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I'm Beginning to Unravel...
Its been sweltering hot here the last week, so I've been mostly sleepless before work....the results are not pretty. As I've also been under relentless assault by those craving apparel.
The First and Last Time
Me: “Hmm, I seem to have one number off on the credit card somewhere. Could you repeat it again for me, please?”
C: “Sure, its xxxx-“
Me: “Ah, there we go. Sorry about that.”
C: “It’s ok, you’re human.”
To be perfectly honest, that is the first, and likely last time a caller will ever admit that. Normally I am considered either a sub-human monkey like creature that has been trained to parrot call scripts or expected to be an omni-potent being possessing of vast clairvoyant power that can shape time and space to his very well for anyone that merely calls him up and asks him to do so.
But human? Hah.
Is It Now?
( And no she didn't mean American vs British English either. I have nfi what she meant. >.> )
SC: “That’s spelled the English way.”
Ah, yes, of course. If you hadn’t stopped me, I’d have started penning that in Katakana. It’s a good thing you had the foresight to specify the language. Otherwise who knows what might have happened. Why, if the greeting line wasn’t in English I’d have answered the line in Farsi. For truly I am gifted in tongues, but not in brains.
Just a Quick Note
Me: “And which credit card would you like to use?”
Attention, citizens. This is a simple inquiry. It has but 3 options. They are Visa, Mastercard and Amex, the freak card. No, seriously, Amex doesn’t have enough numbers. It’s not right. It’s like its missing a chromosome. Wait, where was I….oh, right, this is a simple question! There are 3 answers. They are not:
“My NBNA”
“Oh, on my NBNA please”
I do not know what an NBNA is. I assume “National Boy Nipples Anonymous”. In which case, I am truly sorry about your affliction and I wish you all the best in beating your tragic addiction before you end up with an ankle bracelet.
“On my CIBC”
“On my Bank of Montreal”
The issuing institution is irrelevant. Again, all I wish to know is what type of card you have; Visa, Mastercard or Amex. Animal, Vegetable or Mineral.
“On my Gold”
“On my Platinum”
Your credit limit is neither relevant nor does it impress me. All your credit limit tells me is “Ha ha! Look at all the imaginary money I can spend that I don’t have!”. Congratulations, you have the capability to dig yourself deeper into debt faster than other people. Most people have a shovel, you have obtained a backhoe. Go you.
“On my Canadian Tire Options card”
I’m not precisely sure what to say to that. I assume a Canadian Tire credit card is about as useful as Canadian Tire money was when you were a kid and your uncle would give it to you as a joke and tell you it was real money. Than you’d try and spent it at the corner store on some Gummi Bears only to have your sugary dreams destroyed much to his cruel mirth. Than when you figured out it was only good at Canadian Tire that limited your purchases entirely to a handful of nails or a light switch cover. Which was much less tasty than Gummi Bears.
God damn you, Uncle Pete.
And So Begins the Tides of Darkness
Me: “Ok, and what’s the item number please?”
SC: “The wha?”
Me: “The item number.”
SC: “Ontario.”
Me: “…..what?”
SC: “Ontario.”
( No they weren't calling from Ontario either.. )
Me: “No, can I have the item number please?”
SC: “Whats dat?”
Me: “The item number next to the product in the catalog”
SC: “Uhhhh…..what?”
Me: “The number next to the picture of what you would like to order.”
SC: “Ummm….wait a minute.”
How did you even dress yourself this morning? Are you even dressed? Or did you just roll out of bed butt naked over cheese stained sheets and crawled over to the phone because your delicate, Jabba like form was hit by a sudden cruel frigid wind in nether regions you weren’t aware you even had and have never known the touch of the sun. At which point, for the first time in your life, you desired cloth to protect your delicate flesh from the harsh environment. So you dragged yourself to the phone and expressed your desire for a shirt. Something to cover your dainty bosom with.
Not just any shirt, the most obnoxious shirt you could possibly select. A shirt whose full body design looks like the sort of tattoo that “tough” guys get when they have a MySpace page to post half naked pictures of themselves to so they can bask in their own amazing badassery while they oil themselves in a mirror for 30 minutes every morning. You know, the kind of guy that sends you a picture of his dick within 15 minutes of chatting with him on MSN.
A Ray of Hope
C: “What was your name?”
Me: “GK”
C: “Well, GK. If I get lucky with these tickets I’ll call you.”
And for the first time in all these years, I truly meant it when I wished a caller good luck.
-4 Con
You know, I felt a tad under the weather last weekend. A phenomena I could not quite pinpoint the cause of seeing as it’s the middle of summer. But this evening, as I was going about my ritualistic shift duties, I recalled an article I had read on the Interwebs about the absolute filthiest most germ ridden objects in the known universe. Of which the humble keyboard ranks incredibly high. Of course, one of my duties at night is to log all the computers in, thus ensuring I touch every keyboard in the office.
Yes, unbeknown to me I’ve been riding bareback behind Pestilence, the 1st rider of the Apocalypse on a nightly basis and he's wearing assless chaps.
The Tides of Darkness 2
Me: “Ok, and what size would you like?”
SC: “Um, one sec, lemme look in my pants.”
Hah, wow. Um, I’m not really sure what to say to that. So I’ll just wait here silently while you try to peer down the butt crack of your own jeans to figure out what size you’re wearing. While you’re down there you might want to check on your underwear too, just to remind yourself what your name is. Because I’ll need that in a minute as well.
The Tides of Darkness 3
Me: “Ok, and what catalog do you have there?”
SC: “I’m calling from winter 2009.”
Not content to merely annoy me in the present, they’re now calling from the future as well. I’m not even sure how this came about. There’s no way in heck any place up there has any sort of scientific community. Let alone one that could make such a break through. Which means the secret to time travel must somehow involve beer and huskies. I’m not sure exactly how, per say. Perhaps if you rub the huskies together, then rub your head on the huskies to build up a static charge then touch a can of Coors Light it somehow tears a hole through space time. A rift the average person only needs a pair of stained boxer shorts and a baseball cap to survive the journey through.
Still, I must commend them for their ingenuity. If they call from the future to place an order then they don’t have to worry about shipping time. Just call from 2 weeks in the future and bam! It arrives in a few minutes.
The Tides of Darkness 4
Me: “Alright, and what’s the product item number?”
SC: “Its 1472”
Me: “1472?”
SC: “14762”
Me: “1476....2?”
SC: “No no, da number is 0072……”
Me: “0072?”
SC: “Yeah”
Me: “That doesn’t bring up anything, unfortunately.”
SC: “Huh?”
Me: “That doesn’t bring up an item.”
SC: “Dis number here, I got. Dis item number is 1472.”
Me: “1472?”
SC: "Ya”
Me: “Alright, what size?”
SC: “Uh, 2XL”
Me: “I’m afraid it only comes in S, M and L”
SC: “......Oh.”
And with that, The Little Engine That Could suffered a catastrophic valve failure, caught fire and slowly rolled backwards down the mountain in a blazing coal inferno while his passengers screamed and leapt from the moving wreckage into the ditch to escape the flames. Upon reaching the bottom he derailed into the forest, setting it alight and burning several hundred acres of lush forest to the ground, killing untold amounts of wildlife, wiping out a logging camp, a children’s summer camp and rendering the Northland Speckled Wren completely extinct.
Hot Tips
Prince Charles is hiding in Buckingham Palace fucking the Queen mum whilst Green Berets comb the area for the Vietnamese. Who….are invading Buckingham Palace, I guess? To stop Prince Charles from…um…doing things to his mom. Because the Queen’s virtue is important to the Vietnamese, and violating the Queen’s virtue is important to the US special forces.
I don’t know. I don’t write the news, I just report it.
The Tides of Darkness 5
Me: “Ok, and your postal code please?”
SC: “XXX 1<mumble>0”
Me: “XXX 1B0?”
SC: “XXX 1E0”
Me: “<city name>?”
SC: “<different hovel>”
Me: “…..XXX 1B0?”
SC: “E0”
Me: “E0?”
SC: “E!”
Me: “So XXX 1E0?”
SC: “T0!”
Me: “1T0?”
SC: “E!”
Me: “Ok is it T as in Tom or E as in Edward?”
SC: “P!”
Me: “P as in Peter?”
SC: “1C0”
Me: “P as in Peter?”
SC: “E…uh”
Me: “Ok is it P as in Peter, E as in Edward or T as in Tom”
SC: “Uhhh….uh….<hovel name>”
Me: “I need the postal code”
SC: “XXX 1C0”
Me: “…I’m not catching the last letter. Is it E, T, P or C?”
SC: “1P0!”
Me: “P as in Peter?”
SC: “Yeah.”
THAN. JUST. SAY. THAT. Instead of sitting there like the fucking dribbling incarnation of my rising blood pressure. I gave you 4, 4 passes at P as in Peter before you clued in and realized oh hey! It IS the letter P! I remember the letter P! Grover told me all about it this morning!
<sob> why do you do this?!
The Tides of Darkness 6
Attention McHalfwit family of Rat Hovel. Yes, you. The lot who keeps calling to place orders but gives me the exact same address and phone number every time. You’ve been ordering crap for 2 days straight now. I would just like to take a moment to point out that if you had just placed one big order you’d have already saved $160 in shipping charges.
But don’t let the haunting specter of fiscal responsibility stop you. By all means, carry on.
The Tides of Darkness 7
Me: “Ok, and the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “Alright, what size?”
SC: “Large.”
Me: “and what colour?”
SC: “Haggis”
….Haggis? Ok, what the hell, that can not be right. There’s no way someone would make clothing in the “colour” ha-…..well I’ll be damned, it comes in Haggis. It comes in Haggis and you’re going to wear it. Alright than.
The Tides of Darkness 8
Me: “Ok, is there a PO box number?”
SC: “Box 15”
Me: “15?”
SC: “50.”
Me: “50?”
SC: “Box 15”
Me: “15? 1-5?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “Ok, and the postal code please?”
SC: “xxx 10”
Me: “…..10?”
SC: “xxx 10”
Me: “xxx 1-0?”
SC: “no, xxx 1N0”
Me: “Ok-“
SC: “and Box 50.”
Me: “…..box 50?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “5-0?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Why is it so HARD?! Why must I engage in this struggle over every single, little bit of even the most basic information. Even the most rudimentary information that you should know and should have ready is this tooth and nail intellectual trench war between me and the caller. Where I am desperately trying to drag them up to some semblance of basic human competence while they are stubbornly trying to weigh me down into the dark bowels of abject stupidity. In the hopes that I will drown and the shimmering dead husk of my intellect can be communally devoured by you and your ilk in the hopes you might gain a fraction of my power and be able to figure out how to tie your own fucking shoes.
Dude~
I have not the words for this. I'm still processing it.
It's 1am. Your brand new Dell ( Duuuude ) has broken down in some way shape or form. Interrupting your WoW raid and/or private wankfest 09. This is critical to your life and well being. You DEMAND tech support. This instance.
There's just a few key flaws in your plan:
1) I'm not Dell. You've called the wrong number.
2) I don't even provide tech support of any sort on this line anyway.
3) There's no way in Hades that Dell tech support is open at 1am.
Your response? Seriously, I shit you not. This was his response after I made the above points. He angrily vowed to return the computer to the store for a refund first thing in the morning because our customer service was so lousy.
The customer service of a wrong number that does not even provide tech support to any computers let alone to Dell owners. After this proclamation he went into a "Ha ha! So there asshole!" tone of voice. To which I responded "...ok". Which only infuriated him further.
So now he'll definitely be returning his brand new PC at 9am sharp to Best Buy.
I have no the words.
The Tides of Darkness 9
Me: “Ok, and what size?”
SC: “It’s for my granddaughter”
Me: “…….?”
SC: “…….”
Annnnd? Unless she’s big enough to be seen from space on Google Earth, I have no idea what size your granddaughter might be. If she is big enough to be seen from space on Google Earth than I recommend 9XL.
The Tides of Darkness 10
SC: “I just noticed your catalog. I don’t know where it came from. I dunno if someone brought it here, or left it here, or what.”
So the catalog magically appeared and is now fulfilling all of your dark desires like some sort of pants fairy? Right-o. You know, I can’t even begin to fathom the train of thought that must ponderously chug its way through these people’s minds. Heck, even calling it a train is a bit generous. It’s more like a dollar store electric race track where the cars always spin out and fly off the track on every turn if you hold the throttle down by more than half. Before the room fills with the stench of burning electronics.
Seriously though, what sort of thought process must you possess to be up at 3am, wandering through your house only to stumble across a catalog and go “Wha? I don’t remember havin’ dis….wat is dis….oh…oh is has pants in it…and hats, HATS! I MUST HAVE THEM.” than making a mad bovine like rush towards the phone.
The Tides of Darkness 11
Me: “Alright, and your last name please?”
SC: “St. Peter”
Me: “Al-“
SC: “That’s S-T dot P-E-T-E-R.”
….did you really just say “dot” as part of your name? To explain a period? Really? Is this the extent of your grasp of punctuation? Dare I ask what fate the rest suffered? Are exclamation marks “Dot sticks”? Are question marks “Fishhooks”? Are brackets right and left “beer bellies”?
Wait, perhaps I’m on to something here. Perhaps I’ve actually discovered the root solution to their entire language. Their comically tragic Rosetta Stone. I’ve been going about this all wrong. I shouldn’t be saying A as in Apple. I should be saying A as in A Thimble With Legs. That’s why I couldn’t get through to that guy yesterday! I had it all wrong. It wasn’t P as in Peter, it was P as in Sideways Baseball Cap. Suddenly it all makes sense!
I Concur
There is a drunk man outside the front door trying to rap. You would like me to call security and/or the police. For once, I wholeheartedly agree with you. In fact I would call security for you even if he wasn’t drunk.
The Tides of Darkness 12
Me: “Alright, what size?”
SC: “2XL”
Me: “I’m afraid that doesn’t come in 2XL”
SC: “Oh.”
Me: “S, M, L or XL”
SC: “No 2XL?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “In any colour?”
Me: “No, it doesn’t come in 2XL”
SC: “Oh.”
You know, I think I may have figured this out….I have a loose theory, follow me here: Every question you ask or answer you give has to be repeated at least three times before it clicks in. So there’s actually a sort of Rule of Three at work here. I don’t think it would actually matter at all what you said the first two times as long as you gave a definitive question or answer the third time. Because that’s the only statement that will click in.
If I had to surmise exactly what was occurring, I’d say that your first question or answer just wafts gentling in one ear and than attempts to exit with the flow of air out the other ear. But if you use a sufficiently large word, ie one with at least two syllables, it will get stuck in the ear and remain lodged there. Unable to escape by simple virtue of being a longer word than “Huh”, “Uhhh”, “Eh”, “Der” or “Errrr”.
Than the second attempt likewise wafts in one ear, but it can’t escape. The other ear is currently clogged with your first inquiry. So it just begins to rattle around in there. Echo’n about in the vast cavernous space within.
Finally, the third attempt wafts in and it too cannot escape the confines of this spacious cranial prison. So it too begins to rattle around till eventually the second and third things you said collide inside their skull, causing a small explosion and spraying the inside of their head with specks of thought and viola! It finally sinks in.
The Tides of Darkness 13
Me: “Alright, and what’s the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
For those of you playing the home game, that’s the $600 MP3 Sunglasses. I have just sent a pair of them to a guy that sounded like the bastard child of Popeye and Snarf from the Thunder Cats who lives in the marvelous land of <town so far north you can actually see Russia>. A small, barren townscape sitting on an island in the middle of an unending ocean of ice whose primary tourist attraction is, and I kid you not, polar bear watching.
You do not watch polar bears unless they are safely sealed inside of a reinforced Plexiglas and steel enclosure with a 10 foot moat around it that is on fire. Otherwise it’s not called watching polar bears it’s called tempting polar bears.
Jesus Christ
SC: “Yeah this is Everyone's Favourite Dumbass-“
Oh, oh, wait, no lemme guess…..can't get into your email again?
SC: "I can't get into my email."
Seriously, dude. That’s another $700 service call. To get someone to tell you how to get into Outlook. Again. Out of curiosity I went back over the case history just to get an idea of the price tag of human failure that’s occurring at your office.
In the last 2 weeks you have cost your boss $3500. How are you even still employed, dude? If I managed to incur that sort of cost here I’m sure I would be personally flogged by our beautiful lovely branch manager who I am sucking up to, to avoid being flogged for suggesting she might flog an employee. Though I don’t even know how I could possibly incur such an amount. I’d literally have to start throwing monitors out the window. Which to be honest isn’t really much smarter than what you’re doing there, dumbass.
The Tides of PQFH_*Q#HF_*FARGH
Me: “and your phone number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “…..your entire phone number please?”
SC: “Oh, uh”
Stop, stop, STOP! ENOUGH! NO MORE! You guys have been calling incessantly all night, every night, all week. I’ve had enough of your clandestine tomfuckery! I protest this treatment of my person! Why? Why do you call?! It’s 3am where you are. Why in the fucking world are you calling to order pants at this hour?! Constantly?! I give Nunavut a free pass on this because in all blunt honesty they’re so far north I don’t think they know what night time is. I’m also pretty sure they really believe I live in a magic box on the wall and can exchange wishes for clothing if they talk to me through the plastic banana.
But the rest of you are calling from the Prairies. There is no excuse for you. GO TO FUCKING BED. I mean it. Go. Now. Seriously. Or I will find you. I swear it to whatever Gods still listen to me. If the mail can get there, so can I even if I have to jump out of a plane and hike for 3 days. I WILL find where you live and I will be bringing a fucking croquet mallet and a fucking rubber ducky named Mr Quackers.
One way or another I promise you within 30 minutes of me finding you, Mr Quackers puckered little ducky beak lips will be pressed lovingly against your prostate.
ARGH~*%_@
<cries silently>
The First and Last Time
Me: “Hmm, I seem to have one number off on the credit card somewhere. Could you repeat it again for me, please?”
C: “Sure, its xxxx-“
Me: “Ah, there we go. Sorry about that.”
C: “It’s ok, you’re human.”
To be perfectly honest, that is the first, and likely last time a caller will ever admit that. Normally I am considered either a sub-human monkey like creature that has been trained to parrot call scripts or expected to be an omni-potent being possessing of vast clairvoyant power that can shape time and space to his very well for anyone that merely calls him up and asks him to do so.
But human? Hah.
Is It Now?
( And no she didn't mean American vs British English either. I have nfi what she meant. >.> )
SC: “That’s spelled the English way.”
Ah, yes, of course. If you hadn’t stopped me, I’d have started penning that in Katakana. It’s a good thing you had the foresight to specify the language. Otherwise who knows what might have happened. Why, if the greeting line wasn’t in English I’d have answered the line in Farsi. For truly I am gifted in tongues, but not in brains.
Just a Quick Note
Me: “And which credit card would you like to use?”
Attention, citizens. This is a simple inquiry. It has but 3 options. They are Visa, Mastercard and Amex, the freak card. No, seriously, Amex doesn’t have enough numbers. It’s not right. It’s like its missing a chromosome. Wait, where was I….oh, right, this is a simple question! There are 3 answers. They are not:
“My NBNA”
“Oh, on my NBNA please”
I do not know what an NBNA is. I assume “National Boy Nipples Anonymous”. In which case, I am truly sorry about your affliction and I wish you all the best in beating your tragic addiction before you end up with an ankle bracelet.
“On my CIBC”
“On my Bank of Montreal”
The issuing institution is irrelevant. Again, all I wish to know is what type of card you have; Visa, Mastercard or Amex. Animal, Vegetable or Mineral.
“On my Gold”
“On my Platinum”
Your credit limit is neither relevant nor does it impress me. All your credit limit tells me is “Ha ha! Look at all the imaginary money I can spend that I don’t have!”. Congratulations, you have the capability to dig yourself deeper into debt faster than other people. Most people have a shovel, you have obtained a backhoe. Go you.
“On my Canadian Tire Options card”
I’m not precisely sure what to say to that. I assume a Canadian Tire credit card is about as useful as Canadian Tire money was when you were a kid and your uncle would give it to you as a joke and tell you it was real money. Than you’d try and spent it at the corner store on some Gummi Bears only to have your sugary dreams destroyed much to his cruel mirth. Than when you figured out it was only good at Canadian Tire that limited your purchases entirely to a handful of nails or a light switch cover. Which was much less tasty than Gummi Bears.
God damn you, Uncle Pete.
And So Begins the Tides of Darkness
Me: “Ok, and what’s the item number please?”
SC: “The wha?”
Me: “The item number.”
SC: “Ontario.”
Me: “…..what?”
SC: “Ontario.”
( No they weren't calling from Ontario either.. )
Me: “No, can I have the item number please?”
SC: “Whats dat?”
Me: “The item number next to the product in the catalog”
SC: “Uhhhh…..what?”
Me: “The number next to the picture of what you would like to order.”
SC: “Ummm….wait a minute.”
How did you even dress yourself this morning? Are you even dressed? Or did you just roll out of bed butt naked over cheese stained sheets and crawled over to the phone because your delicate, Jabba like form was hit by a sudden cruel frigid wind in nether regions you weren’t aware you even had and have never known the touch of the sun. At which point, for the first time in your life, you desired cloth to protect your delicate flesh from the harsh environment. So you dragged yourself to the phone and expressed your desire for a shirt. Something to cover your dainty bosom with.
Not just any shirt, the most obnoxious shirt you could possibly select. A shirt whose full body design looks like the sort of tattoo that “tough” guys get when they have a MySpace page to post half naked pictures of themselves to so they can bask in their own amazing badassery while they oil themselves in a mirror for 30 minutes every morning. You know, the kind of guy that sends you a picture of his dick within 15 minutes of chatting with him on MSN.
A Ray of Hope
C: “What was your name?”
Me: “GK”
C: “Well, GK. If I get lucky with these tickets I’ll call you.”
And for the first time in all these years, I truly meant it when I wished a caller good luck.
-4 Con
You know, I felt a tad under the weather last weekend. A phenomena I could not quite pinpoint the cause of seeing as it’s the middle of summer. But this evening, as I was going about my ritualistic shift duties, I recalled an article I had read on the Interwebs about the absolute filthiest most germ ridden objects in the known universe. Of which the humble keyboard ranks incredibly high. Of course, one of my duties at night is to log all the computers in, thus ensuring I touch every keyboard in the office.
Yes, unbeknown to me I’ve been riding bareback behind Pestilence, the 1st rider of the Apocalypse on a nightly basis and he's wearing assless chaps.
The Tides of Darkness 2
Me: “Ok, and what size would you like?”
SC: “Um, one sec, lemme look in my pants.”
Hah, wow. Um, I’m not really sure what to say to that. So I’ll just wait here silently while you try to peer down the butt crack of your own jeans to figure out what size you’re wearing. While you’re down there you might want to check on your underwear too, just to remind yourself what your name is. Because I’ll need that in a minute as well.
The Tides of Darkness 3
Me: “Ok, and what catalog do you have there?”
SC: “I’m calling from winter 2009.”
Not content to merely annoy me in the present, they’re now calling from the future as well. I’m not even sure how this came about. There’s no way in heck any place up there has any sort of scientific community. Let alone one that could make such a break through. Which means the secret to time travel must somehow involve beer and huskies. I’m not sure exactly how, per say. Perhaps if you rub the huskies together, then rub your head on the huskies to build up a static charge then touch a can of Coors Light it somehow tears a hole through space time. A rift the average person only needs a pair of stained boxer shorts and a baseball cap to survive the journey through.
Still, I must commend them for their ingenuity. If they call from the future to place an order then they don’t have to worry about shipping time. Just call from 2 weeks in the future and bam! It arrives in a few minutes.
The Tides of Darkness 4
Me: “Alright, and what’s the product item number?”
SC: “Its 1472”
Me: “1472?”
SC: “14762”
Me: “1476....2?”
SC: “No no, da number is 0072……”
Me: “0072?”
SC: “Yeah”
Me: “That doesn’t bring up anything, unfortunately.”
SC: “Huh?”
Me: “That doesn’t bring up an item.”
SC: “Dis number here, I got. Dis item number is 1472.”
Me: “1472?”
SC: "Ya”
Me: “Alright, what size?”
SC: “Uh, 2XL”
Me: “I’m afraid it only comes in S, M and L”
SC: “......Oh.”
And with that, The Little Engine That Could suffered a catastrophic valve failure, caught fire and slowly rolled backwards down the mountain in a blazing coal inferno while his passengers screamed and leapt from the moving wreckage into the ditch to escape the flames. Upon reaching the bottom he derailed into the forest, setting it alight and burning several hundred acres of lush forest to the ground, killing untold amounts of wildlife, wiping out a logging camp, a children’s summer camp and rendering the Northland Speckled Wren completely extinct.
Hot Tips
Prince Charles is hiding in Buckingham Palace fucking the Queen mum whilst Green Berets comb the area for the Vietnamese. Who….are invading Buckingham Palace, I guess? To stop Prince Charles from…um…doing things to his mom. Because the Queen’s virtue is important to the Vietnamese, and violating the Queen’s virtue is important to the US special forces.
I don’t know. I don’t write the news, I just report it.
The Tides of Darkness 5
Me: “Ok, and your postal code please?”
SC: “XXX 1<mumble>0”
Me: “XXX 1B0?”
SC: “XXX 1E0”
Me: “<city name>?”
SC: “<different hovel>”
Me: “…..XXX 1B0?”
SC: “E0”
Me: “E0?”
SC: “E!”
Me: “So XXX 1E0?”
SC: “T0!”
Me: “1T0?”
SC: “E!”
Me: “Ok is it T as in Tom or E as in Edward?”
SC: “P!”
Me: “P as in Peter?”
SC: “1C0”
Me: “P as in Peter?”
SC: “E…uh”
Me: “Ok is it P as in Peter, E as in Edward or T as in Tom”
SC: “Uhhh….uh….<hovel name>”
Me: “I need the postal code”
SC: “XXX 1C0”
Me: “…I’m not catching the last letter. Is it E, T, P or C?”
SC: “1P0!”
Me: “P as in Peter?”
SC: “Yeah.”
THAN. JUST. SAY. THAT. Instead of sitting there like the fucking dribbling incarnation of my rising blood pressure. I gave you 4, 4 passes at P as in Peter before you clued in and realized oh hey! It IS the letter P! I remember the letter P! Grover told me all about it this morning!
<sob> why do you do this?!
The Tides of Darkness 6
Attention McHalfwit family of Rat Hovel. Yes, you. The lot who keeps calling to place orders but gives me the exact same address and phone number every time. You’ve been ordering crap for 2 days straight now. I would just like to take a moment to point out that if you had just placed one big order you’d have already saved $160 in shipping charges.
But don’t let the haunting specter of fiscal responsibility stop you. By all means, carry on.
The Tides of Darkness 7
Me: “Ok, and the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “Alright, what size?”
SC: “Large.”
Me: “and what colour?”
SC: “Haggis”
….Haggis? Ok, what the hell, that can not be right. There’s no way someone would make clothing in the “colour” ha-…..well I’ll be damned, it comes in Haggis. It comes in Haggis and you’re going to wear it. Alright than.
The Tides of Darkness 8
Me: “Ok, is there a PO box number?”
SC: “Box 15”
Me: “15?”
SC: “50.”
Me: “50?”
SC: “Box 15”
Me: “15? 1-5?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “Ok, and the postal code please?”
SC: “xxx 10”
Me: “…..10?”
SC: “xxx 10”
Me: “xxx 1-0?”
SC: “no, xxx 1N0”
Me: “Ok-“
SC: “and Box 50.”
Me: “…..box 50?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “5-0?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Why is it so HARD?! Why must I engage in this struggle over every single, little bit of even the most basic information. Even the most rudimentary information that you should know and should have ready is this tooth and nail intellectual trench war between me and the caller. Where I am desperately trying to drag them up to some semblance of basic human competence while they are stubbornly trying to weigh me down into the dark bowels of abject stupidity. In the hopes that I will drown and the shimmering dead husk of my intellect can be communally devoured by you and your ilk in the hopes you might gain a fraction of my power and be able to figure out how to tie your own fucking shoes.
Dude~
I have not the words for this. I'm still processing it.
It's 1am. Your brand new Dell ( Duuuude ) has broken down in some way shape or form. Interrupting your WoW raid and/or private wankfest 09. This is critical to your life and well being. You DEMAND tech support. This instance.
There's just a few key flaws in your plan:
1) I'm not Dell. You've called the wrong number.
2) I don't even provide tech support of any sort on this line anyway.
3) There's no way in Hades that Dell tech support is open at 1am.
Your response? Seriously, I shit you not. This was his response after I made the above points. He angrily vowed to return the computer to the store for a refund first thing in the morning because our customer service was so lousy.
The customer service of a wrong number that does not even provide tech support to any computers let alone to Dell owners. After this proclamation he went into a "Ha ha! So there asshole!" tone of voice. To which I responded "...ok". Which only infuriated him further.
So now he'll definitely be returning his brand new PC at 9am sharp to Best Buy.
I have no the words.
The Tides of Darkness 9
Me: “Ok, and what size?”
SC: “It’s for my granddaughter”
Me: “…….?”
SC: “…….”
Annnnd? Unless she’s big enough to be seen from space on Google Earth, I have no idea what size your granddaughter might be. If she is big enough to be seen from space on Google Earth than I recommend 9XL.
The Tides of Darkness 10
SC: “I just noticed your catalog. I don’t know where it came from. I dunno if someone brought it here, or left it here, or what.”
So the catalog magically appeared and is now fulfilling all of your dark desires like some sort of pants fairy? Right-o. You know, I can’t even begin to fathom the train of thought that must ponderously chug its way through these people’s minds. Heck, even calling it a train is a bit generous. It’s more like a dollar store electric race track where the cars always spin out and fly off the track on every turn if you hold the throttle down by more than half. Before the room fills with the stench of burning electronics.
Seriously though, what sort of thought process must you possess to be up at 3am, wandering through your house only to stumble across a catalog and go “Wha? I don’t remember havin’ dis….wat is dis….oh…oh is has pants in it…and hats, HATS! I MUST HAVE THEM.” than making a mad bovine like rush towards the phone.
The Tides of Darkness 11
Me: “Alright, and your last name please?”
SC: “St. Peter”
Me: “Al-“
SC: “That’s S-T dot P-E-T-E-R.”
….did you really just say “dot” as part of your name? To explain a period? Really? Is this the extent of your grasp of punctuation? Dare I ask what fate the rest suffered? Are exclamation marks “Dot sticks”? Are question marks “Fishhooks”? Are brackets right and left “beer bellies”?
Wait, perhaps I’m on to something here. Perhaps I’ve actually discovered the root solution to their entire language. Their comically tragic Rosetta Stone. I’ve been going about this all wrong. I shouldn’t be saying A as in Apple. I should be saying A as in A Thimble With Legs. That’s why I couldn’t get through to that guy yesterday! I had it all wrong. It wasn’t P as in Peter, it was P as in Sideways Baseball Cap. Suddenly it all makes sense!
I Concur
There is a drunk man outside the front door trying to rap. You would like me to call security and/or the police. For once, I wholeheartedly agree with you. In fact I would call security for you even if he wasn’t drunk.
The Tides of Darkness 12
Me: “Alright, what size?”
SC: “2XL”
Me: “I’m afraid that doesn’t come in 2XL”
SC: “Oh.”
Me: “S, M, L or XL”
SC: “No 2XL?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “In any colour?”
Me: “No, it doesn’t come in 2XL”
SC: “Oh.”
You know, I think I may have figured this out….I have a loose theory, follow me here: Every question you ask or answer you give has to be repeated at least three times before it clicks in. So there’s actually a sort of Rule of Three at work here. I don’t think it would actually matter at all what you said the first two times as long as you gave a definitive question or answer the third time. Because that’s the only statement that will click in.
If I had to surmise exactly what was occurring, I’d say that your first question or answer just wafts gentling in one ear and than attempts to exit with the flow of air out the other ear. But if you use a sufficiently large word, ie one with at least two syllables, it will get stuck in the ear and remain lodged there. Unable to escape by simple virtue of being a longer word than “Huh”, “Uhhh”, “Eh”, “Der” or “Errrr”.
Than the second attempt likewise wafts in one ear, but it can’t escape. The other ear is currently clogged with your first inquiry. So it just begins to rattle around in there. Echo’n about in the vast cavernous space within.
Finally, the third attempt wafts in and it too cannot escape the confines of this spacious cranial prison. So it too begins to rattle around till eventually the second and third things you said collide inside their skull, causing a small explosion and spraying the inside of their head with specks of thought and viola! It finally sinks in.
The Tides of Darkness 13
Me: “Alright, and what’s the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
For those of you playing the home game, that’s the $600 MP3 Sunglasses. I have just sent a pair of them to a guy that sounded like the bastard child of Popeye and Snarf from the Thunder Cats who lives in the marvelous land of <town so far north you can actually see Russia>. A small, barren townscape sitting on an island in the middle of an unending ocean of ice whose primary tourist attraction is, and I kid you not, polar bear watching.
You do not watch polar bears unless they are safely sealed inside of a reinforced Plexiglas and steel enclosure with a 10 foot moat around it that is on fire. Otherwise it’s not called watching polar bears it’s called tempting polar bears.
Jesus Christ
SC: “Yeah this is Everyone's Favourite Dumbass-“
Oh, oh, wait, no lemme guess…..can't get into your email again?
SC: "I can't get into my email."
Seriously, dude. That’s another $700 service call. To get someone to tell you how to get into Outlook. Again. Out of curiosity I went back over the case history just to get an idea of the price tag of human failure that’s occurring at your office.
In the last 2 weeks you have cost your boss $3500. How are you even still employed, dude? If I managed to incur that sort of cost here I’m sure I would be personally flogged by our beautiful lovely branch manager who I am sucking up to, to avoid being flogged for suggesting she might flog an employee. Though I don’t even know how I could possibly incur such an amount. I’d literally have to start throwing monitors out the window. Which to be honest isn’t really much smarter than what you’re doing there, dumbass.
The Tides of PQFH_*Q#HF_*FARGH
Me: “and your phone number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “…..your entire phone number please?”
SC: “Oh, uh”
Stop, stop, STOP! ENOUGH! NO MORE! You guys have been calling incessantly all night, every night, all week. I’ve had enough of your clandestine tomfuckery! I protest this treatment of my person! Why? Why do you call?! It’s 3am where you are. Why in the fucking world are you calling to order pants at this hour?! Constantly?! I give Nunavut a free pass on this because in all blunt honesty they’re so far north I don’t think they know what night time is. I’m also pretty sure they really believe I live in a magic box on the wall and can exchange wishes for clothing if they talk to me through the plastic banana.
But the rest of you are calling from the Prairies. There is no excuse for you. GO TO FUCKING BED. I mean it. Go. Now. Seriously. Or I will find you. I swear it to whatever Gods still listen to me. If the mail can get there, so can I even if I have to jump out of a plane and hike for 3 days. I WILL find where you live and I will be bringing a fucking croquet mallet and a fucking rubber ducky named Mr Quackers.
One way or another I promise you within 30 minutes of me finding you, Mr Quackers puckered little ducky beak lips will be pressed lovingly against your prostate.
ARGH~*%_@
<cries silently>
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