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Bi-Sexual Clown Slut
Lets see if I can fit everything into one post. >< I have to add last week's missing tales to this week's.
I'm not making that thread title up either. God help me.
Behold My Power
( Our systems can pull a city based on postal code. -.- )
Me: “Alright, and your postal code please?”
SC: “XXX XXX”
Me: “Alright, in Brockten, correct?”
SC: “Yes.”
Me: “Alr-“
SC: “That’s Brockten with an E-N”
Me: “…yes.”
I love this. Because it means she actually thought I guessed the town based on her postal code alone. I mean I’m good, but I’m not that good. Still, it would be a shame to shatter the illusion and disappoint her so I’m not about to point out otherwise. Let her go on seeing me as some sort of omni-sentient telecom demigod. I mean it’s not that far from the truth, right?
…….right? Guys? Hey, where are you going?
Safety Procedures
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi, are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “How are you?!”
Me: “Pretty good, are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “I'm good too!"
Me: "Yes, are you calling to place an order?"
SC: "Yes!"
I’m pretty sure she understood the question. It’s just that it was going in one ear, whistling straight through the cavernous interior of her mind and then weakly trickling out the other ear like a stale taco fart. This seems to be an all too common problem for many of our callers. Especially in the later hours of the evening. However, I am nothing if not proactive about offering the best possible service to our customers.
So me and my team of crack scientists and doctor’s ( Ok, me and my cat…and technically she was asleep ) have worked long and hard to devise a treatment for this condition to enable these people to live relatively normal, if dim, lives in the modern world. It’s actually rather simple and I’m confident even the dullest piece of semi-mobile furniture amongst them will be able to apply it.
So follow along with me here, Suzanne. This is what I want you to do: Take your free hand. That’s the one that’s not holding the phone receiver, not the one that doesn’t have a price tag on it that you picked off a bag of Gummi Bears at 7/11 this morning, and lift it up above your shoulder till your hand is next to your head. Now, take one finger and carefully stuff it in your ear. But not too far. Just enough to create a seal. No, not that kind of seal. A pressure seal…..pressure, you know, like….oh nevermind. Just jam it in your ear. Ok, good, good, now hold it there for as long as you talk on the phone. Viola! That should plug the leak and hopefully allow you to operate on at least a half way basic level while speaking on the telephone.
Do You Need A Minute?
SC: “Hold on….still got you on speaker phone. Gotta get you off of it.”
Me: “Alright”
SC: “………what the hell…….uh…..sorry about that. I thought it was a lot easier to do….………what the hell?! Uh…..I don’t know why……”
Do you and the phone need a minute together? Because I can go get a Coke or something and give you some alone time to work this out. It sounds like you have a few relationship issues you need to work on as a couple. But don’t worry, you may not get along but I can tell you love each other very much. This can work as long as both of you are willing and able to put in the time and effort to make it work.
Go on, you can at least give it a try. For the children’s sake.
Followers of an Elder God
I saw a most peculiar lad this evening…..most peculiar indeed. I didn’t detect anything odd at first. My gaze passed over his simple, hunkered form. It was not until he reached the escalator ahead of me, and it elevated his legs to my eye level that I detected something amiss as stared directly into what I can only describe some sort of pantaloon holocaust. He had a pair of shorts on, but he had cut off one leg of them. So they were half short shorts. Sort of like he only had 2/3’s a cup of short. Sticking out of his shorts were a pair of ratty plaid boxers. They served to fill in as a sort of crutch for the missing 1/3rd but at the same time were long enough to protrude from the undamaged pant leg as well.
But it did not end there. Under the boxers he was wearing a skin tight leopard print leotard. Which he was wisely wearing over his socks. So he has boxers under the shorts over the leotard over his socks. I do not know what strange, elder gods would demand such bizarre combination or layering. But they must be rather powerful to inspire such devotion, or perhaps fear, in this poor lad.
We Care
Me: “Hi, it’s your afterhours service here-"
On Call Tech: “Oh, hi.”
Me: “I just have a call for you.”
On Call Tech: “Oh, you have a call for me?”
No, I just phoned you at 2 in the morning to see how you were doing. Just a little extra client care protocol. Every night we just randomly pick one of our clients and start dialing their personal numbers to see if they actually answer or not. Just to see how you’re doing. How’s life going? Everything good? How are the kids? Are you getting along ok with your wife? Do you need someone to talk to? We can listen. Have a drinking problem? We can help. Is it 2 am and you’re trying to get a group together for an Uldaman run but there’s no healer’s LFG? We can log on our level 40 Priest. That’s what we do here at <company> We care. A lot.
We care so much about our clients you’ll need a restraining order to cancel your account.
There Goes 7 Minutes Of My Life
( Reference: Status card's allow First Nations/native American people in Canada to make tax free purchases. )
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “…hello?”
Me: “Hi, are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “HELLO!?”
Me: “Hi, are you calling to place an order?
SC: “Yeah.”
….I have a bad feeling about this. Like the office just got dimmed a little.
Me: “Alright, which catalog are you ordering from?”
SC: “I’m ORDER. Da black shoes”
Me: “Alright, but which catalog is it in?”
SC: “Page 7”
Me: “Yes, but which catalog do you have? Is-”
SC: “<postal code>”
Me: “…wh-…ok, but which catalog is it in?”
SC: “<town>”
Me: “……..alright, but which catalog do you have there? Is it s-”
SC: “Page 7. Imma give you number.”
Me: “Alright, but I need to know which catalog you’re ordering from-“
SC: “Huh?”
Me: “Which catalog do you have there? Is it the summer catalog? Fall?”
SC: “Page 7.”
Me: “……yes, but which catalog is it in?”
SC: “Uh, Summer catalog.”
Sweet mercy of Vishnu with Triskets and a side of squeezie cheese. That’s 8, 8 times ( Ah ah ah! ) I had to ask you the same question to try and mine an answer out from beneath the dense, rocky crust of your dim consciousness. It was a remarkably simple question that even the most docile of farm animals likely could have mastered by the 3rd or 4th attempt. But no you. Oh no. Screw Bessie, you’re going for the gold on this one.
SC: “Um, da, um, da. Black….short. Uh. E Black.”
Me: “Alright, what’s the item number please?”
SC: “ID? Uh, status ID card?”
Me: “No, what’s the number of the item?”
No, I don’t need your status card number dammit. Please answer my questions in the order I am presenting them. This will make a hell of a lot more sense that way and go much faster.
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “Uh……BEE……uh……E”
…..I don’t even….what….
SC: “HOW MUCH!?”
Me: “Is that everything?”
SC: "IMMA GIVE YOU MY STATUS”
Me: “Alright, but I need your name first.”
SC: “<name>.”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “I GIVE YOU STATUS CARD NUMBER”
Me: “Alright, but I need to-“
SC: “IMMA MY STATUS NUMBER”
Me: “Before that I need to get the rest of your information first-“
SC: “My status number!?”
Me: “No, I need to get the rest of your information first, alright?”
SC: “Ok”
I DO NOT NEED YOUR STATUS NUMBER YET. Relax. Calm down. Put the card down and back away from it. Leave it until I actually ask for it than you may gleefully paw it off the table stick it in your mouth for a minute or whatever you feel you need to, than read it back to me. Ok? Got it? Are we good?
Me: “Alright, I may I have your phone number please?”
SC: “uh……….11114.”
Me: “What?”
SC: “3334”
Me: “3334?”
SC: “729.”
Me: “…..I-“
SC: “My box number is xxx”
Me: “I need the whole phone number please?”
SC: “2224.”
Me: “W-“
SC: “3134”
Me: “Ok, what is the full number from the beginning?”
SC: “I already give you my number.”
Me: “Can you please repeat the full phone number including area code?”
SC: “Ma box number?”
Me: “No, your phone number please?”
SC: “I already give you number!!!”
Me: “I’m afraid I didn’t catch it, you only gave bits and pieces.”
SC: “xxx-xxxx”
Me: “Alright, and the area code?”
SC: “Postal code?”
Me: “No, I need the area code please.”
SC: “<postal code>”
Me: “No the area code-“
SC: “I don’t have an area code”
Me: “There must be an area code for the phone number-“
SC: "I dun know. I give you my status number!”
Me: “We need an area code for the phone number to place an o-“
SC: “xxx-xxx-xxxx!"
I am having some rather acute difficulty finding any words in my vocabulary that can actually contain the…feelings….I have radiating relentlessly toward you at this moment. The words to describe them have not yet been invented as no one in this world has ever had this level of throbbing disdain for another living creature before this point. Perhaps at some point in the distant future humankind will finally have the necessity to invent such words after it has spent a century slaving away in the salt mines under the cruel lash of the Galdorexian Space Empire. When that happens, I will be sure to call you back to inform you. Immediately.
Me: “Alright, and your status card number?”
SC: “My card number? I dun have any.”
If it was possible to inflict physical damage with the word "FUCKCOW" you'd have just lost everything below the knees.
Me: “No, your status card number?”
SC: “Oh, uuhhhh......11111114511112412415123. Ya got it?!”
Me: “No, can you repeat it please?”
SC: “11111145 GOT IT?"”
Me: “R-"
SC: “No!! 22111165!”
Me: “Ok, so-"
SC: “GOT IT??!”
Me: “So 22111165!?”
SC: “YEAH!”
I demand the 7 minutes of my life back that you have so cruelly robbed me of. Neither I nor any other living creature should have to suffer such cruelty at the hands of your simple intellect. Please consider sewing all of your garments from tarps, sleep bags and any errant creature or relative you manage to kill from this point onward. Do not touch the phone. Ever. Again.
This Is Why I Hate You
You know how on the old old old decrepit Skytrain’s there’s 2 single seats under the window at each end of the train? But than one single sideways seat directly in front of the first single seat under the window? You know, the Awkward Seat™? The one that doesn’t have enough room between the front of the seat by the window and the side of the seat? Yeah, that seat. I hate everyone that seats in that seat. Yes, everyone.
I will tolerate it if I’m sitting in the seat under the window and someone sits in that seat in front of me when there’s no other free seats on the Skytrain. But if EVERY other seat is free and you sit there? Then I honestly hope you’re set upon by rabid animals at your earliest possible convenience. Yes, I’m talking to you musty old leather jacket NASCAR fan guy. EVERY other seat around me was empty. Every. Last. One. Yet you chose to sit in the Awkward Seat directly in front of me where you’re practically sitting in my lap? WHY? I cannot cram my pelvis backwards into my seat any further to give even the slightest clearance between my knees and your uncomfortably warm thighs. Nor do I claim membership in the Fantastic Four, thus I am unable to shorten the lengths of my femurs at will.
To make matters worse you flumped down and immediately spread your legs open like you were waiting for a ship to dock. Thus wedging your creepy warm thighs into my knees even harder. Trapping me in a situation where my very skeletal structure allowed me no avenue of escape from your weird touchy feely skeeviness. You than whipped out a cell phone and pretended to call people like you didn’t realize you were feeling up my kneecaps. But you didn’t talk to anyone. I did my best to ignore you. I really did. I cling desperately to the door frame of my happy place but my strength eventually eroded and I was dragged to the forefront of my mind along with the thought “OH DEAR GOD WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME. YOU SMELL LIKE OLD SOCKS.”.
My terror continued all the way to Stadium. Not even Broadway was able to free me from your…….icky.
Wanker
Frank once again called in the middle of the night to complain that the last message he left in the middle of the night was not heeded. I think he was expecting to continue his one sided love affair with Coworker, but Coworker is not in this evening so he was cruelly disappointed and had to settle for me. Unfortunately, I was unable to mend nor even sooth his broken heart. Oh we went through the motions alright. The machines are loud, he has to sleep on the couch, nothing was done about his last message, etc etc. But it all just a farce. A routine without any love nor meaning. I’m simply no substitute for the true object of his desire.
Though oddly he did slip and call me "Barry" at one point......I think he might be cheating on Coworker.
...Right?
Me: “Alright, and your last name please?”
SC: “Rakwarrhe"
Me: “How do you spell it please?”
SC: “…..Rakwarrhe”
Alright, look. At some point you’re going to have to learn how to spell your own name as well as speak it. Especially if it sounds like Wookie.
I Wonder Why
SC: “Yeah I’m trying to reach my father-in-law but for some reason he has his cell forwarded to YOU”
I would surmise that’s because its 4am and he has a son in law in Toronto with utterly no concept of time zones.
What Do You Think?
Me: “Good morning, thank you for calling <company>. Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Hello.”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “Do you speak English?”
No, mainly just Wookie.
Shrek
But enough about my misery. I must once again relay tales of the sights I’ve seen on my way here. Because the entertainment value of public transit is only magnified by weekends.
The first encounter this evening was just as I stepped off the bus at the Skytrain station. A small pack of scalliwags were causing a ruckus….ironically at the stop where my bus picks up. ( See? My bus is cursed. ). I’m not precisely sure what it was over. But it was quite heated and two of what appeared to be Homeboyz™ were threatening to do various things to one another that indicated a rumble was about to occur. Much swearing, pushing and flashing of rap video poses was occurring between the two in some sort of bizarre male dominance ritual while their friends attempted to keep them separate.
As I walked by them I noticed something approaching from the corner of my eye. Something vast and white like a looming iceberg in the Atlantic. Alarmed, I turned to confront this behemoth only to discover it was a Skytrain attendant and the vast expanse of white was merely his shirt. But this was no ordinary Skytrain attendant. Oh no. This man was massive. He was easily near as wide as I am tall and there was no visible neck. Just a singular hill shaped mass with 2 dark beady eyes and a walkie talkie. I have absolutely no idea where he came from so I can only assume he lives under a nearby bridge or is kept in some sort of pit and only released when nearby patrons become uppity.
I didn’t see his partner either, but I assume that was because he only emerged long enough to hurl a packet of steak sauce at the perpetrators than fled behind a bus.
Anyhow, this lumbering ogre like creature waddled up speed and crashed into the lot of them. Dividing them down the center and trapping both parties on either side of his vast expanse. One of the guy’s backed off immediately upon seeing the creature he must face. The other guy continued to trash talk and flay. But his arms simply weren’t long enough to actually manage to reach over or around the massive troll like creature before him. Yet there was no way he was going to get over Shrek without rope and climbing spikes.
I think even the persistent one soon realized what sort of beast he faced since the shouting died down rather abruptly after a minute or so. But this could likewise be because he had been suddenly and cruelly devoured. I’m not sure, by than I had reached the platform and I was too fearful to look back. Lest the beast’s beady little eyes should meet mine and mistakenly believe I was challenging him for his territory.
Wanker
Frank called again this evening at 3am to complain that his previous message which he left at 3am complaining that his previous message at 2am had gone unheeded has gone unheeded. He then proceeded to skeet shoot from a glass house by requesting I leave a message referring our client's staff as “retards”.
Protip
If you wish to get a mortgage on your new house, perhaps you shouldn’t leave it till 3:30am on a Sunday 6 hours before you board a plane to leave the country. Just a thought.
What? WHAT?
During an information gathering attempt, it became apparent my caller was neigh deaf and she wisely decided to tag out to her husband. Who was able to hear me just fine. All was fine and dandy until this….this travesty was hurdled my way:
Me: “Alright, thank you for calling than and a company rep will contact you as soon as possible”
Husband: “Great, thank you. Bye.”
Wife: “I could NOT hear him.”
Husband: “Well, he IS American. <click>”
!!!! You take that back right this instant mister. I’m just as Canadian as you are, if not more so. Maple syrup practically surges through my veins around the playoff hockey puck they used to replace one of my kidneys after that beaver attacked me while I was canoeing the across Hudson’s Bay on my way to a curling game. Just because I’m not in the Maritimes like you and don’t have an accent like an Australian crab catcher doesn’t mean I’m not Canadian.
Is it because I moved west? Is that it? You know I’m one of you, but I’ve betrayed the tribe by daring to drive further west than New Brunswick? So now you must look down upon me with disdain?
Oh, Well Than
Me: “Alright, is it urgent?”
SC: “No, but it’s annoying.”
I’m not sure that counts. But hey, if you want to shell out $300 in overtime rates because the faucet on the kitchen sink is dripping too loudly, by all means. Knock yourself out. I’m sure the on call will be thrilled to make $300 or so off of turning a wrench 2cm’s. I mean if it’s going to cost you that much anyway, you should probably at least try to make this worth your while. At least ask him if he could pick up a 2 litre of Dr Pepper and some Fruit Loops for you on his way in.
Oh Wow, I Remember You
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: "I’M PHONING TO SAY ONE THING: MY NAME IS NOT VIOLENT”
Me: “………!?”
SC: “That is not my name! I don’t respond to someone that denies saying that to me! My name is not Violent! I am not the perpetrator!”
Ooooh, wait, I recognize you. You’re that lunatic that use to call and rant on at length about unspecified forces that may or may not be completely imaginary calling you bad names and accusing you of unspecified possibly imaginary crimes. Wow, long time no suffer. It's been what? A year? How ya been? Did they just let you out or something? Are you really allowed to be near a phone again?
Me: “Is there something I can help you with?”
SC: “Yes! You can help me by just listening to what I’m saying!!”
Unless my earlobes are suddenly capable of dispensing Paxil I highly doubt that.
Oh God, Not Clowns
This week seems to be a cavalcade of weirdness outside. Tonight was no exception.
I shall attempt to speak only briefly of encounter this evening.. For I never want to think about it ever again, but at the same time feel that sharing it with others will lessen my pain somewhat. It is a simplistic, but terrifying tale really.
I was simply waiting for my bus, along with two others this evening. They were a bit of an odd couple. In that both were covered head to foot in tight black leather with more buttons than the craft section of a dollar store and they both had haircuts that……oh how do I put this? If you took a muskrat, dyed its tail a mixture of purple, orange and blue than stapled it to your head and didn’t wash it for 4 weeks. That would be the hair style the two of them had. If style is indeed the correct term. Hair state might be a better description.
But I digress. They seemed pleasant enough. Until they started talking loudly about Harold. Haroldis a mutual friend of theirs and possibly the most terrifying being currently walking the streets of our fair city. You see Haroldis several things. First of all, he is…promiscuous to say the least. Second of all, he’s bisexual and has remarkably low standards. Third of all, he is in his 40-50s and spends his evenings trying to pick up anything in bars. Finally, he works as a clown for children’s parties.
So basically he’s a middle aged bisexual clown slut. <shudder>. The rest of you should count yourself lucky, for your mental image of Harold shall end right there. As I cannot in sound mind or good conscience transcribe the rest of what I heard as the these two began to regal each other with vivid tales of Harold’s sexual conquests. Incredibly vivid. I mean there was like mouth’s and clowns and all manner of extremities involved in ways that would make Dr Ruth raise an eyebrow and merely channel surfing by that woman’s show will scar you for life.
Gah, enough about Harold. I do not wish to remember Harold. I heard about Harold for far FAR too long. As the same pair singing the Ballad of Harold to one another likewise got on my Skytrain at the last minute. So I have heard so many tales of Harold that the first thing I did when I got to work was wash as much of my exposed self as possible without taking clothes off in a feeble attempt to once again feel clean.
Protip
Now, I know you two poor little lads called the wrong number. However, I am not without mercy so allow me to offer you a small piece of advice that just might help you navigate the tricky waters of your current predicament: If a cop detains you to ask you a few questions do not scream “WHAT ARE YOU ARRESTING ME FOR!?” over and over and over in his face until he finally arrests you for yelling in his face thus answering your question.
Non.
( Yes, I do speak a little French being Canadian. But not enough to understand a native speaker trying to auction off Michael Jackson's pants. )
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Oui, bonjour, <sudden rambling gush of French I cannot untangle> CIBC?”
Me: “…excuse me?”
SC: “<French auctioneer> CIBC?”
Me: “No-.”
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “Oui, ello <French tirade>”
Me: “..sorry?”
SC: “<French yet again> CIBC?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “<French without spaces or punctuation> <click>”
He answered in English, he’s replying in English, clearly he must speak perfect French! Of course. I mean, it’s so obvious what with me only speaking English and what not. I do admire your persistence though. If at first you don’t succeed try, try, try, try, try, try again until everyone else involved is looking at you like you’re trying to lick your elbow.
Again?
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Oui, bonjour <French rambling>”
Me: “I don’t speak French.”
SC: “You don’t speak French!??”
Me: “No.”
SC: “I’m trying to call CIBC Visa.”
Me: “This is <company>.”
SC: “What?!”
Me: “You have the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh.”
See, if you weren’t so bloody dense to begin with, we could have had this remarkably stupid conversation the first time you called. Instead of having two remarkably stupid conversations back to back in some sort of thick skulled double header. Though I particularly love how I had to point out I don’t speak French despite the multiple attempts you made to speak to me in French the first time and having me answer in English each time. Never mind the fact I answered the line in English and answered it as a totally different company than the one you were looking for.
Jesus!
Me: “Good evening, <company> emergency line."
SC" “Hello”
Me: “Hi”
SC: “I’d like to leave a message for <mumble chew>. Responding to <grumble>.”
Me: “You’re what sorry?”
SC: “My number is xxx-xxx-“
Me: “Who were you calling for again, sorry?”
SC: “I want to leave a message!”
Me: “For whom?”
SC: “OH FUCK YOU! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO ANSWER A PHONE YOU ASSHOLE!!! <click>”
!? Whoa, dude. Where the hell did that come from? Geez. I’m not exactly an expert but I can surmise that perhaps you just have a few tiny issues you might want to work out with a therapist before you attempt basic human interaction again. I simply didn’t quite hear what you said, that’s no reason to go all frothing monkey whomp on me. I mean you are calling an emergency line at 2am on a Sunday so you’ll pardon me when I’m taken a bit off guard that rather than having an emergency you claim to be responding to some sort of ad in the dead of night.
Normally when people respond to classifieds at this hour they’re looking for a “masseuse”.
annnnd rest.....for now.
I'm not making that thread title up either. God help me.
Behold My Power
( Our systems can pull a city based on postal code. -.- )
Me: “Alright, and your postal code please?”
SC: “XXX XXX”
Me: “Alright, in Brockten, correct?”
SC: “Yes.”
Me: “Alr-“
SC: “That’s Brockten with an E-N”
Me: “…yes.”
I love this. Because it means she actually thought I guessed the town based on her postal code alone. I mean I’m good, but I’m not that good. Still, it would be a shame to shatter the illusion and disappoint her so I’m not about to point out otherwise. Let her go on seeing me as some sort of omni-sentient telecom demigod. I mean it’s not that far from the truth, right?
…….right? Guys? Hey, where are you going?
Safety Procedures
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi, are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “How are you?!”
Me: “Pretty good, are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “I'm good too!"
Me: "Yes, are you calling to place an order?"
SC: "Yes!"
I’m pretty sure she understood the question. It’s just that it was going in one ear, whistling straight through the cavernous interior of her mind and then weakly trickling out the other ear like a stale taco fart. This seems to be an all too common problem for many of our callers. Especially in the later hours of the evening. However, I am nothing if not proactive about offering the best possible service to our customers.
So me and my team of crack scientists and doctor’s ( Ok, me and my cat…and technically she was asleep ) have worked long and hard to devise a treatment for this condition to enable these people to live relatively normal, if dim, lives in the modern world. It’s actually rather simple and I’m confident even the dullest piece of semi-mobile furniture amongst them will be able to apply it.
So follow along with me here, Suzanne. This is what I want you to do: Take your free hand. That’s the one that’s not holding the phone receiver, not the one that doesn’t have a price tag on it that you picked off a bag of Gummi Bears at 7/11 this morning, and lift it up above your shoulder till your hand is next to your head. Now, take one finger and carefully stuff it in your ear. But not too far. Just enough to create a seal. No, not that kind of seal. A pressure seal…..pressure, you know, like….oh nevermind. Just jam it in your ear. Ok, good, good, now hold it there for as long as you talk on the phone. Viola! That should plug the leak and hopefully allow you to operate on at least a half way basic level while speaking on the telephone.
Do You Need A Minute?
SC: “Hold on….still got you on speaker phone. Gotta get you off of it.”
Me: “Alright”
SC: “………what the hell…….uh…..sorry about that. I thought it was a lot easier to do….………what the hell?! Uh…..I don’t know why……”
Do you and the phone need a minute together? Because I can go get a Coke or something and give you some alone time to work this out. It sounds like you have a few relationship issues you need to work on as a couple. But don’t worry, you may not get along but I can tell you love each other very much. This can work as long as both of you are willing and able to put in the time and effort to make it work.
Go on, you can at least give it a try. For the children’s sake.
Followers of an Elder God
I saw a most peculiar lad this evening…..most peculiar indeed. I didn’t detect anything odd at first. My gaze passed over his simple, hunkered form. It was not until he reached the escalator ahead of me, and it elevated his legs to my eye level that I detected something amiss as stared directly into what I can only describe some sort of pantaloon holocaust. He had a pair of shorts on, but he had cut off one leg of them. So they were half short shorts. Sort of like he only had 2/3’s a cup of short. Sticking out of his shorts were a pair of ratty plaid boxers. They served to fill in as a sort of crutch for the missing 1/3rd but at the same time were long enough to protrude from the undamaged pant leg as well.
But it did not end there. Under the boxers he was wearing a skin tight leopard print leotard. Which he was wisely wearing over his socks. So he has boxers under the shorts over the leotard over his socks. I do not know what strange, elder gods would demand such bizarre combination or layering. But they must be rather powerful to inspire such devotion, or perhaps fear, in this poor lad.
We Care
Me: “Hi, it’s your afterhours service here-"
On Call Tech: “Oh, hi.”
Me: “I just have a call for you.”
On Call Tech: “Oh, you have a call for me?”
No, I just phoned you at 2 in the morning to see how you were doing. Just a little extra client care protocol. Every night we just randomly pick one of our clients and start dialing their personal numbers to see if they actually answer or not. Just to see how you’re doing. How’s life going? Everything good? How are the kids? Are you getting along ok with your wife? Do you need someone to talk to? We can listen. Have a drinking problem? We can help. Is it 2 am and you’re trying to get a group together for an Uldaman run but there’s no healer’s LFG? We can log on our level 40 Priest. That’s what we do here at <company> We care. A lot.
We care so much about our clients you’ll need a restraining order to cancel your account.
There Goes 7 Minutes Of My Life
( Reference: Status card's allow First Nations/native American people in Canada to make tax free purchases. )
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “…hello?”
Me: “Hi, are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “HELLO!?”
Me: “Hi, are you calling to place an order?
SC: “Yeah.”
….I have a bad feeling about this. Like the office just got dimmed a little.
Me: “Alright, which catalog are you ordering from?”
SC: “I’m ORDER. Da black shoes”
Me: “Alright, but which catalog is it in?”
SC: “Page 7”
Me: “Yes, but which catalog do you have? Is-”
SC: “<postal code>”
Me: “…wh-…ok, but which catalog is it in?”
SC: “<town>”
Me: “……..alright, but which catalog do you have there? Is it s-”
SC: “Page 7. Imma give you number.”
Me: “Alright, but I need to know which catalog you’re ordering from-“
SC: “Huh?”
Me: “Which catalog do you have there? Is it the summer catalog? Fall?”
SC: “Page 7.”
Me: “……yes, but which catalog is it in?”
SC: “Uh, Summer catalog.”
Sweet mercy of Vishnu with Triskets and a side of squeezie cheese. That’s 8, 8 times ( Ah ah ah! ) I had to ask you the same question to try and mine an answer out from beneath the dense, rocky crust of your dim consciousness. It was a remarkably simple question that even the most docile of farm animals likely could have mastered by the 3rd or 4th attempt. But no you. Oh no. Screw Bessie, you’re going for the gold on this one.
SC: “Um, da, um, da. Black….short. Uh. E Black.”
Me: “Alright, what’s the item number please?”
SC: “ID? Uh, status ID card?”
Me: “No, what’s the number of the item?”
No, I don’t need your status card number dammit. Please answer my questions in the order I am presenting them. This will make a hell of a lot more sense that way and go much faster.
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “Uh……BEE……uh……E”
…..I don’t even….what….
SC: “HOW MUCH!?”
Me: “Is that everything?”
SC: "IMMA GIVE YOU MY STATUS”
Me: “Alright, but I need your name first.”
SC: “<name>.”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “I GIVE YOU STATUS CARD NUMBER”
Me: “Alright, but I need to-“
SC: “IMMA MY STATUS NUMBER”
Me: “Before that I need to get the rest of your information first-“
SC: “My status number!?”
Me: “No, I need to get the rest of your information first, alright?”
SC: “Ok”
I DO NOT NEED YOUR STATUS NUMBER YET. Relax. Calm down. Put the card down and back away from it. Leave it until I actually ask for it than you may gleefully paw it off the table stick it in your mouth for a minute or whatever you feel you need to, than read it back to me. Ok? Got it? Are we good?
Me: “Alright, I may I have your phone number please?”
SC: “uh……….11114.”
Me: “What?”
SC: “3334”
Me: “3334?”
SC: “729.”
Me: “…..I-“
SC: “My box number is xxx”
Me: “I need the whole phone number please?”
SC: “2224.”
Me: “W-“
SC: “3134”
Me: “Ok, what is the full number from the beginning?”
SC: “I already give you my number.”
Me: “Can you please repeat the full phone number including area code?”
SC: “Ma box number?”
Me: “No, your phone number please?”
SC: “I already give you number!!!”
Me: “I’m afraid I didn’t catch it, you only gave bits and pieces.”
SC: “xxx-xxxx”
Me: “Alright, and the area code?”
SC: “Postal code?”
Me: “No, I need the area code please.”
SC: “<postal code>”
Me: “No the area code-“
SC: “I don’t have an area code”
Me: “There must be an area code for the phone number-“
SC: "I dun know. I give you my status number!”
Me: “We need an area code for the phone number to place an o-“
SC: “xxx-xxx-xxxx!"
I am having some rather acute difficulty finding any words in my vocabulary that can actually contain the…feelings….I have radiating relentlessly toward you at this moment. The words to describe them have not yet been invented as no one in this world has ever had this level of throbbing disdain for another living creature before this point. Perhaps at some point in the distant future humankind will finally have the necessity to invent such words after it has spent a century slaving away in the salt mines under the cruel lash of the Galdorexian Space Empire. When that happens, I will be sure to call you back to inform you. Immediately.
Me: “Alright, and your status card number?”
SC: “My card number? I dun have any.”
If it was possible to inflict physical damage with the word "FUCKCOW" you'd have just lost everything below the knees.
Me: “No, your status card number?”
SC: “Oh, uuhhhh......11111114511112412415123. Ya got it?!”
Me: “No, can you repeat it please?”
SC: “11111145 GOT IT?"”
Me: “R-"
SC: “No!! 22111165!”
Me: “Ok, so-"
SC: “GOT IT??!”
Me: “So 22111165!?”
SC: “YEAH!”
I demand the 7 minutes of my life back that you have so cruelly robbed me of. Neither I nor any other living creature should have to suffer such cruelty at the hands of your simple intellect. Please consider sewing all of your garments from tarps, sleep bags and any errant creature or relative you manage to kill from this point onward. Do not touch the phone. Ever. Again.
This Is Why I Hate You
You know how on the old old old decrepit Skytrain’s there’s 2 single seats under the window at each end of the train? But than one single sideways seat directly in front of the first single seat under the window? You know, the Awkward Seat™? The one that doesn’t have enough room between the front of the seat by the window and the side of the seat? Yeah, that seat. I hate everyone that seats in that seat. Yes, everyone.
I will tolerate it if I’m sitting in the seat under the window and someone sits in that seat in front of me when there’s no other free seats on the Skytrain. But if EVERY other seat is free and you sit there? Then I honestly hope you’re set upon by rabid animals at your earliest possible convenience. Yes, I’m talking to you musty old leather jacket NASCAR fan guy. EVERY other seat around me was empty. Every. Last. One. Yet you chose to sit in the Awkward Seat directly in front of me where you’re practically sitting in my lap? WHY? I cannot cram my pelvis backwards into my seat any further to give even the slightest clearance between my knees and your uncomfortably warm thighs. Nor do I claim membership in the Fantastic Four, thus I am unable to shorten the lengths of my femurs at will.
To make matters worse you flumped down and immediately spread your legs open like you were waiting for a ship to dock. Thus wedging your creepy warm thighs into my knees even harder. Trapping me in a situation where my very skeletal structure allowed me no avenue of escape from your weird touchy feely skeeviness. You than whipped out a cell phone and pretended to call people like you didn’t realize you were feeling up my kneecaps. But you didn’t talk to anyone. I did my best to ignore you. I really did. I cling desperately to the door frame of my happy place but my strength eventually eroded and I was dragged to the forefront of my mind along with the thought “OH DEAR GOD WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME. YOU SMELL LIKE OLD SOCKS.”.
My terror continued all the way to Stadium. Not even Broadway was able to free me from your…….icky.
Wanker
Frank once again called in the middle of the night to complain that the last message he left in the middle of the night was not heeded. I think he was expecting to continue his one sided love affair with Coworker, but Coworker is not in this evening so he was cruelly disappointed and had to settle for me. Unfortunately, I was unable to mend nor even sooth his broken heart. Oh we went through the motions alright. The machines are loud, he has to sleep on the couch, nothing was done about his last message, etc etc. But it all just a farce. A routine without any love nor meaning. I’m simply no substitute for the true object of his desire.
Though oddly he did slip and call me "Barry" at one point......I think he might be cheating on Coworker.
...Right?
Me: “Alright, and your last name please?”
SC: “Rakwarrhe"
Me: “How do you spell it please?”
SC: “…..Rakwarrhe”
Alright, look. At some point you’re going to have to learn how to spell your own name as well as speak it. Especially if it sounds like Wookie.
I Wonder Why
SC: “Yeah I’m trying to reach my father-in-law but for some reason he has his cell forwarded to YOU”
I would surmise that’s because its 4am and he has a son in law in Toronto with utterly no concept of time zones.
What Do You Think?
Me: “Good morning, thank you for calling <company>. Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Hello.”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “Do you speak English?”
No, mainly just Wookie.
Shrek
But enough about my misery. I must once again relay tales of the sights I’ve seen on my way here. Because the entertainment value of public transit is only magnified by weekends.
The first encounter this evening was just as I stepped off the bus at the Skytrain station. A small pack of scalliwags were causing a ruckus….ironically at the stop where my bus picks up. ( See? My bus is cursed. ). I’m not precisely sure what it was over. But it was quite heated and two of what appeared to be Homeboyz™ were threatening to do various things to one another that indicated a rumble was about to occur. Much swearing, pushing and flashing of rap video poses was occurring between the two in some sort of bizarre male dominance ritual while their friends attempted to keep them separate.
As I walked by them I noticed something approaching from the corner of my eye. Something vast and white like a looming iceberg in the Atlantic. Alarmed, I turned to confront this behemoth only to discover it was a Skytrain attendant and the vast expanse of white was merely his shirt. But this was no ordinary Skytrain attendant. Oh no. This man was massive. He was easily near as wide as I am tall and there was no visible neck. Just a singular hill shaped mass with 2 dark beady eyes and a walkie talkie. I have absolutely no idea where he came from so I can only assume he lives under a nearby bridge or is kept in some sort of pit and only released when nearby patrons become uppity.
I didn’t see his partner either, but I assume that was because he only emerged long enough to hurl a packet of steak sauce at the perpetrators than fled behind a bus.
Anyhow, this lumbering ogre like creature waddled up speed and crashed into the lot of them. Dividing them down the center and trapping both parties on either side of his vast expanse. One of the guy’s backed off immediately upon seeing the creature he must face. The other guy continued to trash talk and flay. But his arms simply weren’t long enough to actually manage to reach over or around the massive troll like creature before him. Yet there was no way he was going to get over Shrek without rope and climbing spikes.
I think even the persistent one soon realized what sort of beast he faced since the shouting died down rather abruptly after a minute or so. But this could likewise be because he had been suddenly and cruelly devoured. I’m not sure, by than I had reached the platform and I was too fearful to look back. Lest the beast’s beady little eyes should meet mine and mistakenly believe I was challenging him for his territory.
Wanker
Frank called again this evening at 3am to complain that his previous message which he left at 3am complaining that his previous message at 2am had gone unheeded has gone unheeded. He then proceeded to skeet shoot from a glass house by requesting I leave a message referring our client's staff as “retards”.
Protip
If you wish to get a mortgage on your new house, perhaps you shouldn’t leave it till 3:30am on a Sunday 6 hours before you board a plane to leave the country. Just a thought.
What? WHAT?
During an information gathering attempt, it became apparent my caller was neigh deaf and she wisely decided to tag out to her husband. Who was able to hear me just fine. All was fine and dandy until this….this travesty was hurdled my way:
Me: “Alright, thank you for calling than and a company rep will contact you as soon as possible”
Husband: “Great, thank you. Bye.”
Wife: “I could NOT hear him.”
Husband: “Well, he IS American. <click>”
!!!! You take that back right this instant mister. I’m just as Canadian as you are, if not more so. Maple syrup practically surges through my veins around the playoff hockey puck they used to replace one of my kidneys after that beaver attacked me while I was canoeing the across Hudson’s Bay on my way to a curling game. Just because I’m not in the Maritimes like you and don’t have an accent like an Australian crab catcher doesn’t mean I’m not Canadian.
Is it because I moved west? Is that it? You know I’m one of you, but I’ve betrayed the tribe by daring to drive further west than New Brunswick? So now you must look down upon me with disdain?
Oh, Well Than
Me: “Alright, is it urgent?”
SC: “No, but it’s annoying.”
I’m not sure that counts. But hey, if you want to shell out $300 in overtime rates because the faucet on the kitchen sink is dripping too loudly, by all means. Knock yourself out. I’m sure the on call will be thrilled to make $300 or so off of turning a wrench 2cm’s. I mean if it’s going to cost you that much anyway, you should probably at least try to make this worth your while. At least ask him if he could pick up a 2 litre of Dr Pepper and some Fruit Loops for you on his way in.
Oh Wow, I Remember You
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: "I’M PHONING TO SAY ONE THING: MY NAME IS NOT VIOLENT”
Me: “………!?”
SC: “That is not my name! I don’t respond to someone that denies saying that to me! My name is not Violent! I am not the perpetrator!”
Ooooh, wait, I recognize you. You’re that lunatic that use to call and rant on at length about unspecified forces that may or may not be completely imaginary calling you bad names and accusing you of unspecified possibly imaginary crimes. Wow, long time no suffer. It's been what? A year? How ya been? Did they just let you out or something? Are you really allowed to be near a phone again?
Me: “Is there something I can help you with?”
SC: “Yes! You can help me by just listening to what I’m saying!!”
Unless my earlobes are suddenly capable of dispensing Paxil I highly doubt that.
Oh God, Not Clowns
This week seems to be a cavalcade of weirdness outside. Tonight was no exception.
I shall attempt to speak only briefly of encounter this evening.. For I never want to think about it ever again, but at the same time feel that sharing it with others will lessen my pain somewhat. It is a simplistic, but terrifying tale really.
I was simply waiting for my bus, along with two others this evening. They were a bit of an odd couple. In that both were covered head to foot in tight black leather with more buttons than the craft section of a dollar store and they both had haircuts that……oh how do I put this? If you took a muskrat, dyed its tail a mixture of purple, orange and blue than stapled it to your head and didn’t wash it for 4 weeks. That would be the hair style the two of them had. If style is indeed the correct term. Hair state might be a better description.
But I digress. They seemed pleasant enough. Until they started talking loudly about Harold. Haroldis a mutual friend of theirs and possibly the most terrifying being currently walking the streets of our fair city. You see Haroldis several things. First of all, he is…promiscuous to say the least. Second of all, he’s bisexual and has remarkably low standards. Third of all, he is in his 40-50s and spends his evenings trying to pick up anything in bars. Finally, he works as a clown for children’s parties.
So basically he’s a middle aged bisexual clown slut. <shudder>. The rest of you should count yourself lucky, for your mental image of Harold shall end right there. As I cannot in sound mind or good conscience transcribe the rest of what I heard as the these two began to regal each other with vivid tales of Harold’s sexual conquests. Incredibly vivid. I mean there was like mouth’s and clowns and all manner of extremities involved in ways that would make Dr Ruth raise an eyebrow and merely channel surfing by that woman’s show will scar you for life.
Gah, enough about Harold. I do not wish to remember Harold. I heard about Harold for far FAR too long. As the same pair singing the Ballad of Harold to one another likewise got on my Skytrain at the last minute. So I have heard so many tales of Harold that the first thing I did when I got to work was wash as much of my exposed self as possible without taking clothes off in a feeble attempt to once again feel clean.
Protip
Now, I know you two poor little lads called the wrong number. However, I am not without mercy so allow me to offer you a small piece of advice that just might help you navigate the tricky waters of your current predicament: If a cop detains you to ask you a few questions do not scream “WHAT ARE YOU ARRESTING ME FOR!?” over and over and over in his face until he finally arrests you for yelling in his face thus answering your question.
Non.
( Yes, I do speak a little French being Canadian. But not enough to understand a native speaker trying to auction off Michael Jackson's pants. )
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Oui, bonjour, <sudden rambling gush of French I cannot untangle> CIBC?”
Me: “…excuse me?”
SC: “<French auctioneer> CIBC?”
Me: “No-.”
SC: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi.”
SC: “Oui, ello <French tirade>”
Me: “..sorry?”
SC: “<French yet again> CIBC?”
Me: “No.”
SC: “<French without spaces or punctuation> <click>”
He answered in English, he’s replying in English, clearly he must speak perfect French! Of course. I mean, it’s so obvious what with me only speaking English and what not. I do admire your persistence though. If at first you don’t succeed try, try, try, try, try, try again until everyone else involved is looking at you like you’re trying to lick your elbow.
Again?
Me: “Good evening, <company>”
SC: “Oui, bonjour <French rambling>”
Me: “I don’t speak French.”
SC: “You don’t speak French!??”
Me: “No.”
SC: “I’m trying to call CIBC Visa.”
Me: “This is <company>.”
SC: “What?!”
Me: “You have the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh.”
See, if you weren’t so bloody dense to begin with, we could have had this remarkably stupid conversation the first time you called. Instead of having two remarkably stupid conversations back to back in some sort of thick skulled double header. Though I particularly love how I had to point out I don’t speak French despite the multiple attempts you made to speak to me in French the first time and having me answer in English each time. Never mind the fact I answered the line in English and answered it as a totally different company than the one you were looking for.
Jesus!
Me: “Good evening, <company> emergency line."
SC" “Hello”
Me: “Hi”
SC: “I’d like to leave a message for <mumble chew>. Responding to <grumble>.”
Me: “You’re what sorry?”
SC: “My number is xxx-xxx-“
Me: “Who were you calling for again, sorry?”
SC: “I want to leave a message!”
Me: “For whom?”
SC: “OH FUCK YOU! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO ANSWER A PHONE YOU ASSHOLE!!! <click>”
!? Whoa, dude. Where the hell did that come from? Geez. I’m not exactly an expert but I can surmise that perhaps you just have a few tiny issues you might want to work out with a therapist before you attempt basic human interaction again. I simply didn’t quite hear what you said, that’s no reason to go all frothing monkey whomp on me. I mean you are calling an emergency line at 2am on a Sunday so you’ll pardon me when I’m taken a bit off guard that rather than having an emergency you claim to be responding to some sort of ad in the dead of night.
Normally when people respond to classifieds at this hour they’re looking for a “masseuse”.
annnnd rest.....for now.
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