Tweet
Strip Jousting
I promise I'm going to make that much more horrifying than sexy.
...wut
Me: “Ok, and your phone number please?”
SC: “My what?”
Me: “What’s your phone number please?”
SC: “My balloon?”
…..yes, that’s right. What is your balloon? Is it red or yellow? Is it fully inflated or is it more of a sort of limp, crinkly, sad week old left over from a birthday party kind of balloon? Is it a water balloon? Did someone burst your balloon? Oh, I get it. Some big meanie head burst your balloon and that’s why your calling, right? Well, don’t worry about meanie head, we’ll get you a brand new balloon ok? Just as soon as I find some place that sells “I Was Dropped On My Head As A Baby” foil balloons.
Something tells me I might have to special order them.
She's still at it..
SC: “I want you to tell a woman named Louise to stop using a phone number through me!”
Sure…..sooo…I can just tell anyone named Louise? No problem. I’m but a phonebook away from achieving this geas of yours that you’ve placed on me. Perhaps than you’ll twaddle off and leave us alone? Or is it a specific Louise you want me to tell? Do I need to wait on the line till the Louise personality emerges so I can pass on the message? Can’t you just write her a note or something and leave it on the fridge? I don’t see why it must fall upon me to tell your other personality to stop using up your cell phone minutes.
867
Me: “Ok, and your postal code please?”
SC: “xxx xNx.”
Me: “Is that xNx or xMx?”
SC: “Uuuuh….. xxx xNx.”
Me: “Is that N as in Nancy?”
SC: “….uh…. xxx xNx.”
Me: “Yes, but is it xNx. Like N as in Nancy?”
SC: "….uh…….Nan..cy?”
Me: “….Yes, is it N as in Nancy? …...You know, the letter N?”
SC: “Uhhhh….”
…you know? The letter N? J K L M N O P? Remember the song? You must at least know the song. Everyone knows the song. If you don’t know the song I don’t know what to tell you. The world has failed you and you have failed yourself. I don’t think it’s possible to fall any lower than you have fallen. You are quite literally the absolute lowest a member of the homo sapien species can possibly sink. You could be homeless, on the street, with nothing but a tattered old set of Big Bird sheets to cloth yourself, addled with a combination of leprosy, crotch lice and a 3rd nipple and still be able to go “Well, at least I know the alphabet song.”. But you, you are beneath that. You have reached the rock layer of the very bottom of the failure pit, and you have slowly and gruelingly chipped your way through it to find a new level of failure no one has ever delved into before.
Congratulations. Have a cookie.
Um, no.
Me: “Ok, did you want any other names on the ticket?”
SC: “Oh no, if I want to add someone I’ll just write it on the ticket.”
That’s….not how this works. Merely scrawling it onto the physical ticket in crayon does not I any way actually enter that person’s name into the drawing with that ticket. It must be done from my end. You penning in a second name will in no way bind them to the magical contract with which you seem to think the ticket holds us too.
Natural Selection
I almost got to witness Natural Selection at work this evening. But the opportunity was snatched away by the somewhat coherent friend of the victim. There was this bunch of idjits was loitering right on the corner outside of the main entrance from Granville Station. Granville and Georgia I guess it is. You know, that one crosswalk that gives you approximately 5 seconds to reach the other side? Yeah, that one. The death walk.
Well, this pack of yahoos was right on the corner, effectively blocking the majority of the crosswalk from both streets. I slipped into the remaining fraction of space to their left. As I was standing next to them in the small gap of space they had kindly provided me, I heard them begin to utter meer cat like noises of parting. Having done so, one of them turned around and stepped out into the street. Right in front of the oncoming bus.
Now, just for reference this cross walk of course has the normal “Walk” and “Do not walk or you’ll die horribly” flashing signals. But they also recently installed the little beep noise signal as well. So you would have to be effectively blind and deaf to have any reasonable excuse for stepping into oncoming traffic at this point in the city.
Luckily for him, one of his friends was slightly more coherent than he was and yelled “Dude! Bus!” prompting the guy to stop in the path of oncoming death, turn around go “Uah?” to which he grabbed him and pulled him back to the sidewalk. Moments before said bus went sailing past. Having finally clued in to the fact he was almost removed from the gene pool, he turned to his friend and went “Oh dude, you saved my life! It’s a good thing you didn’t yell Dave. Cus I’d have been like “who?””.
I don’t know why his friend might have been compelled to yell Dave at him to indicate approaching danger, but it was apparently the thread that his life hung in the balance by.
Uncle Vick
Me: “Good evening, <client>.”
SC: “Yeah, Hi. This is Vick.”
<sigh> Hello, Vick.
SC: “I’m going to go after the Hell’s Angels too.”
Me: “….ok?”
SC: “I just wanted to tell you that.”
Me: “…alright, your funeral.”
SC: “Bye.”
Ok, Vick, dude. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing you a while now and I really have to level with you here: You cannot take the Hell’s Angels. You simply do not have the physical capacity, armament, back up or mental comprehension required to oppose and dismantled an organized country wide biker gang. You got your ass flogged by 3 guys you knew from high school at a bar because you called them terrorists, remember? So badly that even the cop laughed at you? If you can’t take 3 half tanked old classmates how do you expect to take on an entire biker gang? You are….how do all the kids put it these days? Issuing cheques your buttocks cannot successfully deposit?
Still, if it will make you stop calling me, more power to you.
ew
Me: “Good evening, <company>.”
SC: “Hello, handsome boy.”
Hello, creepy old Chinese guy calling at 4am and hitting me up on <company> for ill defined reasons. What can I do for you?
SC: “When’s the soonest we can get our paycheques?”
Ah, so your cunning plan was to use your copiously abundant charm and suave sexiness in an attempt to get an advance on your payroll. Reaching a male voice did not dissuade your plan. I commend your determination yet still feel the need to shower extensively upon my return home.
Weak!
Me: “Ok, and what’s the problem?”
SC: “My upstairs neighbor is making too much noise. He’s playing some video game and there’s lots of thumping than that game noise. You know that dee dee dee deeeee noise?”
….so what your telling me is not only is your upstairs neighbor playing the original Pac-Man, but he sucks at it and is banging on the floor in frustration as a result? How do you fail at Pac-Man? You’re right, someone does need to go up there and talk to him. So they can tell him how much of a failure he is as a gamer and how he needs to move to a form of video entertainment more along his current skill level. Such as Barbie Island Princess. Though I imagine even that requires some rudimentary hand eye coordination.
You know what, forget it. I’ll send security around to confiscate his gamer membership card and file down the tips of his thumbs.
867
SC: “Yeah, I ordered two pants before but someone took em away from me. So now I gotta order another.”
…someone took them away from you? Do you mean they were stolen, or you were bad and now you’re being punished? Or perhaps this was some form of strange ritualistic combat and you lost? Did someone else in the village clench a live salmon between his legs and successfully slap you across the face while you failed to do the same in return? Perhaps that’s the answer to all of this. Perhaps this is why the lot of you order so many damn clothes: Strip Crotch Salmon Jousting. Two men and two fish enter, only your pants leave? If that’s the case than there must be one really big undefeated bastard up there with a mountain of pants and thighs like steel. The Crotch Salmon Champion if you will. The only person in all of Nunavut that doesn’t need to order pants from me. Something I would normally appreciate if not for the fact he’s causing the rest of you to order yet more pants.
I know now what I must do to end my suffering. I must find this Crotch Salmon Champion and I must take his life. Only when this dark beast is defeated can peace once return to the north lands and my shift.
Of course. I could have this all wrong. The Crotch Salmon Champion could be a she.
Nice try.
Me: “Good evening, <maintenance company>.”
SC: “Huhuh, yeah, do you have wood?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “Huh…er…uh…umm. So you don’t have any kinds of wood?”
Me: “No. This isn’t a construction company.”
SC: “Oh…uh……”
Me: “……”
SC: “……”
Me: "....."
SC: "....ummm...."
This is the part where you’re suppose to spray the ink of failure and attempt to escape along the ocean floor in the resulting mist of stupidity.
Poor George
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Hey! You left me a message. What’s up?”
Me: “..pardon?”
SC: “You left me a message, sweetie!”
Me: “We left you a message..? Are you sure you’re calling the right number?”
SC: “Yes, you left me a message, silly! What’s up?”
Me: “Ok, you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Isn’t this George?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “Oh..”
I’m sure George will be pleased to know his girlfriend cannot distinguish between him and some utterly random stranger that outright identified himself as anyone but George. I hope George isn’t the jealous type. I wouldn’t want George to be upset after he runs to the bathroom at a Subway and comes back out to find you trying to make out with the Sandwich Artist™ whose name tag clearly identifies them as “Barbara”.
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh….you mean the item or like, the order type?”
The item. I already know the order type. It’s “Tragically inbred but still desperately trying to reach out to and interact with normal society.”.
Biohazard
Me: “Good evening, <company>.”
SC: “Oh, hello. I was having some trouble with my phone….and this was the only number I could remember.”
Me: “..ok”
SC: “You’re the receiver of my experiment.”
Well, that was strangely ominous. Right. Ok, if anyone comes in this morning, and I’m not here but you’re reading my shift report: Check the stairwell. I couldn’t have made it that far. If I lunge at you, aim for the head. Body shots probably won’t do it and whatever you do don’t let me bite anyone lest I spread the virus. If you come in and just find me dead on the floor shoot me in the head anyway. Always, always shoot the corpses. They’re never really dead. If you walk too close and I start chewing your ankle it’s your own damn fault for not listening to me.
Oh, and bring an ink ribbon. Don’t ask why. Just do it.
Duuuuuuude
Me: “Good evening, <natural supply company>.”
SC: “Whoa! Uh. Is this the order desk?”
Me: “Yes, this is the order desk.”
SC: “Whew, Wasn’t sure. Dude, you just like came out of nowhere!”
Right. Ok. Before we go any further, just a heads up: We sell hemp. Not pot.
An Otherwise Damn Fine Plan
Ok, look. Its fine if you want to pretend you’re not home to weasel out of doing your job when I call you. You know, the job you’re on call for you lazy cretin. But when I call and ask to speak with you, at least try and get out of earshot so I don’t actually hear the following exchange between you and your wife:
“Are you home?”
“No.”
“Ok. No, sorry, he’s not home.”
It kind of undermines your otherwise cunning attempt at subterfuge.
Every damn week
The lights are on at the <building>, yet again, and they are too bright and blah blah whine whine I neglected to pull up my big girl panties tonight etc etc. Seriously, dude, buy some blinds. If I can sleep during the daytime in September than you can figure out a way to sleep at 3am in November with the lights on next door. You’re also fully aware, as I have explained it before, that I can’t do anything about the lights being on and I am not taking a message either as this is emergency only. Yet still you call every week.
You somehow seem to be under the impression that if you call and tell me it will end up being communicated to the guard at the <building> whom I do not know and have no method of contacting. You specifically stated that this was what you thought happened with the messages that I already informed you I cannot and am not taking for you and that I have no contact to the person in question to pass them on even if I did.
So I’m not entirely sure what kind of voodoo magic you think is occurring when you dial this number.
Yes, yes it will
( As those of you in tech support can attest, you can't do *(&@# without a serial most the time )
Me: “Ok, and can I have the serial number please?”
SC: “Sure, but it ain’t gonna help ya.”
Humour me, cunt flap. There’s a method to my madness.
This Guy
SC: “I this a taxi?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “What?! This isn’t a taxi?!”
Me: “No.”
SC: “But this guy gave me this number and said this was a taxi!!!”
Well, be sure to go back to This Guy™ and inform him he needs to update his phone directory. You may also wish to request a full refund from him on your purchase of three magic beans.
Professor Layton and the Stunningly Obvious
Me: “Ok, are you calling in sick?”
SC: “Yes. Because I’ feel sick.”
Yes. Give me some credit here. I may not be Sherlock or even Matlock, but I can at least deduce that much. Its true years of caffeine abuse have probably begun to rot my brain from the inside out but I still have enough neurons firing to connect these two particular dots.
Arrghhh
Me: “Ok, and what software do you have?”
SC: “What software? What do you mean?”
Me: “I need to know what software you have so I can contact the right tech. Do you know what software you have?”
SC: “It’s for the computer.”
That sound you just heard was the impact of my face hitting my palm. Do not be startled. It’s a frequent occurrence and it must be at least somewhat familiar to you from your interactions with other human beings over the course of your life.
Close.
Me: "Ok, and what would you like to order?"
SC: "Non of this is taxable."
Oh ho? Unfortunately, I'll be the one making that particular judgment. Not you. But carry on.
( So she orders a bunch of crap, we get to the payment portion and I ask the obvious question )
Me: "Ok, do you have a tax exemption number?"
SC: "A what?"
Me: "A tax exemption number. I can't remove the tax without one."
SC: "What?! How do I get one of those!?"
Me: "I can't help you with obtaining one, as they are government issued."
SC: "BUT THESE ARE CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR KIDS!!"
Oh, here we go. I'm ruining Christmas. For reference, in Canada its true that clothing for kids is tax exempt but this typically done at a retail level as the process differs from province to province. But thats what she's trying to pull. Just one problem...
Me: "Sorry, but I cannot remove the tax without a tax exemption number."
SC: "How do I get one!?"
Me: "I can't help you with that, as I said."
SC: "I'VE NEVER HAD THIS PROBLEM BEFORE!!!"
Me: "There is literally no way to remove the tax in our computers without that number."
SC: "I've ordered before and it was no problem! They've done it for me before!!"
Bullshit. We literally cannot do that. Even if I wanted too.
Me: "If you like you can call back in the morning and speak with customer service about it. However, I cannot remove the tax without being able to verify a tax exemption number."
SC: "ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR!?!?"
No. I'm implying it.
Because this company does not sell a single item for children you insipid, halfwitted, scamming werebitch.
...wut
Me: “Ok, and your phone number please?”
SC: “My what?”
Me: “What’s your phone number please?”
SC: “My balloon?”
…..yes, that’s right. What is your balloon? Is it red or yellow? Is it fully inflated or is it more of a sort of limp, crinkly, sad week old left over from a birthday party kind of balloon? Is it a water balloon? Did someone burst your balloon? Oh, I get it. Some big meanie head burst your balloon and that’s why your calling, right? Well, don’t worry about meanie head, we’ll get you a brand new balloon ok? Just as soon as I find some place that sells “I Was Dropped On My Head As A Baby” foil balloons.
Something tells me I might have to special order them.
She's still at it..
SC: “I want you to tell a woman named Louise to stop using a phone number through me!”
Sure…..sooo…I can just tell anyone named Louise? No problem. I’m but a phonebook away from achieving this geas of yours that you’ve placed on me. Perhaps than you’ll twaddle off and leave us alone? Or is it a specific Louise you want me to tell? Do I need to wait on the line till the Louise personality emerges so I can pass on the message? Can’t you just write her a note or something and leave it on the fridge? I don’t see why it must fall upon me to tell your other personality to stop using up your cell phone minutes.
867
Me: “Ok, and your postal code please?”
SC: “xxx xNx.”
Me: “Is that xNx or xMx?”
SC: “Uuuuh….. xxx xNx.”
Me: “Is that N as in Nancy?”
SC: “….uh…. xxx xNx.”
Me: “Yes, but is it xNx. Like N as in Nancy?”
SC: "….uh…….Nan..cy?”
Me: “….Yes, is it N as in Nancy? …...You know, the letter N?”
SC: “Uhhhh….”
…you know? The letter N? J K L M N O P? Remember the song? You must at least know the song. Everyone knows the song. If you don’t know the song I don’t know what to tell you. The world has failed you and you have failed yourself. I don’t think it’s possible to fall any lower than you have fallen. You are quite literally the absolute lowest a member of the homo sapien species can possibly sink. You could be homeless, on the street, with nothing but a tattered old set of Big Bird sheets to cloth yourself, addled with a combination of leprosy, crotch lice and a 3rd nipple and still be able to go “Well, at least I know the alphabet song.”. But you, you are beneath that. You have reached the rock layer of the very bottom of the failure pit, and you have slowly and gruelingly chipped your way through it to find a new level of failure no one has ever delved into before.
Congratulations. Have a cookie.
Um, no.
Me: “Ok, did you want any other names on the ticket?”
SC: “Oh no, if I want to add someone I’ll just write it on the ticket.”
That’s….not how this works. Merely scrawling it onto the physical ticket in crayon does not I any way actually enter that person’s name into the drawing with that ticket. It must be done from my end. You penning in a second name will in no way bind them to the magical contract with which you seem to think the ticket holds us too.
Natural Selection
I almost got to witness Natural Selection at work this evening. But the opportunity was snatched away by the somewhat coherent friend of the victim. There was this bunch of idjits was loitering right on the corner outside of the main entrance from Granville Station. Granville and Georgia I guess it is. You know, that one crosswalk that gives you approximately 5 seconds to reach the other side? Yeah, that one. The death walk.
Well, this pack of yahoos was right on the corner, effectively blocking the majority of the crosswalk from both streets. I slipped into the remaining fraction of space to their left. As I was standing next to them in the small gap of space they had kindly provided me, I heard them begin to utter meer cat like noises of parting. Having done so, one of them turned around and stepped out into the street. Right in front of the oncoming bus.
Now, just for reference this cross walk of course has the normal “Walk” and “Do not walk or you’ll die horribly” flashing signals. But they also recently installed the little beep noise signal as well. So you would have to be effectively blind and deaf to have any reasonable excuse for stepping into oncoming traffic at this point in the city.
Luckily for him, one of his friends was slightly more coherent than he was and yelled “Dude! Bus!” prompting the guy to stop in the path of oncoming death, turn around go “Uah?” to which he grabbed him and pulled him back to the sidewalk. Moments before said bus went sailing past. Having finally clued in to the fact he was almost removed from the gene pool, he turned to his friend and went “Oh dude, you saved my life! It’s a good thing you didn’t yell Dave. Cus I’d have been like “who?””.
I don’t know why his friend might have been compelled to yell Dave at him to indicate approaching danger, but it was apparently the thread that his life hung in the balance by.
Uncle Vick
Me: “Good evening, <client>.”
SC: “Yeah, Hi. This is Vick.”
<sigh> Hello, Vick.
SC: “I’m going to go after the Hell’s Angels too.”
Me: “….ok?”
SC: “I just wanted to tell you that.”
Me: “…alright, your funeral.”
SC: “Bye.”
Ok, Vick, dude. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing you a while now and I really have to level with you here: You cannot take the Hell’s Angels. You simply do not have the physical capacity, armament, back up or mental comprehension required to oppose and dismantled an organized country wide biker gang. You got your ass flogged by 3 guys you knew from high school at a bar because you called them terrorists, remember? So badly that even the cop laughed at you? If you can’t take 3 half tanked old classmates how do you expect to take on an entire biker gang? You are….how do all the kids put it these days? Issuing cheques your buttocks cannot successfully deposit?
Still, if it will make you stop calling me, more power to you.
ew
Me: “Good evening, <company>.”
SC: “Hello, handsome boy.”
Hello, creepy old Chinese guy calling at 4am and hitting me up on <company> for ill defined reasons. What can I do for you?
SC: “When’s the soonest we can get our paycheques?”
Ah, so your cunning plan was to use your copiously abundant charm and suave sexiness in an attempt to get an advance on your payroll. Reaching a male voice did not dissuade your plan. I commend your determination yet still feel the need to shower extensively upon my return home.
Weak!
Me: “Ok, and what’s the problem?”
SC: “My upstairs neighbor is making too much noise. He’s playing some video game and there’s lots of thumping than that game noise. You know that dee dee dee deeeee noise?”
….so what your telling me is not only is your upstairs neighbor playing the original Pac-Man, but he sucks at it and is banging on the floor in frustration as a result? How do you fail at Pac-Man? You’re right, someone does need to go up there and talk to him. So they can tell him how much of a failure he is as a gamer and how he needs to move to a form of video entertainment more along his current skill level. Such as Barbie Island Princess. Though I imagine even that requires some rudimentary hand eye coordination.
You know what, forget it. I’ll send security around to confiscate his gamer membership card and file down the tips of his thumbs.
867
SC: “Yeah, I ordered two pants before but someone took em away from me. So now I gotta order another.”
…someone took them away from you? Do you mean they were stolen, or you were bad and now you’re being punished? Or perhaps this was some form of strange ritualistic combat and you lost? Did someone else in the village clench a live salmon between his legs and successfully slap you across the face while you failed to do the same in return? Perhaps that’s the answer to all of this. Perhaps this is why the lot of you order so many damn clothes: Strip Crotch Salmon Jousting. Two men and two fish enter, only your pants leave? If that’s the case than there must be one really big undefeated bastard up there with a mountain of pants and thighs like steel. The Crotch Salmon Champion if you will. The only person in all of Nunavut that doesn’t need to order pants from me. Something I would normally appreciate if not for the fact he’s causing the rest of you to order yet more pants.
I know now what I must do to end my suffering. I must find this Crotch Salmon Champion and I must take his life. Only when this dark beast is defeated can peace once return to the north lands and my shift.
Of course. I could have this all wrong. The Crotch Salmon Champion could be a she.
Nice try.
Me: “Good evening, <maintenance company>.”
SC: “Huhuh, yeah, do you have wood?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “Huh…er…uh…umm. So you don’t have any kinds of wood?”
Me: “No. This isn’t a construction company.”
SC: “Oh…uh……”
Me: “……”
SC: “……”
Me: "....."
SC: "....ummm...."
This is the part where you’re suppose to spray the ink of failure and attempt to escape along the ocean floor in the resulting mist of stupidity.
Poor George
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Hey! You left me a message. What’s up?”
Me: “..pardon?”
SC: “You left me a message, sweetie!”
Me: “We left you a message..? Are you sure you’re calling the right number?”
SC: “Yes, you left me a message, silly! What’s up?”
Me: “Ok, you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Isn’t this George?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “Oh..”
I’m sure George will be pleased to know his girlfriend cannot distinguish between him and some utterly random stranger that outright identified himself as anyone but George. I hope George isn’t the jealous type. I wouldn’t want George to be upset after he runs to the bathroom at a Subway and comes back out to find you trying to make out with the Sandwich Artist™ whose name tag clearly identifies them as “Barbara”.
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh….you mean the item or like, the order type?”
The item. I already know the order type. It’s “Tragically inbred but still desperately trying to reach out to and interact with normal society.”.
Biohazard
Me: “Good evening, <company>.”
SC: “Oh, hello. I was having some trouble with my phone….and this was the only number I could remember.”
Me: “..ok”
SC: “You’re the receiver of my experiment.”
Well, that was strangely ominous. Right. Ok, if anyone comes in this morning, and I’m not here but you’re reading my shift report: Check the stairwell. I couldn’t have made it that far. If I lunge at you, aim for the head. Body shots probably won’t do it and whatever you do don’t let me bite anyone lest I spread the virus. If you come in and just find me dead on the floor shoot me in the head anyway. Always, always shoot the corpses. They’re never really dead. If you walk too close and I start chewing your ankle it’s your own damn fault for not listening to me.
Oh, and bring an ink ribbon. Don’t ask why. Just do it.
Duuuuuuude
Me: “Good evening, <natural supply company>.”
SC: “Whoa! Uh. Is this the order desk?”
Me: “Yes, this is the order desk.”
SC: “Whew, Wasn’t sure. Dude, you just like came out of nowhere!”
Right. Ok. Before we go any further, just a heads up: We sell hemp. Not pot.
An Otherwise Damn Fine Plan
Ok, look. Its fine if you want to pretend you’re not home to weasel out of doing your job when I call you. You know, the job you’re on call for you lazy cretin. But when I call and ask to speak with you, at least try and get out of earshot so I don’t actually hear the following exchange between you and your wife:
“Are you home?”
“No.”
“Ok. No, sorry, he’s not home.”
It kind of undermines your otherwise cunning attempt at subterfuge.
Every damn week
The lights are on at the <building>, yet again, and they are too bright and blah blah whine whine I neglected to pull up my big girl panties tonight etc etc. Seriously, dude, buy some blinds. If I can sleep during the daytime in September than you can figure out a way to sleep at 3am in November with the lights on next door. You’re also fully aware, as I have explained it before, that I can’t do anything about the lights being on and I am not taking a message either as this is emergency only. Yet still you call every week.
You somehow seem to be under the impression that if you call and tell me it will end up being communicated to the guard at the <building> whom I do not know and have no method of contacting. You specifically stated that this was what you thought happened with the messages that I already informed you I cannot and am not taking for you and that I have no contact to the person in question to pass them on even if I did.
So I’m not entirely sure what kind of voodoo magic you think is occurring when you dial this number.
Yes, yes it will
( As those of you in tech support can attest, you can't do *(&@# without a serial most the time )
Me: “Ok, and can I have the serial number please?”
SC: “Sure, but it ain’t gonna help ya.”
Humour me, cunt flap. There’s a method to my madness.
This Guy
SC: “I this a taxi?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “What?! This isn’t a taxi?!”
Me: “No.”
SC: “But this guy gave me this number and said this was a taxi!!!”
Well, be sure to go back to This Guy™ and inform him he needs to update his phone directory. You may also wish to request a full refund from him on your purchase of three magic beans.
Professor Layton and the Stunningly Obvious
Me: “Ok, are you calling in sick?”
SC: “Yes. Because I’ feel sick.”
Yes. Give me some credit here. I may not be Sherlock or even Matlock, but I can at least deduce that much. Its true years of caffeine abuse have probably begun to rot my brain from the inside out but I still have enough neurons firing to connect these two particular dots.
Arrghhh
Me: “Ok, and what software do you have?”
SC: “What software? What do you mean?”
Me: “I need to know what software you have so I can contact the right tech. Do you know what software you have?”
SC: “It’s for the computer.”
That sound you just heard was the impact of my face hitting my palm. Do not be startled. It’s a frequent occurrence and it must be at least somewhat familiar to you from your interactions with other human beings over the course of your life.
Close.
Me: "Ok, and what would you like to order?"
SC: "Non of this is taxable."
Oh ho? Unfortunately, I'll be the one making that particular judgment. Not you. But carry on.
( So she orders a bunch of crap, we get to the payment portion and I ask the obvious question )
Me: "Ok, do you have a tax exemption number?"
SC: "A what?"
Me: "A tax exemption number. I can't remove the tax without one."
SC: "What?! How do I get one of those!?"
Me: "I can't help you with obtaining one, as they are government issued."
SC: "BUT THESE ARE CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR KIDS!!"
Oh, here we go. I'm ruining Christmas. For reference, in Canada its true that clothing for kids is tax exempt but this typically done at a retail level as the process differs from province to province. But thats what she's trying to pull. Just one problem...
Me: "Sorry, but I cannot remove the tax without a tax exemption number."
SC: "How do I get one!?"
Me: "I can't help you with that, as I said."
SC: "I'VE NEVER HAD THIS PROBLEM BEFORE!!!"
Me: "There is literally no way to remove the tax in our computers without that number."
SC: "I've ordered before and it was no problem! They've done it for me before!!"
Bullshit. We literally cannot do that. Even if I wanted too.
Me: "If you like you can call back in the morning and speak with customer service about it. However, I cannot remove the tax without being able to verify a tax exemption number."
SC: "ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR!?!?"
No. I'm implying it.
Because this company does not sell a single item for children you insipid, halfwitted, scamming werebitch.
you know how much I enjoy stealing guys pants off them... and I've not had any volunteers recently and got desperate... it won't happen again 
Comment