this rail fixed then almost punching out the resident manager over it.
No, none of this is Joe’s fault. Nothing is Joe's fault. Ever.
Ok?
Me: “Looks like the closest location to you is <Company Office A>.”
SC: “Are they open this early?”
Me: “To be honest they’re not open for about another 20 minutes. I can take a message for them if you like?”
SC: “No, I’m not going to wait 20 minutes. I’ll just call <Company she just called>.”
…..annnd what, talk to me again? I’m not seeing how this cunning plan of yours is suppose to succeed.
Hot Tips For A-....what?
Me: “Good morning, <agency>”
SC: “Yes, hi. I finally figured out what’s been going wrong with my life the last 6 years.”
Oh, this should be good. I love story time.
Me: “…ok?”
SC: “6 years ago they removed this lump from my hand and now my brother is going to the UN to sue Canada for not providing me proper medical treatment.”
….and the removal of this lump ruined your life? What was it? A lump of raw fairy dust? I’m sure the UN was very receptive to your plight.
Me: “……ok”
SC: “My father was an American citizen that proudly served in the military.”
Me: “Alright….I’m not really seeing how any of this bears on the <agency>.”
SC: “Of course it’s important to the <agency>! He was murdered!”
Me: “…..”
SC: “She killed him for the insurance money and now she’s making it seem like I’m the bad one by saying I’m doing drugs and all this stuff because I'm trying to expose her!”
You’re not exactly presenting compelling evidence to the contrary.
Me: “Ok, this isn’t something I can help you with at this hour.”
SC: “Why not? Are you saying Canada can just get away with murder?!”
Me: “This would be under the RCMP’s jurisdiction, not ours.”
SC: “They’re the ones covering it up!”
Me: “If it occurred in Canada, it falls under Canadian law.”
SC: “He was a proud military man! Don’t they have a responsibility to come get the body!”
Me: “Perhaps you should be calling the US Military than.”
SC: “I did! They told me to call you.”
Me: Ok, this is not something I can help you with, if you like you can call b-“
SC: “WELL I’M GLAD I HAD HOMELAND SECURITY TAP THIS LINE! <click>”
Why does no one on this line or the <other agency line> understand the concept of “jurisdiction” or “international law” or “professional mental help”. For some reason they seem to think I’m some sort of ambassador and/or Suggestions Box for the United States of America and have complete unilateral control over every level of Canadian law and government. In reality any crazed, delusional opinion or suggestion you give me will be promptly ridiculed and dismissed. It’s not like I write them all down in crayon and mail them president for his immediate consideration.
This is why I like the Skytrain
So they're doing track maintenance on the Skytrain's this weekend. Which means the Skytrains are running slower then usual. No biggie. There's a fair crowd on the platform waiting with me. But key amongst us with a girl on her cellphone, desperately trying to tell her mom that she's not intentionally late for her ride, the Skytrain's just have a 15 minute wait right now because of the track maintenance. This pleading went on for a minute or so until the Skytrain PA system kicked in and this announcement came:
"No, really mom. She's waiting for the Skytrain still!"
This is why I hate the Skytrain
Have I mentioned before that I loathe Friday and Saturday night on the Skytrain? No? Well, let me meticulously detail yet another reason why this is. Though I should warn you we’re about to venture into dark, horrifying territory once again and if you do not want to end up as mentally disturbed as I was, you may wish it simply skip over this part:
This evening when I got on I immediately knew I was in trouble. There was large pack of sub human monkey like creatures that had taken over the entire front of the train and were engaged in a level of discourse that was…..how do I put this? Ok, have you ever seen that Youtube clip where the chimp squeezes out a steaming pile of happiness into his own hand then immediately starts licking it curiously? That’s about the level of intellect we’re working with here. Only there’s 7 of them and alcohol is not only involved, it’s standing before them on a cliff reading commandments from a stone tablet.
For the most part I was able to block them out until one began to loudly complain about how much he needed to relieve himself. But he didn’t want to get off the train. So one of his simian cohorts hatched a cunning plan: “Dude, just piss in a bottle!”. Now anyone operating on a mental level above that of tree bark would take this as a joke and not a serious suggestion. But not this fine fellow. To him this was ingenious. Because I mean, what better place to relieve yourself then on a moving Skytrain when you’re half drunk with a target the size of a marble to aim at?
So bladder boy actually begins to attempt this daring maneuver and every up and down of this epic struggle is evident from his compatriots as they cheer when he manages to hit the bottle and jeer whenever he manages to urinate all over himself and the seat. Several of them suddenly realize this is a once in a life time moment and begin filming it on their cellphones. So there they are, 6 guys in a circle staring at, filming and cheering for another guy’s exposed penis while he clumsily attempts to manipulate it properly. The only thing that’s missing is a background theme whose primary rhythm is “bow-chica-bow-bow”.
I on the other hand am desperately trying to find some route of escape, but a fellow passenger has blocked the aisle with his bike and I cannot retreat any further back into the Skytrain then I already have. I am trapped.
Then. Tragedy. “Dude! Quick! I need another bottle!”.
Luckily, they had several on hand, but judging from the jeering the pass off did not quite go as planned.
So. You’ve just pissed yourself on public transit. What do you do now? Well, you get your friends to deposit the…proceeds just outside the Skytrain door at Joyce station. ( If you see two bottles on the platform there, for the love of God, stay away. ). Then you illogically sit right back down on the seat you whizzed all over to begin with and start joking with your friends about how horrible it smells as it slowly soaks through your jeans and dignity. Which is the one part of this horrific tale I can agree with. I was afraid the smell would stick to my clothes if I didn’t get off the train soon and people began to desperately stare at the guy with the bike that closed off the only avenue of escape any of us had. But he was too stunned to open the gates and free us from the terror that gripped our hearts.
So. That’s why I hate Saturday night.
Theories
Me: “and your zip code please?”
SC: “Um….I think its xxxxx”
Me: “Hmm, that doesn’t come up as anywhere. Xxxxx?”
SC: “Maybe its xxxxx?”
Me: “That comes up as either Town A or Town B?”
SC: “Nope….should be Town C….um….lemme see if I can find it.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “Sorry, I’m fuzzy from the drugs you know.”
Yes, actually, yes I do. Simply because it’s one of the many theories I’ve devised for why you people call at the times you do. Heavy drug use is just one possible explanation. Others are of course raging alcoholism, childhood head trauma and of course the most universal explanation: That the local gene pool is simply so shallow it could be wiped up with a single sheet of paper towel. Not even Bounty, the quicker picker upper either. No name brand.
867
Me: “Ok, anything else?”
SC: “Nope, that’s everything.”
Me: “Alright, by credit card or COD?”
SC: “COD”
Me: “Ok t-“
SC: “WAIT! I FORGOT THE PANTS!”
OH SWEET BLESSED MOTHER OF MARY JOSEPH BUDDHA BAST, NO! Not the pants! Anything but the pants! That was close, dude! You almost made a tragic mistake. But luckily you realized your boy bits were dangling unshielded in the bitter arctic winds and realized at the last second: Oh $@*%! I have no pants! I am freeballing temperatures normally reserved for large fur laden mammals and aquatic creatures with thick, insulating layer of blubber to shield them from the chill hand of the north. Whereas I am a half naked only moderately fuzzy genetic link between man and ape and am ill equipped for the climate within which I dwell. PLEASE, MAIL ME TESTICULAR THERMAL SHIELDING.
867
Me: “Good morning, <company>-“
SC: “I’m trying to order a jacket!”
Thus came the battle cry as a lone ape creature hobbled ungainly over the hill, spied us with one beady eye and with a great bellow began to lope in an ill-advised charge on our ranks, it's loin cloth flapping in the breeze and offering periodic glimpses of a sight no mortal should ever have to see.
Me: “Alright, and your phone number please?”
SC: “uh….don’ have no phone.”
Me: “Hmm, well, I need a phone number to place an order for you.”
SC: “……..”
Me: “……..”
SC: “uhh…..”
Me: “…….do you have a phone number you can be reached at?”
SC: “Reach to where?”
Me: “…..do you have a phone number?”
SC: “Uh……xxxx?”
Me: “…o-“
SC: “xxx?”
Me: “…xxx-xxxx?”
SC: “xxx-xxx-xxxx?”
Alas, his mighty charge, while determined, crashed futilely upon the great pike line that was basic comprehension. His gangly, misshapen form beaten back. The great arctic beast bellowed with rage and confusion.
Me: “Ok, and can I have your postal code please?”
SC: “Uh…….postal code?”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “Uh…….”
Me: “…….”
SC: “…….”
SC: “PO Box?”
Me: “No, I need a postal code.”
SC: “Postal code…..”
Me: “Yes, I can’t send an order without a postal code.”
SC: “……….”
Me: “………”
The air rang silent for a good 15 seconds as the world hang in the balance.
Me: “So do you have a postal code?”
SC: “Postal code…..”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “uhh…..00087497?”
Me: “…no, I need a postal code.
SC: “Postal code……”
Again, dead silence for a good 30 seconds while his few remaining brain cells screamed for help, but their desperate pleas only echo’d vacantly about the vast, dark, empty chamber within which they dwelled. He could muster no resistance, no renewed assault.
Me: “Do you have a postal code?”
SC: “Wafghaszilg?!”
( Thats really about the noise he made. )
Me: “….pardon?”
SC: “<click>”
And thus the great beast fell, panting and shuddering from its wounds for a moment before succumbing to the cold embrace of death. Cold. Defeated. Pantless.
You Do That
SC: “Yeah, uh, I got a water leak that’s leaking through the ceiling through a light fixture.”
Me: “Alright, well just so you know afterhours service is $xxx/hour with a 2 hour minimum.”
SC: “So like? 2 hours? So $xxx x 2?”
Me: “Yes”
SC: “That’s the whole cost? Like it can all be fixed for that?”
Me: “That’s for labour. Materials would cost extra.”
SC: “Ummmm….ok, I’m going to give it 15 minutes and see if it fixes itself then I’ll call you back.”
….you’re going to give a water leak 15 minutes to see if it gets better? That’s generally not how these things work. But hey, if you want to give the flow of water another 15 minutes to pass through a live electrical current to see if it somehow fixes itself, by all means. It’s true that we charge $xxx/hour, but hey, the fire dept is free.
867
Me: “what size would you like?”
SC: “Uh…..47929?”
Ok, I’m going to assume you’re merely confused and do not actually want a jacket capable of being used as a pool cover. So I’ll make it easy for you: The garment manufacturer has had the foresight to categorize its products in precisely the same way as McDonalds. You do have a Mcdonald’s there don’t you? You must. Your town could be nothing more than an airstrip, an ice fishing shack and a house you built yourself out of drift wood and Coors Light boxes and you’d still get a McDonalds. They’re honorarily granted to any town with a population above 4.
So, it’s very simply, follow with me here: Small, Medium, Large or Supersize? Take your pick. Oh, but you can’t have fries with it. Well, you could, but I wouldn’t recommend trying to ingest them upon their arrival. Our shipping isn’t that swift.
Hot Tips for America
Me: "Good evening, <agency>"
SC: “Before you do something and make me disappear, can I just say something?”
Me: “…say something?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “Well, we wouldn’t do anything to you unless you <Felony A>, <Felony B> or <Felony C>. Have you done any of these things?”
( I can't say what they are, because you could likely figure it out from that. >.> )
SC: “Un..…no.”
Me: “Well then you’re fine.”
SC: “…..um…so can I tell my nieces and nephews or my kids or my grandkids, if I have kids?”
Me: “Tell them what?”
SC: “Like if they could touch the shuttle or the hedron collider and be like “Wow, this is uncle Vick””.
Me: “Well, we have no jurisdiction over either. So sure, why not.”
SC: “Ok, thanks. Bye.”
Me: “Bye.”
Everyone has at least one uncle who is full of complete bullshit stories he insists on telling the only people gullible enough to believe him: kids. This uncle is Uncle Vick. Uncle Vick helped build the space shuttle and the large hedron collider. Uncle Vick once got in trouble with the <agency>. Uncle Vick single handedly saved a French village from the Nazi’s even though Uncle Vick was born in 1972. Uncle Vick is a direct descendant of Genghis Khan. Uncle Vick once punched out a shark.
Uncle Vick drinks because you cry.
Hot Tips for America #2
SC: “Hi, my name is Vick.”
Me: “Hello.”
Uncle Vick! We missed you!
SC: “The next time you guys go to build a space shuttle, can you drop me a line?”
Me: “That’s not really our jurisdiction.”
SC: “Well I called the Pentagon and told them, so now I’m calling you.”
Me: “You should try calling NASA.”
SC: “I don’t have their number.”
Me: “Neither do I, so there’s not much point in telling me.”
SC: “Well can you just call me next time you build a shuttle? I have a wicked design for a shuttle engine.”
Me:“…..”
SC: “See the last two shuttle engines had problems since you had those two accidents.”
Me: “We’ll keep it in mind.”
But Uncle Vick! Didn’t you build the last two shuttles? What happened? Where did you go wrong? How could you fail America?
867
SC: “Can I like, place an order?”
…ok, you seem to have the same speech pattern and manner as the classic “valley girl”. However you’re in Nunavut. Which sounds like the basis for a Disney movie. Perhaps “Beverly Hills Elk Hunter.”.
Me: “Alright, what would you like to order?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size?”
SC: “<Seems to be giggling with her fellow airheads in the background.>”
Me: “….what size would you like?”
SC: “Oh, I’m not talking to you.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “…..”
Me: “Right, what size would you like?”
SC: “Oh, 29.”
Me: “Ok-“
SC: “Hey are those like, stretch?”
Me: “I’m not sure, it doesn’t specify in the product description.”
SC: “Well can’t you just like, open a pair and stretch em?”
Me: “…..no.”
Even if I was sitting in the warehouse at 2am rifling through women’s clothing for some reason that would undoubtedly cast my motives in a questionable light, I still wouldn’t open a product simply to find out whether or not its…stretchy....for you.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size would you like?”
SC: “<Again, too busy like omigawding with the rest of her tribe in the background.>”
Me: “Hello?”
SC: “Not you.”
Me: “……”
SC: “……”
Me: “Hello?”
SC: “Oh, hi.”
Me: “What size would you like?”
SC: “Oh, 29.”
Perhaps you’d like to call back later when you’re not obviously engaged in such a vitally important conversation over which Backstreet Boy had the cutest ass? I realize this is a topic that is almost life changing in its importance. So it might be best if you just hang up now so you can focus your full attention and collectively shriveled minds upon it amid the glitter and nail polish remover fumes.
SC: “Hey, I like ordered a jacket a while ago, can you tell me when it’s going to arrive?”
Me: “Sorry, you’d have to speak with customer service during business hours to check on the status of an order.”
SC: “Can’t you like just punch in my name?”
Me: “No, sorry.”
SC: “I ordered like 10 other things before too, when are they going to get here?”
Me: “You’ll have to speak with customer service.”
SC: “You’re not like, customer service?”
Me: “No, I’m the order desk for afterhours.”
SC: “Can’t you just look in your computer?”
Me: “That’s the problem, it wouldn’t be in my computer. Customer service isn’t in until 8am.”
SC: “8am? Holy sh*t! Ok.”
Me: “So your order should arrive in about 2 weeks”
SC: “Thank you. You’re so sweet.”
That avenue of attack will not work either, ditz beast. I’d rather make out with an old couch I found in Surrey amongst the trash on someone’s curb with a “FREE” sign written on it with green sharpie the morning after it’s been raining all night. It’d be much less annoying to deal with, still be around the same intellectual level and probably smell more pleasant.
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “It’s a jacket on, uh…page 15.”
Me: “Ok, what’s the id number beside it?”
SC: “…..uh…..”
Me: “……..”
SC: “……..”
SC: “….help me out?”
Me: “….it should be right next to it.”
SC: “…..uh….oh, xxxx-xx”
Any other incredibly simple tasks you need to ask for a hint on? Hey, I’ve got one that will likely be the key that unlocks one of the great mysteries of your daily life: When you’re in the bathroom, unzip your pants first.
JOE SMISH
I’d like you to meet someone. Let’s call him Joe. Tonight, Joe almost punched out a 64 year old lady. Why you ask? What could possibly drive Joe so close to the edge to want to break an old lady’s face? Well, you know that little bar on the inside of your fridge door that holds stuff on the ledge? Yeah, well, Joe’s is broken. So somehow Joe got from broken fridge rail to “Punch out a senior citizen.”. Let’s explore exactly how this came to be and try to guess what sort of psychological issues Joe might have along the way:
See, Joe is some sort of colossal fuckign idiot and insists on continuing to put things on that little door ledge despite the bar being broken. Which means of course EVERY time he opens the fridge, they fall onto the floor. The impact causes noise which causes his neighbor to become upset and bang on the ceiling as her way of communicating “Stop dropping things on the floor all the damn time you ape.”. This banging on the ceiling in turn enrages Joe, who goes to yell at her and almost breaks her face. This, of course, is all my fault.
If I would just send someone to fix the rail he wouldn’t have this problem. Has nothing to do with him being so much of an idiot he keeps putting things back on the fridge door despite there being nothing to hold them there when he opens the door. I'm just ignoring his pleas. Which of course has nothing to do with him calling the resident manager, the property manager or the main office for 2 weeks yelling to get this rail fixed then almost punching out the resident manager over it.
No, none of this is Joe’s fault. Nothing is Joe's fault. Ever.
Ok?
Me: “Looks like the closest location to you is <Company Office A>.”
SC: “Are they open this early?”
Me: “To be honest they’re not open for about another 20 minutes. I can take a message for them if you like?”
SC: “No, I’m not going to wait 20 minutes. I’ll just call <Company she just called>.”
…..annnd what, talk to me again? I’m not seeing how this cunning plan of yours is suppose to succeed.
Hot Tips For A-....what?
Me: “Good morning, <agency>”
SC: “Yes, hi. I finally figured out what’s been going wrong with my life the last 6 years.”
Oh, this should be good. I love story time.
Me: “…ok?”
SC: “6 years ago they removed this lump from my hand and now my brother is going to the UN to sue Canada for not providing me proper medical treatment.”
….and the removal of this lump ruined your life? What was it? A lump of raw fairy dust? I’m sure the UN was very receptive to your plight.
Me: “……ok”
SC: “My father was an American citizen that proudly served in the military.”
Me: “Alright….I’m not really seeing how any of this bears on the <agency>.”
SC: “Of course it’s important to the <agency>! He was murdered!”
Me: “…..”
SC: “She killed him for the insurance money and now she’s making it seem like I’m the bad one by saying I’m doing drugs and all this stuff because I'm trying to expose her!”
You’re not exactly presenting compelling evidence to the contrary.
Me: “Ok, this isn’t something I can help you with at this hour.”
SC: “Why not? Are you saying Canada can just get away with murder?!”
Me: “This would be under the RCMP’s jurisdiction, not ours.”
SC: “They’re the ones covering it up!”
Me: “If it occurred in Canada, it falls under Canadian law.”
SC: “He was a proud military man! Don’t they have a responsibility to come get the body!”
Me: “Perhaps you should be calling the US Military than.”
SC: “I did! They told me to call you.”
Me: Ok, this is not something I can help you with, if you like you can call b-“
SC: “WELL I’M GLAD I HAD HOMELAND SECURITY TAP THIS LINE! <click>”
Why does no one on this line or the <other agency line> understand the concept of “jurisdiction” or “international law” or “professional mental help”. For some reason they seem to think I’m some sort of ambassador and/or Suggestions Box for the United States of America and have complete unilateral control over every level of Canadian law and government. In reality any crazed, delusional opinion or suggestion you give me will be promptly ridiculed and dismissed. It’s not like I write them all down in crayon and mail them president for his immediate consideration.
This is why I like the Skytrain
So they're doing track maintenance on the Skytrain's this weekend. Which means the Skytrains are running slower then usual. No biggie. There's a fair crowd on the platform waiting with me. But key amongst us with a girl on her cellphone, desperately trying to tell her mom that she's not intentionally late for her ride, the Skytrain's just have a 15 minute wait right now because of the track maintenance. This pleading went on for a minute or so until the Skytrain PA system kicked in and this announcement came:
"No, really mom. She's waiting for the Skytrain still!"
This is why I hate the Skytrain
Have I mentioned before that I loathe Friday and Saturday night on the Skytrain? No? Well, let me meticulously detail yet another reason why this is. Though I should warn you we’re about to venture into dark, horrifying territory once again and if you do not want to end up as mentally disturbed as I was, you may wish it simply skip over this part:
This evening when I got on I immediately knew I was in trouble. There was large pack of sub human monkey like creatures that had taken over the entire front of the train and were engaged in a level of discourse that was…..how do I put this? Ok, have you ever seen that Youtube clip where the chimp squeezes out a steaming pile of happiness into his own hand then immediately starts licking it curiously? That’s about the level of intellect we’re working with here. Only there’s 7 of them and alcohol is not only involved, it’s standing before them on a cliff reading commandments from a stone tablet.
For the most part I was able to block them out until one began to loudly complain about how much he needed to relieve himself. But he didn’t want to get off the train. So one of his simian cohorts hatched a cunning plan: “Dude, just piss in a bottle!”. Now anyone operating on a mental level above that of tree bark would take this as a joke and not a serious suggestion. But not this fine fellow. To him this was ingenious. Because I mean, what better place to relieve yourself then on a moving Skytrain when you’re half drunk with a target the size of a marble to aim at?
So bladder boy actually begins to attempt this daring maneuver and every up and down of this epic struggle is evident from his compatriots as they cheer when he manages to hit the bottle and jeer whenever he manages to urinate all over himself and the seat. Several of them suddenly realize this is a once in a life time moment and begin filming it on their cellphones. So there they are, 6 guys in a circle staring at, filming and cheering for another guy’s exposed penis while he clumsily attempts to manipulate it properly. The only thing that’s missing is a background theme whose primary rhythm is “bow-chica-bow-bow”.
I on the other hand am desperately trying to find some route of escape, but a fellow passenger has blocked the aisle with his bike and I cannot retreat any further back into the Skytrain then I already have. I am trapped.
Then. Tragedy. “Dude! Quick! I need another bottle!”.
Luckily, they had several on hand, but judging from the jeering the pass off did not quite go as planned.
So. You’ve just pissed yourself on public transit. What do you do now? Well, you get your friends to deposit the…proceeds just outside the Skytrain door at Joyce station. ( If you see two bottles on the platform there, for the love of God, stay away. ). Then you illogically sit right back down on the seat you whizzed all over to begin with and start joking with your friends about how horrible it smells as it slowly soaks through your jeans and dignity. Which is the one part of this horrific tale I can agree with. I was afraid the smell would stick to my clothes if I didn’t get off the train soon and people began to desperately stare at the guy with the bike that closed off the only avenue of escape any of us had. But he was too stunned to open the gates and free us from the terror that gripped our hearts.
So. That’s why I hate Saturday night.
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