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The Dark Arts
Argh.... -.-
You're Doing It Wrong
Me: "Good morning, <company> reservation line."
SC: “This may sound strange, but I’m trying not to make a reservation.”
…and you’re calling me for what than? I mean, if you’re trying to not place a reservation than calling a reservation line is sort of like trying to quit smoking by working on a tobacco plantation during brush fire season.
Probably not the best approach.
TMI
SC: “I had a procedure with <doctor> earlier today….I don’t remember what it’s called. It involved a scope and a laser.”
Ok, stop right there. Please. <doctor> is a urologist. So I do not want nor need any details regarding any procedures you experienced at his likely uncomfortably cold hands. Especially not if it involved a scope and / or laser.
SC: “It was a called a ra….um, ra….something...”
STOP. Please do not give me any term that could be easily Googled. Because curiosity will eventually overcome me and than everything will be sadness and terror. Followed shortly by regret.
You Offend Me
Caller: “HAVE A GREAT DAY~!!!”
Have a long, uncomfortable day spent with your underwear riding up your ass crack whenever you’re in public and completely incapable of going thread fishing to recover it due to the shame and embarrassment you would call down upon yourself from everyone else in line at Denny’s.
But...
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “A hat and I forgot my ID.”
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “I forgot my ID…..”
Me: “..you forgot your ID?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “You don’t need ID to place an order.”
SC: “I forgot my ID….”
Me: “But I don’t need ID to place an order for you.”
SC: “Huh?”
Me: “I don’t required ID. I can still place an order for you.”
SC: “I’ll call back after I get it.”
Me: “But you do-“
SC: “<click>”
If only you had shut your facial pastry delivery chute and opened your noise holes for a moment you could have averted this tragic error. But alas, you will now go hatless. Uncapped, your thick, slopped cranium will be exposed to the elements and end up requiring professional scalp deicing.
The Fangirl
Me: “Good morning, yadda yadda.”
FG: “I want to give you the number, ok?
<sob> you again. Why? Why do you haunt me!?
Me: “I-“
FG: “The number is xxx-xxx-xxxx”
Me: “…….”
FG: “Did you get the number?”
Me: “I don’t need the number.”
FG: “Wha? Did you get it?”
Me: “I don’t require the number-“
FG: “You don’t acquire the number? I don’t understand”
Me: “Ok, this is an emergency line.”
FG: “Oh, I’m sorry.”
No you’re not! You’re never sorry! You say that every time but you LIE. I don’t know what small, dark, aerosol cheese dependent life you live but please stop looking to me as the only faint glimmer of salvation in this world. I am no savior or messiah despite what that whack job up by London drugs tells you.
I cannot help you. I do not want to help you. I am not qualified to help you. If I ever actually encountered you in the street I would likely kick you in the knees than run as fast as possible in the opposite direction screaming "RAPE!"
Would you now?
Me: "Alright, you should receive your ticket in about a week or so"
SC: “By the way.”
Me: “Yes?”
SC: “I’d like the winning ticket.”
Ah, that charming jest was so cleverly tickling I neglected to partake in any outward display of amusement. But do not worry, little miss, for I am laughing on the inside. I am also wishing a desperately itchy rash upon places you cannot scratch in public without risking arrest. On the inside.
Good For You
Me: “Ok, do you have a customer ID number?”
SC: “Uh, no.”
Me: “O-“
SC: “I have a driver’s license.”
Good for you. Do you want a cookie? Because I have some here. Peanut butter too. Go on, have you. Its the least I can do to recognize your exceptional personal achievement.
I mean, surely no one else in the city has even come close to accomplishing what you have.
The Snuggler
I encountered another common denizen of the transit system this evening. One you’ve likely encountered at some point as well if you’ve ever ridden its dark chariots. The Snuggler. Any time you sit in any seat that has another seat next to it, you are at grave risk of encountering this creature. The Snuggler does not know who you are and has never met you before. Yet they need the warmth of your body and will do everything they can to take it for their own short of direct assault. The concept of personal space has no meaning in their world.
This desperate individual will sit beside you and than do everything in their power to create as much direct physical as possible short of sliding their hand up your thigh. Though they will, such as in this case, feign interest in a book and slide their elbow up your thigh instead. This is a relatively low level tactic, however. The more enterprising of these perverse creatures will pretend to slumber and use it as an excuse to slllowly lean over onto you like a 14 year old boy on his first date in a dark movie theatre.
If fact, if left in this position for an extended period there’s no guarantee the Snuggler won’t try to blow in your ear.
The Fangirl: ....<snap>
Me: “Good evening, yadda yadda.”
FG: “HELLO”
<whimper>. Why do you hate me, lord?
FG: “MY BROTHER HUMPHREY-“
Me: “……”
FG: “-DOCTOR THAT LIVES IN THE-“
Me: “…..”
FG: “RABBLE RABBLE”
Me: “Ok, look. 3 things.”
FG: “Ok?”
Me: “I don’t care. I have never cared. I will not care at any point in the future.”
FG: “…..oh.”
Me: “Please stop calling.”
FG: “....Ok.”
I’m not sure how I can accurately convey my complete apathy to you. I’ve been trying, repeatedly, for many days. But it has still not sunken through her thick, fevered head. This has gone past prank and annoyance and straight into madness. This is the second week of this lunacy and she is still attempting to locate me specifically. The only caveat is that she often mistakes <coworker> for me. In which case I am momentarily saved.
The Fangirl .......<twitch>
Me: “Good evening, yadda yadda.”
FG: “HELLO”
Me: “…….”
FG: “I WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY YOUNGER SISTER. SHE DIED WHEN I WAS YOUNGER-“
Me: “……”
FG: “I HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER TOO. HE-“
Me: “Ok, what does this have to do with <emergency line>?”
FG: “THAN HE-“
Me: “What does this have to do with <emergency line>?”
FG: “What?”
Me: “What does ANY of this to do with <emergency line>?”
FG: “Nothing.”
Me: “Than why are you calling?”
FG: “I want to tell my younger sister.”
Me: “….I’m not your younger sister.”
FG: “But I want to tell her!”
Me: “Ok, look, listen.”
FG: “Ok.”
Me: "Put the phone DOWN and WALK AWAY."
FG: “......Ok. <click>”
She does listen. The problem is she only listens for about 5 minutes before she forgets and calls back again. Also, I’m not entirely sure how or why but apparently she now believes I am her dead younger sister and that her phone line somehow transcends life and death. So not only have I been mistaken for a woman again, but also some sort of zombie like creature that is inexplicable answering phone lines.
NEMESIS
Me: “Ok, and what size would you like?”
Caller: “Uhhh…….hey, what size do you want?”
Guy: “7 and 5/8ths”
Caller: “Wha?”
Guy: “7 and 5/8ths!”
Caller: “uuuh…..”
Guy: “7 and 5/8ths!!”
Caller: “7 and 3/4th’s”
Me: “……..”
Guy: “7 AND 5/8THS!”
Caller: “Oh, 7 and 5/8ths.”
Ok, even I can hear him and what size he wants. I’m not sure why he feels the need to hide behind this half witted proxy. It’s almost as if he feels some need to hide his identity from me…….wait. It’s YOU isn’t it!? TIM COOSHUM. You are the true mastermind behind all of the foolish antics I’ve endured on this line aren’t you?! You are the dark northern emperor that’s orchestrated the legions of fools I’ve faced over these years! IT ALL MAKES SENSE.
Well I have news for you, Frigid One. I have faced and defeated every fool you’ve sent at us. I have even faced down your two must trusted generals: The two female couch chewers that had previously engaged in a campaign against me using your moniker. Your underlings could not defeat me. Your generals could not defeat me. Nor will I be defeated by this slow witted creature you’re using as a proxy to attempt to gain additional headgear.
What is this dull witted creature, anyhow? Is she your last loyal follower? Have we managed to decimate your legions over the years and reduced you to little more than this feeble creature? Yet for all the damage you’ve endured, you just can’t escape it can you. You MUST have hats. Thus I have you in the palm of my hand. I control your fate now! It would be wise not to ire me. Or you shall go hatless and your forehead shall be chapped and your eyebrows heavy with frost.
The Fan-...oh wait.
Me: “Good evening, yadda yadda emergency line.”
SC: “Yes, hi, I was wondering if you can help me?”
Not yo-….wait, who are you? Pardon me. I was expecting someone else entirely. Sorry about that. So, what can I do for you?
SC: “The FBI was helping me a while ago. I talked to them 5 years ago but they never got back to me!”
Allllrighty. Actually, this is kind of a relief to be honest. Finally, just a good ol’ fashion conspiracy nutjob that just thinks that high level federal agencies actually give a rat’s arse hair what they have to say or where they think they saw Osama Bin Laden is this week.
For reference, Osama is apparently at The Bay this week.
Subjective Terms
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “A jacket. Could you tell me how warm it is?”
…..no. No I couldn’t. Not only do I not even know what jacket you’re referring too but “warm” is a completely subjective term. It varies from person to person and is dependent on external forces such as weather and season. Therefore there is no possible way I could gauge what you would consider warm. I can gauge what I consider warm. Though while I am fairly warm blooded, my tolerance range probably pales in comparison to the climate in which you yourself dwell. This jacket might be perfectly warm to me. However, to you, it may still end with you dying of exposure after an hour outside and your frozen remains being carted off piece mail by wolves.
Me: “Ok, and what size?”
SC: “Well, I’m not very big. What size do you think I should get?”
Ok, again. I have utterly no idea. I do not know you. I have never met you. I cannot judge your dimensions nor range of temperature tolerance. These things, much like zipping up your pants, are things you will one day have to learn to do on your own without the assistance of others.
Someday you will have to leave the nest and hold your willy steady by yourself.
The Dark Arts
I actually volunteered for this one, for my patience is vast and my zen like center calm like the morning pond. Apparently she’d already chewed <coworker> a new one earlier. So I offered to face her unbridled wrath when she reappeared in the call queue.
What could have enraged her so you ask? What terrible transgression could have driven her to such a blinding fury as to make her call back over and over? Well, it seems they installed some new lights at her building and these lights are too bright for her liking. She cannot sleep. For they sear through the backs of her eyelids like the luminance of a 1000 desert suns or some such.
I assume <landlords> decided they would install halogens in every socket in the building and than have every light fixture moved and reinstalled facing directly into her bedroom onto her face. Perhaps hoping this concentrated beam of pure light would drive out the dark demon within so they could rent the suite out to someone slightly less…...possessed.
First of all, she wanted <coworker> and was enraged at my very presence. For <coworker> had spoken with her previously and apparently, in her warped world, <coworker> had “promised” to follow up for her and have these lights removed ( Hint: he said nothing of the sort. ) I assume, at least in her world, rings were exchanged and vows spoken to ensure that these lights would be swiftly eliminated. Thus she was angered that she be forced to speak with me, rather than <coworker>. As I, for one, was not going to page an emergency on call over a bright light bulb.
So now she accuses <coworker> of lying to her ( <coworker>, you bastard. You broke her heart. Her black, black heart. ) and wants to complain about that on TOP of the lights. I make several attempts to explain the concept of “after hours service” and “emergency” to her. Both concepts failed to find any traction amidst her tirade. These lights were the font of all suffering and they would be removed. Now.
She also wants to know where <coworker> went, why, and at exactly what time ( I assume so she may find him and slay him for denying her florescent justice ).
Than it begins. She begins to employ a number of the Dark Arts. The arguments employed by a petulant individual who is not getting their way when speaking with a CSR. These shadowy tactics are classic in their approach and application. They’ve been passed down through generations of self important, tight sphinctered individuals for use in their struggle withus. Each Art is laced with hidden traps for the inexperienced. One must be wary and cunning to evade them. Come, my young padawan, let me teach you the the basics of these so you might recognize them for what they truly are.
The First Dark Art: “It’s Important To ME”
Honestly, I’m not entirely sure this one has ever actually succeeded in the history of customer service. Not that seems to stop anyone from attempting it. But, still, it is an important art none the less as it creates an opening for the Second Dark Art. In the First Art, the caller will attempt to convince you by stressing the importance of an event to them personally and how it is affecting them and basically ruining their entire day and / or lives ( “Well, it’s an emergency to ME!” ). In some sort of misguided attempted to drum up sympathy and justify why you should break company policy on their behalf. You know, just this once. Come on. Please?
It could be something as simple as the inability to return a purchased item ( That they have neglected to return within the specified return time. Which has of course lead to ruining their entire day, rendering them unable to pay their hydro bill and plunging them and their entire family into a life of complete darkness. I hope you’re happy now, jerk. ) or something as…er….simple as OH GOD THE LIGHTS. THEY BURN. Which has of course lead to her inability to sleep, the ruination of her entire day, the ruination of tomorrow and the destruction of her quality of life from here on out. Therefore I should care and make an exception just this once. Because it’s an emergency to her.
The Second Dark Art: “What If”
Ah, but there’s another, more devious ploy that oft follows the First Dark Art. This one is insidious “What If”. This is where the rabid caller attempts to force you into their shoes by presenting you with a “what if” scenario. Well what if the lights were keeping you awake? Wouldn’t it be an emergency to you? What if your entire family was living in the DARK because you couldn’t return a cashmere sweater? Wouldn’t you consider it an emergency? Well? Would you? Huh? TELL ME YOU BASTARD.
Never answer this question. It’s a trap. If you say no, they just persist with it in disbelief of your answer. If you’re fool enough to agree, you will only give them a new avenue of attack. Well if it’s an emergency to you too, why won’t you help me? Help me out here, for now, since you agree with me, we obviously have some sort of unbreakable spiritual bond between us. Therefore you should make an exception just this once. Even if it could get you fired. Hell, especially if it could get you fired.
I, however, am wily to their ways after years of working in a call centre and declined to agree or disagree to the what if scenario. Plus I have to sleep through the day in the middle of September so that Sympathy Well is pretty dry to begin with.
The Third Dark Art: “A Cut Above”
During this Dark Art the caller will attempt to plumb you for knowledge about your capabilities and information. They wish to discover the boundaries of your power in the hopes of making an alternative suggestion after receiving this information or demand the disclosure of said information so they themselves can proceed around you ( “Zomigawd! I demand the number to your boss/CEO/head office/mom!” ).
For example, in this case, she began inquiring as to what contact information I possess regarding the company and arguing things such as “You can’t possibly not have your boss's number”. See, she’s prodding before leading into the demand “Well just give me the number and I’ll call them myself!”. As if I shall divulge confidential information to her simply because I possess it.
Why yes, I shall immediately give you confidential client information so that you may call and scream at the client directly. Please make sure you tell them I was the one that gave it to you so that they know specifically who to have fired.
Of course, I originally declined utterly. But upon further raving conceded I do possess such information but it is all confidential and cannot be disclosed to her in an attempt to illustrate the tying of my hands in a bid for peaceful understanding. But this of course just made me, as well as <coworker>, filthy filthy “liars”.
The Fourth Dark Art: “Yeah, well you can go FUCK YOURSELF! <click>”
Ok, so that isn’t really much of a Dark Art, I just found it amusing.
Ew.
There are many noises I do not wish to hear in the background of the call. The sound of a stream of liquid impacting a smaller body of liquid in an enclosed space is one of them. Please call back when you are not grasping your nether regions with your free hand. Thank you.
Fresh Meat
Me: “Would you like regular or express shipping?”
SC: “What’s the difference?”
Me: “One takes 2 weeks, the other takes 1 week.”
SC: “Which one takes 1 week?”
Ahhhh, I see you’ve drummed up some new recruits, Tim.
The Inside of my Mind Is Weird
Tonight, courtesy of the vending machine, I have learned that the French translation of “Zesty Cheese” is “Fromage Mordant”. Which, in all honesty, sounds like a Dwarven mine. And lo, their axe blades were forged of the finest mithril ore from the very depths of Fromage Mordant.
Ah......public transit.
It’s time for another weekend edition of Overheard On Public Transit:
“How can you be pregnant?! You always wear shorts!”
I have no explanation for this statement. But the two girls involved took it very seriously. Note that she was not, in fact, wearing shorts at the time. Thus offering a possible explanation to her pregnancy.
“I love you! Stay Jewish!”
I have no idea. This makes less sense than the shorts. The young man in question was very proud of his statement and repeated it several more times to ensure all of his friends knew of the words he had spoken and whatever clever wit he thought he possessed.
“People squeezing my boobs makes me sneeze.”
A) Something is wrong inside your brain. B) You get felt up enough that you had to use the term “People”?
"DEATH TO SKYLAR! DEATH TO SKYLAR!”
I do not know who Skylar is. He could be an inter-dimensional alien overlord that this group of young lads had only but recently thrown off the cruel yoke of slavery from. Or it could just be one of their roommates that never does the dishes.
Either way, he must perish.
Ew Again
Your upstairs neighbour’s frequent bowel movements are not an emergency. If you have enough free time on your hands to be sitting around at night counting how many times he went to the bathroom there are much bigger problems in your life you need to address. This seriously cannot be the entire existence can it? Counting the nocturnal flushing of your neighbours?
You sir, need a hobby.
.......
You have conditions on your parole. One of these conditions is that you cannot contact your girlfriend. Your girlfriend has just shown up at your house. I can hear her yelling at you in the background. I’m trying to figure out what you could have done that could possibly have landed you with that parole condition? Considering she’s come over to your house voluntarily and seems to have done so to ream you out.
Is it a parole condition or a protective order? Did she beat you up? Do you need help? She sounds like she’s only 12, she can’t possibly be that threaten-……wait, it’s because she’s only 12 isn’t it?
You are a very bad man.
The Internet(tm)
Me: “Ok, and what software are you using?”
SC: “The internet.”
Whoa, back up there. The entire Internet? You don’t say. Wow. Still, I’m not entirely sure how The Internet™ software could possibly help you at your place of employment. The Internet™ is mainly used for cute pictures of animals, video clips of people being hit in the groin by various objects, video clips of people falling and getting hit in the groin by fixed objects such as railings, telephone poles and fire hydrants, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their friends, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their enemies, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their loved ones, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their pets, Chuck Norris jokes and pornography.
So unless you’re some sort of research scientist studying the effect of physical impacts on the human groin using Playboy Centerfolds holding kittens while watching Walker Texas Ranger, I don’t see how this particular brand of software would be of any benefit.
Yet Again...
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “This hoodie right here.”
I thought I’d already covered this one. But fine, I’ll go over it one more time for the slow kids in the back: I cannot see what you’re pointing at in the catalog. I am not looking over your shoulder. I am not peering through the phone receiver. I am not viewing you remotely by projecting my astral form to your location. I am not watching you on Google Earth. Though if you really would like to set up some sort of system to enable this kind of visual communication, I suppose you could go outside and craft a craven image of the hoodie in the snow of the vast arctic tundra large enough to be spotted by overhead satellite. In which case you could call up and give me the longitude and latitude of the hoodie you want.
But it would probably be much easier, and faster, to simply give me the Product Id number.
The Stalker
For those of you wondering precisely what has occurred with this, its now become a police matter. My boss stepped in to thrown down the gauntlet as it were ( I <3 my boss ). The stalker had spread out and begun harassing everyone that picked up the line. But had begun telling my coworkers she was my girlfriend ( Red Flag ). This morning the sociopath officially ignored the police warning. So the next few days could be interesting and / or stressful... -.-
You're Doing It Wrong
Me: "Good morning, <company> reservation line."
SC: “This may sound strange, but I’m trying not to make a reservation.”
…and you’re calling me for what than? I mean, if you’re trying to not place a reservation than calling a reservation line is sort of like trying to quit smoking by working on a tobacco plantation during brush fire season.
Probably not the best approach.
TMI
SC: “I had a procedure with <doctor> earlier today….I don’t remember what it’s called. It involved a scope and a laser.”
Ok, stop right there. Please. <doctor> is a urologist. So I do not want nor need any details regarding any procedures you experienced at his likely uncomfortably cold hands. Especially not if it involved a scope and / or laser.
SC: “It was a called a ra….um, ra….something...”
STOP. Please do not give me any term that could be easily Googled. Because curiosity will eventually overcome me and than everything will be sadness and terror. Followed shortly by regret.
You Offend Me
Caller: “HAVE A GREAT DAY~!!!”
Have a long, uncomfortable day spent with your underwear riding up your ass crack whenever you’re in public and completely incapable of going thread fishing to recover it due to the shame and embarrassment you would call down upon yourself from everyone else in line at Denny’s.
But...
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “A hat and I forgot my ID.”
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “I forgot my ID…..”
Me: “..you forgot your ID?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “You don’t need ID to place an order.”
SC: “I forgot my ID….”
Me: “But I don’t need ID to place an order for you.”
SC: “Huh?”
Me: “I don’t required ID. I can still place an order for you.”
SC: “I’ll call back after I get it.”
Me: “But you do-“
SC: “<click>”
If only you had shut your facial pastry delivery chute and opened your noise holes for a moment you could have averted this tragic error. But alas, you will now go hatless. Uncapped, your thick, slopped cranium will be exposed to the elements and end up requiring professional scalp deicing.
The Fangirl
Me: “Good morning, yadda yadda.”
FG: “I want to give you the number, ok?
<sob> you again. Why? Why do you haunt me!?
Me: “I-“
FG: “The number is xxx-xxx-xxxx”
Me: “…….”
FG: “Did you get the number?”
Me: “I don’t need the number.”
FG: “Wha? Did you get it?”
Me: “I don’t require the number-“
FG: “You don’t acquire the number? I don’t understand”
Me: “Ok, this is an emergency line.”
FG: “Oh, I’m sorry.”
No you’re not! You’re never sorry! You say that every time but you LIE. I don’t know what small, dark, aerosol cheese dependent life you live but please stop looking to me as the only faint glimmer of salvation in this world. I am no savior or messiah despite what that whack job up by London drugs tells you.
I cannot help you. I do not want to help you. I am not qualified to help you. If I ever actually encountered you in the street I would likely kick you in the knees than run as fast as possible in the opposite direction screaming "RAPE!"
Would you now?
Me: "Alright, you should receive your ticket in about a week or so"
SC: “By the way.”
Me: “Yes?”
SC: “I’d like the winning ticket.”
Ah, that charming jest was so cleverly tickling I neglected to partake in any outward display of amusement. But do not worry, little miss, for I am laughing on the inside. I am also wishing a desperately itchy rash upon places you cannot scratch in public without risking arrest. On the inside.
Good For You
Me: “Ok, do you have a customer ID number?”
SC: “Uh, no.”
Me: “O-“
SC: “I have a driver’s license.”
Good for you. Do you want a cookie? Because I have some here. Peanut butter too. Go on, have you. Its the least I can do to recognize your exceptional personal achievement.
I mean, surely no one else in the city has even come close to accomplishing what you have.
The Snuggler
I encountered another common denizen of the transit system this evening. One you’ve likely encountered at some point as well if you’ve ever ridden its dark chariots. The Snuggler. Any time you sit in any seat that has another seat next to it, you are at grave risk of encountering this creature. The Snuggler does not know who you are and has never met you before. Yet they need the warmth of your body and will do everything they can to take it for their own short of direct assault. The concept of personal space has no meaning in their world.
This desperate individual will sit beside you and than do everything in their power to create as much direct physical as possible short of sliding their hand up your thigh. Though they will, such as in this case, feign interest in a book and slide their elbow up your thigh instead. This is a relatively low level tactic, however. The more enterprising of these perverse creatures will pretend to slumber and use it as an excuse to slllowly lean over onto you like a 14 year old boy on his first date in a dark movie theatre.
If fact, if left in this position for an extended period there’s no guarantee the Snuggler won’t try to blow in your ear.
The Fangirl: ....<snap>
Me: “Good evening, yadda yadda.”
FG: “HELLO”
<whimper>. Why do you hate me, lord?
FG: “MY BROTHER HUMPHREY-“
Me: “……”
FG: “-DOCTOR THAT LIVES IN THE-“
Me: “…..”
FG: “RABBLE RABBLE”
Me: “Ok, look. 3 things.”
FG: “Ok?”
Me: “I don’t care. I have never cared. I will not care at any point in the future.”
FG: “…..oh.”
Me: “Please stop calling.”
FG: “....Ok.”
I’m not sure how I can accurately convey my complete apathy to you. I’ve been trying, repeatedly, for many days. But it has still not sunken through her thick, fevered head. This has gone past prank and annoyance and straight into madness. This is the second week of this lunacy and she is still attempting to locate me specifically. The only caveat is that she often mistakes <coworker> for me. In which case I am momentarily saved.
The Fangirl .......<twitch>
Me: “Good evening, yadda yadda.”
FG: “HELLO”
Me: “…….”
FG: “I WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY YOUNGER SISTER. SHE DIED WHEN I WAS YOUNGER-“
Me: “……”
FG: “I HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER TOO. HE-“
Me: “Ok, what does this have to do with <emergency line>?”
FG: “THAN HE-“
Me: “What does this have to do with <emergency line>?”
FG: “What?”
Me: “What does ANY of this to do with <emergency line>?”
FG: “Nothing.”
Me: “Than why are you calling?”
FG: “I want to tell my younger sister.”
Me: “….I’m not your younger sister.”
FG: “But I want to tell her!”
Me: “Ok, look, listen.”
FG: “Ok.”
Me: "Put the phone DOWN and WALK AWAY."
FG: “......Ok. <click>”
She does listen. The problem is she only listens for about 5 minutes before she forgets and calls back again. Also, I’m not entirely sure how or why but apparently she now believes I am her dead younger sister and that her phone line somehow transcends life and death. So not only have I been mistaken for a woman again, but also some sort of zombie like creature that is inexplicable answering phone lines.
NEMESIS
Me: “Ok, and what size would you like?”
Caller: “Uhhh…….hey, what size do you want?”
Guy: “7 and 5/8ths”
Caller: “Wha?”
Guy: “7 and 5/8ths!”
Caller: “uuuh…..”
Guy: “7 and 5/8ths!!”
Caller: “7 and 3/4th’s”
Me: “……..”
Guy: “7 AND 5/8THS!”
Caller: “Oh, 7 and 5/8ths.”
Ok, even I can hear him and what size he wants. I’m not sure why he feels the need to hide behind this half witted proxy. It’s almost as if he feels some need to hide his identity from me…….wait. It’s YOU isn’t it!? TIM COOSHUM. You are the true mastermind behind all of the foolish antics I’ve endured on this line aren’t you?! You are the dark northern emperor that’s orchestrated the legions of fools I’ve faced over these years! IT ALL MAKES SENSE.
Well I have news for you, Frigid One. I have faced and defeated every fool you’ve sent at us. I have even faced down your two must trusted generals: The two female couch chewers that had previously engaged in a campaign against me using your moniker. Your underlings could not defeat me. Your generals could not defeat me. Nor will I be defeated by this slow witted creature you’re using as a proxy to attempt to gain additional headgear.
What is this dull witted creature, anyhow? Is she your last loyal follower? Have we managed to decimate your legions over the years and reduced you to little more than this feeble creature? Yet for all the damage you’ve endured, you just can’t escape it can you. You MUST have hats. Thus I have you in the palm of my hand. I control your fate now! It would be wise not to ire me. Or you shall go hatless and your forehead shall be chapped and your eyebrows heavy with frost.
The Fan-...oh wait.
Me: “Good evening, yadda yadda emergency line.”
SC: “Yes, hi, I was wondering if you can help me?”
Not yo-….wait, who are you? Pardon me. I was expecting someone else entirely. Sorry about that. So, what can I do for you?
SC: “The FBI was helping me a while ago. I talked to them 5 years ago but they never got back to me!”
Allllrighty. Actually, this is kind of a relief to be honest. Finally, just a good ol’ fashion conspiracy nutjob that just thinks that high level federal agencies actually give a rat’s arse hair what they have to say or where they think they saw Osama Bin Laden is this week.
For reference, Osama is apparently at The Bay this week.
Subjective Terms
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “A jacket. Could you tell me how warm it is?”
…..no. No I couldn’t. Not only do I not even know what jacket you’re referring too but “warm” is a completely subjective term. It varies from person to person and is dependent on external forces such as weather and season. Therefore there is no possible way I could gauge what you would consider warm. I can gauge what I consider warm. Though while I am fairly warm blooded, my tolerance range probably pales in comparison to the climate in which you yourself dwell. This jacket might be perfectly warm to me. However, to you, it may still end with you dying of exposure after an hour outside and your frozen remains being carted off piece mail by wolves.
Me: “Ok, and what size?”
SC: “Well, I’m not very big. What size do you think I should get?”
Ok, again. I have utterly no idea. I do not know you. I have never met you. I cannot judge your dimensions nor range of temperature tolerance. These things, much like zipping up your pants, are things you will one day have to learn to do on your own without the assistance of others.
Someday you will have to leave the nest and hold your willy steady by yourself.
The Dark Arts
I actually volunteered for this one, for my patience is vast and my zen like center calm like the morning pond. Apparently she’d already chewed <coworker> a new one earlier. So I offered to face her unbridled wrath when she reappeared in the call queue.
What could have enraged her so you ask? What terrible transgression could have driven her to such a blinding fury as to make her call back over and over? Well, it seems they installed some new lights at her building and these lights are too bright for her liking. She cannot sleep. For they sear through the backs of her eyelids like the luminance of a 1000 desert suns or some such.
I assume <landlords> decided they would install halogens in every socket in the building and than have every light fixture moved and reinstalled facing directly into her bedroom onto her face. Perhaps hoping this concentrated beam of pure light would drive out the dark demon within so they could rent the suite out to someone slightly less…...possessed.
First of all, she wanted <coworker> and was enraged at my very presence. For <coworker> had spoken with her previously and apparently, in her warped world, <coworker> had “promised” to follow up for her and have these lights removed ( Hint: he said nothing of the sort. ) I assume, at least in her world, rings were exchanged and vows spoken to ensure that these lights would be swiftly eliminated. Thus she was angered that she be forced to speak with me, rather than <coworker>. As I, for one, was not going to page an emergency on call over a bright light bulb.
So now she accuses <coworker> of lying to her ( <coworker>, you bastard. You broke her heart. Her black, black heart. ) and wants to complain about that on TOP of the lights. I make several attempts to explain the concept of “after hours service” and “emergency” to her. Both concepts failed to find any traction amidst her tirade. These lights were the font of all suffering and they would be removed. Now.
She also wants to know where <coworker> went, why, and at exactly what time ( I assume so she may find him and slay him for denying her florescent justice ).
Than it begins. She begins to employ a number of the Dark Arts. The arguments employed by a petulant individual who is not getting their way when speaking with a CSR. These shadowy tactics are classic in their approach and application. They’ve been passed down through generations of self important, tight sphinctered individuals for use in their struggle withus. Each Art is laced with hidden traps for the inexperienced. One must be wary and cunning to evade them. Come, my young padawan, let me teach you the the basics of these so you might recognize them for what they truly are.
The First Dark Art: “It’s Important To ME”
Honestly, I’m not entirely sure this one has ever actually succeeded in the history of customer service. Not that seems to stop anyone from attempting it. But, still, it is an important art none the less as it creates an opening for the Second Dark Art. In the First Art, the caller will attempt to convince you by stressing the importance of an event to them personally and how it is affecting them and basically ruining their entire day and / or lives ( “Well, it’s an emergency to ME!” ). In some sort of misguided attempted to drum up sympathy and justify why you should break company policy on their behalf. You know, just this once. Come on. Please?
It could be something as simple as the inability to return a purchased item ( That they have neglected to return within the specified return time. Which has of course lead to ruining their entire day, rendering them unable to pay their hydro bill and plunging them and their entire family into a life of complete darkness. I hope you’re happy now, jerk. ) or something as…er….simple as OH GOD THE LIGHTS. THEY BURN. Which has of course lead to her inability to sleep, the ruination of her entire day, the ruination of tomorrow and the destruction of her quality of life from here on out. Therefore I should care and make an exception just this once. Because it’s an emergency to her.
The Second Dark Art: “What If”
Ah, but there’s another, more devious ploy that oft follows the First Dark Art. This one is insidious “What If”. This is where the rabid caller attempts to force you into their shoes by presenting you with a “what if” scenario. Well what if the lights were keeping you awake? Wouldn’t it be an emergency to you? What if your entire family was living in the DARK because you couldn’t return a cashmere sweater? Wouldn’t you consider it an emergency? Well? Would you? Huh? TELL ME YOU BASTARD.
Never answer this question. It’s a trap. If you say no, they just persist with it in disbelief of your answer. If you’re fool enough to agree, you will only give them a new avenue of attack. Well if it’s an emergency to you too, why won’t you help me? Help me out here, for now, since you agree with me, we obviously have some sort of unbreakable spiritual bond between us. Therefore you should make an exception just this once. Even if it could get you fired. Hell, especially if it could get you fired.
I, however, am wily to their ways after years of working in a call centre and declined to agree or disagree to the what if scenario. Plus I have to sleep through the day in the middle of September so that Sympathy Well is pretty dry to begin with.
The Third Dark Art: “A Cut Above”
During this Dark Art the caller will attempt to plumb you for knowledge about your capabilities and information. They wish to discover the boundaries of your power in the hopes of making an alternative suggestion after receiving this information or demand the disclosure of said information so they themselves can proceed around you ( “Zomigawd! I demand the number to your boss/CEO/head office/mom!” ).
For example, in this case, she began inquiring as to what contact information I possess regarding the company and arguing things such as “You can’t possibly not have your boss's number”. See, she’s prodding before leading into the demand “Well just give me the number and I’ll call them myself!”. As if I shall divulge confidential information to her simply because I possess it.
Why yes, I shall immediately give you confidential client information so that you may call and scream at the client directly. Please make sure you tell them I was the one that gave it to you so that they know specifically who to have fired.
Of course, I originally declined utterly. But upon further raving conceded I do possess such information but it is all confidential and cannot be disclosed to her in an attempt to illustrate the tying of my hands in a bid for peaceful understanding. But this of course just made me, as well as <coworker>, filthy filthy “liars”.
The Fourth Dark Art: “Yeah, well you can go FUCK YOURSELF! <click>”
Ok, so that isn’t really much of a Dark Art, I just found it amusing.
Ew.
There are many noises I do not wish to hear in the background of the call. The sound of a stream of liquid impacting a smaller body of liquid in an enclosed space is one of them. Please call back when you are not grasping your nether regions with your free hand. Thank you.
Fresh Meat
Me: “Would you like regular or express shipping?”
SC: “What’s the difference?”
Me: “One takes 2 weeks, the other takes 1 week.”
SC: “Which one takes 1 week?”
Ahhhh, I see you’ve drummed up some new recruits, Tim.
The Inside of my Mind Is Weird
Tonight, courtesy of the vending machine, I have learned that the French translation of “Zesty Cheese” is “Fromage Mordant”. Which, in all honesty, sounds like a Dwarven mine. And lo, their axe blades were forged of the finest mithril ore from the very depths of Fromage Mordant.
Ah......public transit.
It’s time for another weekend edition of Overheard On Public Transit:
“How can you be pregnant?! You always wear shorts!”
I have no explanation for this statement. But the two girls involved took it very seriously. Note that she was not, in fact, wearing shorts at the time. Thus offering a possible explanation to her pregnancy.
“I love you! Stay Jewish!”
I have no idea. This makes less sense than the shorts. The young man in question was very proud of his statement and repeated it several more times to ensure all of his friends knew of the words he had spoken and whatever clever wit he thought he possessed.
“People squeezing my boobs makes me sneeze.”
A) Something is wrong inside your brain. B) You get felt up enough that you had to use the term “People”?
"DEATH TO SKYLAR! DEATH TO SKYLAR!”
I do not know who Skylar is. He could be an inter-dimensional alien overlord that this group of young lads had only but recently thrown off the cruel yoke of slavery from. Or it could just be one of their roommates that never does the dishes.
Either way, he must perish.
Ew Again
Your upstairs neighbour’s frequent bowel movements are not an emergency. If you have enough free time on your hands to be sitting around at night counting how many times he went to the bathroom there are much bigger problems in your life you need to address. This seriously cannot be the entire existence can it? Counting the nocturnal flushing of your neighbours?
You sir, need a hobby.
.......
You have conditions on your parole. One of these conditions is that you cannot contact your girlfriend. Your girlfriend has just shown up at your house. I can hear her yelling at you in the background. I’m trying to figure out what you could have done that could possibly have landed you with that parole condition? Considering she’s come over to your house voluntarily and seems to have done so to ream you out.
Is it a parole condition or a protective order? Did she beat you up? Do you need help? She sounds like she’s only 12, she can’t possibly be that threaten-……wait, it’s because she’s only 12 isn’t it?
You are a very bad man.
The Internet(tm)
Me: “Ok, and what software are you using?”
SC: “The internet.”
Whoa, back up there. The entire Internet? You don’t say. Wow. Still, I’m not entirely sure how The Internet™ software could possibly help you at your place of employment. The Internet™ is mainly used for cute pictures of animals, video clips of people being hit in the groin by various objects, video clips of people falling and getting hit in the groin by fixed objects such as railings, telephone poles and fire hydrants, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their friends, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their enemies, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their loved ones, video clips of people being hit in the groin by their pets, Chuck Norris jokes and pornography.
So unless you’re some sort of research scientist studying the effect of physical impacts on the human groin using Playboy Centerfolds holding kittens while watching Walker Texas Ranger, I don’t see how this particular brand of software would be of any benefit.
Yet Again...
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “This hoodie right here.”
I thought I’d already covered this one. But fine, I’ll go over it one more time for the slow kids in the back: I cannot see what you’re pointing at in the catalog. I am not looking over your shoulder. I am not peering through the phone receiver. I am not viewing you remotely by projecting my astral form to your location. I am not watching you on Google Earth. Though if you really would like to set up some sort of system to enable this kind of visual communication, I suppose you could go outside and craft a craven image of the hoodie in the snow of the vast arctic tundra large enough to be spotted by overhead satellite. In which case you could call up and give me the longitude and latitude of the hoodie you want.
But it would probably be much easier, and faster, to simply give me the Product Id number.
The Stalker
For those of you wondering precisely what has occurred with this, its now become a police matter. My boss stepped in to thrown down the gauntlet as it were ( I <3 my boss ). The stalker had spread out and begun harassing everyone that picked up the line. But had begun telling my coworkers she was my girlfriend ( Red Flag ). This morning the sociopath officially ignored the police warning. So the next few days could be interesting and / or stressful... -.-
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