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Bumcork & The Illuminator
A tad....dense, this week as I have to include everything from the week before I maimed myself. -.-
The Complainment
SC: “I wanna complainment!”
So came the confused, warbled cry. I’m not entirely sure what a “complainment” is, but she does sound mad about something. She also sounds she’s been drinking Listerine and Burbon for 5 hours and only just regained consciousness. Anyway, she’s mad and someone must know about it. Even if that someone can’t do anything about it and doesn’t really care on any level.
From what I can gather from the intoxicated ranting that ensued, she woke up in a ditch somewhere, somehow managed to vaguely remember where she lived and stumbled towards the door. When someone else from another suite “blocked” her way. I do not know if this was intentional or if by “blocked” she meant “caught her skunk drunk arse before she fall on her face” or “Could not figure out how to open the door and thought the door was her neighbor”. But anyway, this unnamed aggressor blocked her somehow.
Now, she has a hurt arm. It has stitches. Its broken. I’m not sure what the relevance is but it seemed very important to her allegations of someone standing in her way. So persistent was this blockade that she had to resort to going in “the back way”. Which is either a back door or a break and enter depending on the chosen portal of entrance. She accomplished this despite her grave injuries. Once inside, I assume she sought out the phone and called moi to make her complainment.
Also, this blockading neighbour lives with his sister who is also his wife ( …. ) and this is very unfair because she can’t do the same with her son ( …..Marry him? ) because she would be thrown out ( Or arrested? ). After a fair amount of ranting it finally began to sink in that I did not care. At which point she demanded “So you’re just going to let him get away with this!?”. Why yes, yes I am. Because I do not know who he is, what offense he’s committed that would be of interest to me ( Siscest aside ) or what you expect me to do about it.
After enough of this terrible, eye watering wind had blown my way, the storm began to calm and she calm to the conclusion, correctly so, that I did not care and could not do anything. At which point the lush front moved out over the pacific leaving clear sky and the faint smell of Jack Daniels.
Halt! Hammerzeit
Ok, Germany. Since you insist on calling me rather persistently lately for some reason. Allow me to set down some ground rules for you to follow:
1) The website is in English. The service is in English.
2) I speak English. I do not speak German.
3) Please do not become enraged with me because I do not speak German.
4) No really, German is a scary language when the speaker is angry. I fear for my life.
5) If you ask if I speak German, and I say no, do not continue to speak German as if I would understand.
6) No, no one else here speaks German.
7) Seriously, I don’t speak German. The only phrases I know in German are “Schustaffle!” and “MEIN LEIBEN!”. Neither of which are particularly useful in casual conversation.
The Man. The Legend.
Me: “Ok, and your postal code please?”
Girl #1: “Hey, what’s your postal code?”
Girl #2: “<whispers> XXX XXX”
Girl #1: “It’s XXX XXX”
Me: “Alright, and your address, please?”
Girl #1: “What’s your address?”
Girl #2: “<whispers> box xxx”
Girl #1: “It’s box xxx”
…..ok, look, you’re not in any sort of imminent danger from me and this is not Dateline NBC. You do not have to work through a proxy, have your voice altered or your face blurred out for fear of your life. This is merely an order line. You’re just ordering pants. Purchasing pants should not endanger your life. Though I both admire and question your decision to order pants even though you believe it would endanger your life. That’s……dedication I suppose. Questionable dedication, but dedication none the less.
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
Girl #1: “<whispers> what do you want?”
Girl #2: “<whispers> xxxx-xx”
Girl #1: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size?”
Girl #1: “<whispers> what size?”
Ok, seriously. Stop that. You’re obviously not the mastermind of this cunning plan. So pass the phone back over to your monkey like ringleader. I refuse to speak to an underling any longer. If she truly wishes to order pants, than she can order them herself and face the danger head on. I do not know what danger it is, or how a pair of pants could possibly threaten her life, but she seems to believe there is some sort of threat present.
Granted, perhaps she personally considers me a threat. Perhaps they’re beginning to pass around tales of this dark gatekeeper they must overcome to obtain various hip hop clothing labels. For all I know, I could be some sort of bizarre urban legend up there by now and my name is invoked to frighten small children into behaving.
Which, honestly would be kinda sweet.
!?!?
Me: “Ok, thank you for calling than and you should receive your order in-“
SC: “CONFIRM MY LAST NAME!#~”
Wha, fa, aea!?! YES SIR, RIGHT AWAY SIR!? I’m awake! Jeebus monkey crisps, man. Warn me before you do that. I’m not asking for much. Just a little heads up. You know, a simple “Excuse me, I’m about to go absolutely ape shit bark chewer on you for no apparent reason. Do not be alarmed.” would suffice.
Besides, I already confirmed your last name with you 2 minutes ago when I originally asked for it....pay attention.
A Flaw
So, my cunning plan the other morning to get home from the office with the barest amount of actual physical effort on my part had two key flaws:
1) I can no longer move fast enough to catch my bus. Which means I had to stand around like a hunkered beast man for the next bus. Now, it’s important to note that my bus is on a major school route. If I do not catch the first one the second one will be fill of screeching spawnlings. And I will be forced to endure a surprisingly vehement argument over whether or not chicken is really meat ( Seriously ) between 3 high school girls whom all appear to be bad dollar store knock offs of Hannah Montana.
In the 7-8 minutes I spent on said bus, they could not settle this debate.
2) Stairs. Oh god, stairs. I totally forgot the back entrance to Granville Station had stairs. Who invented these clandestine torture devices? You know what? Fark stairs. Fark escalators too. Escalators are pretending to help but at any moment they could stop and become stairs.
Oh, pardon me
SC: “Does the hotel have a shuttle?”
Me: “Yes, they have a shuttle to and from the airport.”
SC: “Ok, well I’m heading down to baggage carousel #6. Can you come pick me up there?”
….ah, excuse me. I didn’t realize you were flying Pretentious Self-Entitled Yuppie class. If I had I immediately would have groveled and asked if you required a wine spritzer, foot massage or a copy of the Wall Street Journal so you could pretend to be important to onlookers. Please, if there’s anything, just give the word and I shall leap immediately into action on your behalf. Worry not, I shall be there shortly to carry your baggage for you. If there are any puddles, snow, loose gravel or dirt between you and the hotel shuttle than by all means feel free to use my unworthy body as a human bridge to cross them.
For it is you, not I, that is the magnificent center that the very galaxy revolves around. I am but a tiny, barren, insignificant rock caught in the glorious orbit of your shining sun.
Hot Tips
Tonight, we learned that Prince Charle’s chance of getting into Heaven is equal to Charles Manson’s chance of becoming president of the United States. Also, his “initials”: P.C. is “The most evil symbol on earth” as it could possibly stand for Pedophile Convention and Picnic Camper. Yes, seriously. It seems picnicking is the single most evil activity on the face of this Earth. Which means the Outdoors section at Walmart is the very gateway into the 9th Hell.
Now, actually, in all honesty I’m willing to give him some benefit of the doubt on that last one. Because if there is any sort of gaping black maw into the underworld anywhere on this Earth it really would not surprise me if it was located within a Walmart.
I suppose P.C. could stand for personal computer as well, in which case, after all the things I’ve witnessed on the Internet, I’m not entirely sure I could completely deny his claim.
You know what, maybe this crazy bastard really is on to something.
Low Grade Superhero
Me: “Good evening, Gravekeeper speaking, how may I help you?”
SC: “Oh, is this the Illumineer?”
….what? No....though that is a fairly impressive sounding title: The Illumineer. I could totally be the Illumineer. A stunning, spandex clad low grade superhero that really just wanders around shedding light on the blindingly obvious. I could break into people’s houses, sneak into their kitchen, tap them on the shoulder and go “Psst, you’re suppose to strain the macaroni before you add the cheese powder!”. Than they’d scream and try to stab me with a kitchen knife until they realized I was the Illumineer than they’d be all like “Oh thank you, Illumineer! I was just going to throw it right in the pot! I had no idea!” and than I’d help them program their DVD player.
Yes, I have a lot of medication in my system right now. Why do you ask?
....did you seriously....
Oh, the <low grade subsidized housing>. A marvelous building whose tenants are full class, dignity and refinement. The very upper echelons of human society. So posh and sophisticated in fact that they actually called me this evening to report, and I quote her directly, that there was a “belligerent negro” outside and she would like them removed.
Yes, you heard that right. “Belligerent negro”.
Low Grade Superhero #2
Curse you, Skytrain. Curse you for forcing me to bare witness to things I’d truly rather never see.
This evening, as I usually do on Friday and Saturday nights, I was on the Skytrain in the far corner with my eyes closed desperately trying to block out everyone else in the car with me. I’ve found this is the safest approach on public transit on the weekends. Usually, I can block out the majority of the drunken cacophony around me. But not this evening...
A single boisterous statement pierced my mental Fortress of Solitude:
“Hey! Sweet Moves Man! Stop rubbing your ass on me!”
A statement that begs so very, very many questions. I opened my eyes and turned in the direction of the alarmed voice and bore witness for myself the full glory of Sweet Moves Man. Well, actually, he turned out to be a half drunk frat boy with a scruffy little Shaggy goatee, a backwards baseball cap on and pants so low I’m surprised his victim could even figure out where his ass was. But never the less, Sweet Moves Man was in fact standing in front of his victim with butt cheeks poised in a decidedly hostile manner. Threatening a sort of vigorous, poorly coordinated Molsen fueled bum facial. Not an experience the average person would appreciate nor enjoy. Though there may or may not be several newsgroups devoted to it on the Internet.
Several questions raced through my mind. The chief of which was how exactly did this intoxicated hooligan earn himself the title “Sweet Moves Man” amongst his peers? I mean, Sweet Moves Man implies that you do in fact possess sweet moves and I did not see a shred of grace or coordination that one would assume would be required to win such an honour. Unless it was meant to be ironic or sarcastic. However, none of his companions looked like they were swift enough to grasp the finer points of comedy. They barely looked swift enough to grasp that you have to pull the tab on the top of the can to get to the beer.
Of which they had several of course. It was somewhat amusing seeing them go “COPS! COPS! HIDE YER STUFF” every other station and than all desperately try to stuff their beers out of sight.
You know, despite the fact I live an hour away and am crippled, I swear I’m just going to start walking to work.
Bertha
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “RAHASLBKLSASFDK waffle”
…..ok? We’re off to a fabulous start.
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “I wanna buy shumfin~”
Alrighty than, Bertha. I don’t know if that’s your true name. But you do sound like a Bertha. You also sound like your mother dropped you down a flight of stairs as a child.
Me: “You’d like to place an order?”
SC: “Yeah! Uhhhh….no.”
Me: “….is there something else I can help you with than?”
SC: “……”
Me: “……?”
SC: “SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE~!”
?!?~! What the heck?! Ok, look, I don’t speak…narwhal, or whatever that was. I’m not sure what it is you want from me but there seems to be some sort of interspecies language barrier here that I highly doubt we’ll be able to overcome. So why don’t you just wriggle your way across the ice flow and slide your moist, blubbery mass back into the dark depths from which you emerged.
Sure
SC: “I’d like to get 3 <product> for a dollar, please”
So would I. However, out here in what I like to call the “real world” you do not get to specify the price you would like to pay for goods and services. Unfortunately, it is the purveyor of said goods and services that gets to set the cost of said goods and services. In this case, 3 of those costs $100.
I am sorry I had to be the one to pop the sheltering bubble that protected you within your small, delusional world. Please believe me I take no pleasure in shattering your hopes and dreams, shoveling the broken pieces into a bonfire than urinating on the ashes.
Not much anyway.
Bertha II
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “WHUSH YER NAME~!?”
Me: “pardon?”
SC: “WHA?!”
Me: “…is there something I can help you with?”
SC: “No.”
Me: “…….”
SC “…….”
Me: “Ok….well, goodbye than.”
Oh, hello Bertha. Are you still about? Did you beach yourself? Do you need me to mount a daring volunteer rescue operation to roll you back into the ocean that will undoubtedly end up as a feel good story on the local news?
I'm impressed
SC: “Hello!?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “I can barely hear you!”
Yes, and if I had to venture a guess why it’s because it sounds like you have me on speaker phone and are yelling at it from the opposite end of an airplane hanger. How did you even make it that far away before I answered? I’m impressed, honestly. You must run like the wind with a majestic, antelope like gait.
Bertha III
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Hello!?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “……..”
Me: “…can I help you?”
SC: “SKREEEEEEEEE~”
If I throw a halibut, will you stop calling?
Recuperation
I actually managed to look like I was normal for a whole 3 blocks this evening before once again being reduced to a terrible, undead like shuffle. I’m hoping by next week I’ll at least be able to pass for a normal human being between home and the office. It’s fine if I’m a gargling, horrifying man creature after I get to the office. That’s not much different than usual anyway. But I should at least endeavor to not frighten the general public.
OH LAWD
Oi. Little did I know what door of tragedy I was about to open at the beginning of this call. I was completely naïve and unsuspecting of the drama that was about to unfold. It started simple enough. A lady called. I asked if she wished to book a room. She confirmed that she did indeed desire this service. I asked her what city she was in…..and than it happened.
The city was not on our list. Hrmf. Ok, no biggie. The airport sometimes has a different name than the city. I ask the name of the airport……annnd again, not on the list. Hmm…odd. I search the list 8 ways from Sunday to make utterly sure. Nope. Not there. Ok, not the end of the world. I ask her if she knows the airport’s 3 letter code……annnd she gives me 6 letters and 2 numbers. Right-o. At this point a sense of impending doom begins to creep up on me.
We don’t have this airport listed. Which means we don't provide service to that area and I can’t find a hotel near it. ….ok….no problem. We can use logic and common sense! I try fishing for additional clues. I can just find the closest major city and search around there, right? Wrong. Whenever I attempt to ask this question she just tells me the state. Which is not even remotely helpful.
Still, I cannot find where she is and she cannot provide me with any additional information that might help me locate the nearest accommodations. She’s beginning to breath heavily, like an enraged bull, as anger starts to overcome her. All of my attempts to pry any additional clues out of her fail. Than came this:
SC “OH LAWD JESUS~!#@”
Annnnnnnnd I knew I it was time to batten down the hatches and brace myself to weather out the encroaching shit storm. And it came. Oh yes, it came. This of course was entirely my fault. Because it’s our booking service. Even though it was America West ( Of course ) that gave her our number and they’re within arm’s length and could easily be beaten and/or throttled. Whereas I am distant and physically untouchable. You’d think you’d go with the easier target and assault a nearby desk clerk rather than raging impotently at myself.
I hid quivering in my mental cellar waiting for the winds of indignation to pass and praying I would not be swept into them and carted off to some sort of terrible Oz full of hunched over half-men with a 17% literacy rate that kill one another for a G.E.D. It took her some time, but she eventually blew herself out and actually lapsed into hysteria for a moment. Before finally hurdling this parting shot and hanging up:
SC: “I SWEAR I’LL CALL THE ATTORNEY GENERAL ABOUT YOU!”
Yes. Because the Attorney General gives a faintly singed rat’s ass hair over a heat vent in a east side Manhattan slum about your hotel accommodations.
You're Doing It Wrong
Because the best way to apply for a account is to refuse every single piece of information except for your first name and your phone number. Than become enraged and tell me you don’t believe me when I inform you that more information is required. As if your disbelief will somehow budge me from my position. It will not. I cannot even put through the form on my computer without this information.
Yes, that’s right. Your idiocy isn’t even technologically possible.
The Light
Hello again! It’s me, the grumpy bastard that lives across from the <building>. You know, the lights are too bright at the uilding again. Can you tell the security guard to go over and them to turn the lights off? Even though I call about this every single weekend and every single weekend am informed that you have no contacts to the security guard at the building, cannot take non emergency calls and can in utterly no way help me with this non-issue? Yet still, I call. Because I am apparently under the belief you possess telepathic powers and need only furrow your brow dramatically to send my concerns to the security guard.
kthxbye.
Low Grade Superhero #3
As I came out of the store near our office this morning I bore witness to perhaps the last thing on this Earth I expected to see whilst walking out of a grocery store:
Outside was a scraggly, somewhat middle aged man. Perhaps in his late 30s early 40s. Dressed like a biker complete with unsettlingly tight ragged leather pants and black leather jacket that looks like he's had it since high school.
This gaunt pillar of humanity has both hands down his pants. One hand in front, one hand in back.....and a look of utmost terror and desperation on his face. As he gyrates frantically he's digging in his leather crotch trough for what, I have no idea......until he informed me and everyone else in a one block radius by screaming:
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!@@ BUTTPLUG! BUTTPLUG!@#! FUCK!@"
Everyone nearby immediately implements the Back Away Slowly and Cross The Street(tm) defense. I inch my way around him and make a break for it lest he notice me and perhaps attempt to gain my assistance with his....dilemma.
Now....I don't know about you, but if there was something corking my exterior disposal shaft I, unlike Bumcork the Pants Fisher here, am pretty sure I would have noticed before I like the house that morning.
annnd....rest. Well, there's moar but I am weary and weak and will save it for later.
The Complainment
SC: “I wanna complainment!”
So came the confused, warbled cry. I’m not entirely sure what a “complainment” is, but she does sound mad about something. She also sounds she’s been drinking Listerine and Burbon for 5 hours and only just regained consciousness. Anyway, she’s mad and someone must know about it. Even if that someone can’t do anything about it and doesn’t really care on any level.
From what I can gather from the intoxicated ranting that ensued, she woke up in a ditch somewhere, somehow managed to vaguely remember where she lived and stumbled towards the door. When someone else from another suite “blocked” her way. I do not know if this was intentional or if by “blocked” she meant “caught her skunk drunk arse before she fall on her face” or “Could not figure out how to open the door and thought the door was her neighbor”. But anyway, this unnamed aggressor blocked her somehow.
Now, she has a hurt arm. It has stitches. Its broken. I’m not sure what the relevance is but it seemed very important to her allegations of someone standing in her way. So persistent was this blockade that she had to resort to going in “the back way”. Which is either a back door or a break and enter depending on the chosen portal of entrance. She accomplished this despite her grave injuries. Once inside, I assume she sought out the phone and called moi to make her complainment.
Also, this blockading neighbour lives with his sister who is also his wife ( …. ) and this is very unfair because she can’t do the same with her son ( …..Marry him? ) because she would be thrown out ( Or arrested? ). After a fair amount of ranting it finally began to sink in that I did not care. At which point she demanded “So you’re just going to let him get away with this!?”. Why yes, yes I am. Because I do not know who he is, what offense he’s committed that would be of interest to me ( Siscest aside ) or what you expect me to do about it.
After enough of this terrible, eye watering wind had blown my way, the storm began to calm and she calm to the conclusion, correctly so, that I did not care and could not do anything. At which point the lush front moved out over the pacific leaving clear sky and the faint smell of Jack Daniels.
Halt! Hammerzeit
Ok, Germany. Since you insist on calling me rather persistently lately for some reason. Allow me to set down some ground rules for you to follow:
1) The website is in English. The service is in English.
2) I speak English. I do not speak German.
3) Please do not become enraged with me because I do not speak German.
4) No really, German is a scary language when the speaker is angry. I fear for my life.
5) If you ask if I speak German, and I say no, do not continue to speak German as if I would understand.
6) No, no one else here speaks German.
7) Seriously, I don’t speak German. The only phrases I know in German are “Schustaffle!” and “MEIN LEIBEN!”. Neither of which are particularly useful in casual conversation.
The Man. The Legend.
Me: “Ok, and your postal code please?”
Girl #1: “Hey, what’s your postal code?”
Girl #2: “<whispers> XXX XXX”
Girl #1: “It’s XXX XXX”
Me: “Alright, and your address, please?”
Girl #1: “What’s your address?”
Girl #2: “<whispers> box xxx”
Girl #1: “It’s box xxx”
…..ok, look, you’re not in any sort of imminent danger from me and this is not Dateline NBC. You do not have to work through a proxy, have your voice altered or your face blurred out for fear of your life. This is merely an order line. You’re just ordering pants. Purchasing pants should not endanger your life. Though I both admire and question your decision to order pants even though you believe it would endanger your life. That’s……dedication I suppose. Questionable dedication, but dedication none the less.
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
Girl #1: “<whispers> what do you want?”
Girl #2: “<whispers> xxxx-xx”
Girl #1: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size?”
Girl #1: “<whispers> what size?”
Ok, seriously. Stop that. You’re obviously not the mastermind of this cunning plan. So pass the phone back over to your monkey like ringleader. I refuse to speak to an underling any longer. If she truly wishes to order pants, than she can order them herself and face the danger head on. I do not know what danger it is, or how a pair of pants could possibly threaten her life, but she seems to believe there is some sort of threat present.
Granted, perhaps she personally considers me a threat. Perhaps they’re beginning to pass around tales of this dark gatekeeper they must overcome to obtain various hip hop clothing labels. For all I know, I could be some sort of bizarre urban legend up there by now and my name is invoked to frighten small children into behaving.
Which, honestly would be kinda sweet.
!?!?
Me: “Ok, thank you for calling than and you should receive your order in-“
SC: “CONFIRM MY LAST NAME!#~”
Wha, fa, aea!?! YES SIR, RIGHT AWAY SIR!? I’m awake! Jeebus monkey crisps, man. Warn me before you do that. I’m not asking for much. Just a little heads up. You know, a simple “Excuse me, I’m about to go absolutely ape shit bark chewer on you for no apparent reason. Do not be alarmed.” would suffice.
Besides, I already confirmed your last name with you 2 minutes ago when I originally asked for it....pay attention.
A Flaw
So, my cunning plan the other morning to get home from the office with the barest amount of actual physical effort on my part had two key flaws:
1) I can no longer move fast enough to catch my bus. Which means I had to stand around like a hunkered beast man for the next bus. Now, it’s important to note that my bus is on a major school route. If I do not catch the first one the second one will be fill of screeching spawnlings. And I will be forced to endure a surprisingly vehement argument over whether or not chicken is really meat ( Seriously ) between 3 high school girls whom all appear to be bad dollar store knock offs of Hannah Montana.
In the 7-8 minutes I spent on said bus, they could not settle this debate.
2) Stairs. Oh god, stairs. I totally forgot the back entrance to Granville Station had stairs. Who invented these clandestine torture devices? You know what? Fark stairs. Fark escalators too. Escalators are pretending to help but at any moment they could stop and become stairs.
Oh, pardon me
SC: “Does the hotel have a shuttle?”
Me: “Yes, they have a shuttle to and from the airport.”
SC: “Ok, well I’m heading down to baggage carousel #6. Can you come pick me up there?”
….ah, excuse me. I didn’t realize you were flying Pretentious Self-Entitled Yuppie class. If I had I immediately would have groveled and asked if you required a wine spritzer, foot massage or a copy of the Wall Street Journal so you could pretend to be important to onlookers. Please, if there’s anything, just give the word and I shall leap immediately into action on your behalf. Worry not, I shall be there shortly to carry your baggage for you. If there are any puddles, snow, loose gravel or dirt between you and the hotel shuttle than by all means feel free to use my unworthy body as a human bridge to cross them.
For it is you, not I, that is the magnificent center that the very galaxy revolves around. I am but a tiny, barren, insignificant rock caught in the glorious orbit of your shining sun.
Hot Tips
Tonight, we learned that Prince Charle’s chance of getting into Heaven is equal to Charles Manson’s chance of becoming president of the United States. Also, his “initials”: P.C. is “The most evil symbol on earth” as it could possibly stand for Pedophile Convention and Picnic Camper. Yes, seriously. It seems picnicking is the single most evil activity on the face of this Earth. Which means the Outdoors section at Walmart is the very gateway into the 9th Hell.
Now, actually, in all honesty I’m willing to give him some benefit of the doubt on that last one. Because if there is any sort of gaping black maw into the underworld anywhere on this Earth it really would not surprise me if it was located within a Walmart.
I suppose P.C. could stand for personal computer as well, in which case, after all the things I’ve witnessed on the Internet, I’m not entirely sure I could completely deny his claim.
You know what, maybe this crazy bastard really is on to something.
Low Grade Superhero
Me: “Good evening, Gravekeeper speaking, how may I help you?”
SC: “Oh, is this the Illumineer?”
….what? No....though that is a fairly impressive sounding title: The Illumineer. I could totally be the Illumineer. A stunning, spandex clad low grade superhero that really just wanders around shedding light on the blindingly obvious. I could break into people’s houses, sneak into their kitchen, tap them on the shoulder and go “Psst, you’re suppose to strain the macaroni before you add the cheese powder!”. Than they’d scream and try to stab me with a kitchen knife until they realized I was the Illumineer than they’d be all like “Oh thank you, Illumineer! I was just going to throw it right in the pot! I had no idea!” and than I’d help them program their DVD player.
Yes, I have a lot of medication in my system right now. Why do you ask?
....did you seriously....
Oh, the <low grade subsidized housing>. A marvelous building whose tenants are full class, dignity and refinement. The very upper echelons of human society. So posh and sophisticated in fact that they actually called me this evening to report, and I quote her directly, that there was a “belligerent negro” outside and she would like them removed.
Yes, you heard that right. “Belligerent negro”.
Low Grade Superhero #2
Curse you, Skytrain. Curse you for forcing me to bare witness to things I’d truly rather never see.
This evening, as I usually do on Friday and Saturday nights, I was on the Skytrain in the far corner with my eyes closed desperately trying to block out everyone else in the car with me. I’ve found this is the safest approach on public transit on the weekends. Usually, I can block out the majority of the drunken cacophony around me. But not this evening...
A single boisterous statement pierced my mental Fortress of Solitude:
“Hey! Sweet Moves Man! Stop rubbing your ass on me!”
A statement that begs so very, very many questions. I opened my eyes and turned in the direction of the alarmed voice and bore witness for myself the full glory of Sweet Moves Man. Well, actually, he turned out to be a half drunk frat boy with a scruffy little Shaggy goatee, a backwards baseball cap on and pants so low I’m surprised his victim could even figure out where his ass was. But never the less, Sweet Moves Man was in fact standing in front of his victim with butt cheeks poised in a decidedly hostile manner. Threatening a sort of vigorous, poorly coordinated Molsen fueled bum facial. Not an experience the average person would appreciate nor enjoy. Though there may or may not be several newsgroups devoted to it on the Internet.
Several questions raced through my mind. The chief of which was how exactly did this intoxicated hooligan earn himself the title “Sweet Moves Man” amongst his peers? I mean, Sweet Moves Man implies that you do in fact possess sweet moves and I did not see a shred of grace or coordination that one would assume would be required to win such an honour. Unless it was meant to be ironic or sarcastic. However, none of his companions looked like they were swift enough to grasp the finer points of comedy. They barely looked swift enough to grasp that you have to pull the tab on the top of the can to get to the beer.
Of which they had several of course. It was somewhat amusing seeing them go “COPS! COPS! HIDE YER STUFF” every other station and than all desperately try to stuff their beers out of sight.
You know, despite the fact I live an hour away and am crippled, I swear I’m just going to start walking to work.
Bertha
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “RAHASLBKLSASFDK waffle”
…..ok? We’re off to a fabulous start.
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “I wanna buy shumfin~”
Alrighty than, Bertha. I don’t know if that’s your true name. But you do sound like a Bertha. You also sound like your mother dropped you down a flight of stairs as a child.
Me: “You’d like to place an order?”
SC: “Yeah! Uhhhh….no.”
Me: “….is there something else I can help you with than?”
SC: “……”
Me: “……?”
SC: “SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE~!”
?!?~! What the heck?! Ok, look, I don’t speak…narwhal, or whatever that was. I’m not sure what it is you want from me but there seems to be some sort of interspecies language barrier here that I highly doubt we’ll be able to overcome. So why don’t you just wriggle your way across the ice flow and slide your moist, blubbery mass back into the dark depths from which you emerged.
Sure
SC: “I’d like to get 3 <product> for a dollar, please”
So would I. However, out here in what I like to call the “real world” you do not get to specify the price you would like to pay for goods and services. Unfortunately, it is the purveyor of said goods and services that gets to set the cost of said goods and services. In this case, 3 of those costs $100.
I am sorry I had to be the one to pop the sheltering bubble that protected you within your small, delusional world. Please believe me I take no pleasure in shattering your hopes and dreams, shoveling the broken pieces into a bonfire than urinating on the ashes.
Not much anyway.
Bertha II
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “WHUSH YER NAME~!?”
Me: “pardon?”
SC: “WHA?!”
Me: “…is there something I can help you with?”
SC: “No.”
Me: “…….”
SC “…….”
Me: “Ok….well, goodbye than.”
Oh, hello Bertha. Are you still about? Did you beach yourself? Do you need me to mount a daring volunteer rescue operation to roll you back into the ocean that will undoubtedly end up as a feel good story on the local news?
I'm impressed
SC: “Hello!?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “I can barely hear you!”
Yes, and if I had to venture a guess why it’s because it sounds like you have me on speaker phone and are yelling at it from the opposite end of an airplane hanger. How did you even make it that far away before I answered? I’m impressed, honestly. You must run like the wind with a majestic, antelope like gait.
Bertha III
Me: “Good morning, <company>.”
SC: “Hello!?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “……..”
Me: “…can I help you?”
SC: “SKREEEEEEEEE~”
If I throw a halibut, will you stop calling?
Recuperation
I actually managed to look like I was normal for a whole 3 blocks this evening before once again being reduced to a terrible, undead like shuffle. I’m hoping by next week I’ll at least be able to pass for a normal human being between home and the office. It’s fine if I’m a gargling, horrifying man creature after I get to the office. That’s not much different than usual anyway. But I should at least endeavor to not frighten the general public.
OH LAWD
Oi. Little did I know what door of tragedy I was about to open at the beginning of this call. I was completely naïve and unsuspecting of the drama that was about to unfold. It started simple enough. A lady called. I asked if she wished to book a room. She confirmed that she did indeed desire this service. I asked her what city she was in…..and than it happened.
The city was not on our list. Hrmf. Ok, no biggie. The airport sometimes has a different name than the city. I ask the name of the airport……annnd again, not on the list. Hmm…odd. I search the list 8 ways from Sunday to make utterly sure. Nope. Not there. Ok, not the end of the world. I ask her if she knows the airport’s 3 letter code……annnd she gives me 6 letters and 2 numbers. Right-o. At this point a sense of impending doom begins to creep up on me.
We don’t have this airport listed. Which means we don't provide service to that area and I can’t find a hotel near it. ….ok….no problem. We can use logic and common sense! I try fishing for additional clues. I can just find the closest major city and search around there, right? Wrong. Whenever I attempt to ask this question she just tells me the state. Which is not even remotely helpful.
Still, I cannot find where she is and she cannot provide me with any additional information that might help me locate the nearest accommodations. She’s beginning to breath heavily, like an enraged bull, as anger starts to overcome her. All of my attempts to pry any additional clues out of her fail. Than came this:
SC “OH LAWD JESUS~!#@”
Annnnnnnnd I knew I it was time to batten down the hatches and brace myself to weather out the encroaching shit storm. And it came. Oh yes, it came. This of course was entirely my fault. Because it’s our booking service. Even though it was America West ( Of course ) that gave her our number and they’re within arm’s length and could easily be beaten and/or throttled. Whereas I am distant and physically untouchable. You’d think you’d go with the easier target and assault a nearby desk clerk rather than raging impotently at myself.
I hid quivering in my mental cellar waiting for the winds of indignation to pass and praying I would not be swept into them and carted off to some sort of terrible Oz full of hunched over half-men with a 17% literacy rate that kill one another for a G.E.D. It took her some time, but she eventually blew herself out and actually lapsed into hysteria for a moment. Before finally hurdling this parting shot and hanging up:
SC: “I SWEAR I’LL CALL THE ATTORNEY GENERAL ABOUT YOU!”
Yes. Because the Attorney General gives a faintly singed rat’s ass hair over a heat vent in a east side Manhattan slum about your hotel accommodations.
You're Doing It Wrong
Because the best way to apply for a account is to refuse every single piece of information except for your first name and your phone number. Than become enraged and tell me you don’t believe me when I inform you that more information is required. As if your disbelief will somehow budge me from my position. It will not. I cannot even put through the form on my computer without this information.
Yes, that’s right. Your idiocy isn’t even technologically possible.
The Light
Hello again! It’s me, the grumpy bastard that lives across from the <building>. You know, the lights are too bright at the uilding again. Can you tell the security guard to go over and them to turn the lights off? Even though I call about this every single weekend and every single weekend am informed that you have no contacts to the security guard at the building, cannot take non emergency calls and can in utterly no way help me with this non-issue? Yet still, I call. Because I am apparently under the belief you possess telepathic powers and need only furrow your brow dramatically to send my concerns to the security guard.
kthxbye.
Low Grade Superhero #3
As I came out of the store near our office this morning I bore witness to perhaps the last thing on this Earth I expected to see whilst walking out of a grocery store:
Outside was a scraggly, somewhat middle aged man. Perhaps in his late 30s early 40s. Dressed like a biker complete with unsettlingly tight ragged leather pants and black leather jacket that looks like he's had it since high school.
This gaunt pillar of humanity has both hands down his pants. One hand in front, one hand in back.....and a look of utmost terror and desperation on his face. As he gyrates frantically he's digging in his leather crotch trough for what, I have no idea......until he informed me and everyone else in a one block radius by screaming:
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!@@ BUTTPLUG! BUTTPLUG!@#! FUCK!@"
Everyone nearby immediately implements the Back Away Slowly and Cross The Street(tm) defense. I inch my way around him and make a break for it lest he notice me and perhaps attempt to gain my assistance with his....dilemma.
Now....I don't know about you, but if there was something corking my exterior disposal shaft I, unlike Bumcork the Pants Fisher here, am pretty sure I would have noticed before I like the house that morning.
annnd....rest. Well, there's moar but I am weary and weak and will save it for later.
I was going phonetically to the best of my ability.
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