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I Seriously Don't Even Know Anymore
Seriously. What the hell is going on out there?
Why? Who knows
Me: "Good evening, <company> How may I help you?
SC: “WHERE MY NIGGA AT?!”
Me: “…I would have absolutely no idea.”
Which I would like to point out is the official frontrunner as the understatement of 2010. It is completely beyond me why you would ask me that in any capacity. It is quite clear that you are not seeking me with that particular moniker, which means you’re asking me if I can pinpoint the location of…er….the person you are looking for. I do not possess this information and would frankly advise extreme caution if you wish to continue to use such terms totally at random towards strangers. As it does come with an inherent probability of being pummeled brutally in the street. In fact Webster’s Dictionary specifically lists it with an average of a 67% chance of a beating if used in a public space. 85% if you're painfully white like yourself.
Welcome to Canada
Wow, alright, where to start with you m’boy. Whilst our interaction was brief, there were many things said. Some of which I believe that we, as a couple, should probably sit down and examine together. So that we may explore the feelings and motivations that caused such things to leave your mouth before your brain could stop them.
SC: “I'm AMERICAN! I'm suppose to have more RIGHTS HERE!”
A curious statement. You are guaranteed certain rights of course, but assuming that you would obtain additional bonus rights for being American outside of America is rather odd. Considering what rights you are granted by default due to international treaties and standards, I do not know what more you wish to add? The right to a molest fire hydrants? The right to yogurt? Because we do have yogurt in Canada you know. We can get you yogurt. It’ll be ok. You can get through this. I’m not 100% sure on the fire hydrants. There’s probably some sort of tampering law there. But we can get you a nice fake plastic one if you like?
SC: "What kind of backwards fucking country is this?!?”
Right, ok, see this probably has something to do with why you were denied entry at the border in the first place. I realize we may not meet the, <ahem>, standards of American civilization but we are still ironically in control of our own borders. Thus, we can choose whether to grant or deny you entry into our fine lands. You’ll notice that we have taken the latter option in this case. You may wish to mediate on this for a while.
SC: “What do I have to do? Punch a cop!? Because I fucking will!”
……ok technically if you did that I would be forced to assist you in some legal capacity and you'd ironically get to remain within Canada longer. But I still would highly recommended against it. Highly. In fact perhaps you shouldn’t even look at or talk to any of the immigration officers until you’ve had 15-20 minutes of quiet time just to take a deep breath and find your happy place. You know, take some me time and embark a small journey of personal discovery. Let me know if you actually find anything. It’s not what I would call the most fertile of prospecting grounds but perhaps there’s at least some empties you can turn in.
In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about the yogurt, alright?
Danger Bay
Me: “and your name please?”
SC: “Jenny.”
Hello, Jenny. It appears you seek pants. I possess pants. Perhaps we can come to an agreement that involves 2 weeks shipping.
SC: “My son would like to make an order too.”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “His name is Denny.”
….Jenny and Denny? Might I assume the male parental unit operates under the moniker “Benny” and that there may or may not be a “Penny” somewhere within the clan? Is there some purpose to this strange naming scheme? There is no way it’s unintentional. So I must assume it has some sort of back story to it. An origin story if you will. Wait…..Benny, Jenny, Denny and Penny……a close knit family from the barren arctic lands of the Canadian north. Honed from birth to survive in one of the harshest climates on Earth. Forced to learn necessary skills to fight and survive the dangers of Nunavut lest they perish in its cruel, cold embrace.
Together, they fight crime.
Oh My God, It's Full Of Tits
I find myself having to admit weakness this evening. I had considered myself a much traveled wanderer now. An experienced vagrant who has seen and heard all this city has to offer upon public transit during the waning hours of the day. For I have spent many a year riding its rails and hopping from train to train with a can of beans and my hobo dog, Buckeye. But it seems I was overconfident. I thought I had seen and heard it all. That nothing could truly surprise me anymore regardless of what it was, how it acted or how it dressed. I had truly seen and learned of all the darkest horrors the chariots of the night could throw at me.
How wrong I was.
Upon boarding my train this evening I turned, walked to a seat, went to sit annnnnd had a bit of a mind seize as I beheld the spectacle before me and my brain struggled to reject reality. There are many things I expect on transit. Fools, idiots, drunks, crazies, piles of debris, vomit, possibly urine if it’s been a particularly celebratory evening in the city. But not this. Of all the possible topics I have mentally filed under my encounter tables for public transit, “Back of Skytrain wallpapered in disturbingly hardcore pornography” was totally absent. But, there it was. All over the back seats of the Skytrain. Strewn about over the seats and floor. As if some sort of porn grenade had been tossed through the window by a smut terrorist whose motives were not only suspect but downright creepy. It was literally everywhere and it every form. Magazines, postcards, playing cards, you name it. I walked on, turned, and was confronted by a spread eagle ocean of vagina.
Whomever this dubious villain was, they had long since fled the scene of their attack. Riding off into the night like some sort of porn bandit. El Pornito if you will. Leaving only scattered debris and tears in his wake. Amongst other completely unspeakable things I cannot actually put words too without losing my job. I don’t even know how to react to that sort of thing. I mean my work day mentally allows for a certain extent of hiccups and other oddities but “Translink Pornsplosion 2010” is not one of them.
Things of course became even worse upon arrival at Broadway. Where someone got on the train, a female none the less, and emitted a noise I can only describe as “Skweee!” before feverishly collecting this….”treasure” trove and fleeing the train with it at Stadium. An event which frankly leaves me with even more disturbing questions then the initial incident. I can’t decide which is the more settling scenario: That some random person actually got on the train and went “OMFG TITS!#” and furiously tried to grab as much of it as possible or that the random person was the intended recipient and the Skytrain was merely being used as a means to deliver the package from Surrey.
Hot Tips
SC: “Well, uh, just imagine Prince Charles like playing a part in the a movie. Playing Dumbo the elephant. Flying with his ears.”
I will admit this was pretty low on the list of things I expected to hear uttered from your spittle laden lips at this hour. Usually when you invoke the name of the Prince it leads to rather lurid theories involving picnics, serial killers and Facebook. I’m actually rather surprised. Not only did you complete a coherent, lucid thought but it was actually a jest that made sense. Albeit, a rather old jest which many, many have made long before you.
SC: “But now is the time to engage the royal family in psychological warfare and TAKE OVER THE WORLD!"
Gee Brain, what are we going to do tomorrow night?
Much Ado About Caulk
Alright, Harry. I spared you a dubious mention in my shift report yesterday only because I foolishly had some manner of sympathy for you. You’d think I would have learned by now to cull such weaknesses from my icy heart by now. But no, I had sympathy. I cared. You were having trouble with your neighbours. Whose guests kept buzzing your intercom by mistake over and over. This is grievously annoying. I actually felt a slight twinge for your misery. You mentioned you had a history with these fools and would be sending a letter <property management> documenting the times and dates of the incidents so that they could hopefully deal with the problems. I agreed this was a good course of action and actually hoped the situation would resolve well for you.
But now. Now you have gone and done this.
You called again in the late hours of the night but this time over something more trivial. I guess allowing any sort of caring to slip into my voice the first time only fed the desperate beast within you. Satiating your loneliness briefly and giving you hope for the future. Thus you have returned to ramble at length about your problems despite being fully aware of who I am and what services I can and cannot provide you at this hour.
Your problem? Caulk and Willy. No, I am not making that up and yes I will admit a small amount of juvenile amusement. It seems poor Harry is beset by cockroaches ( Yes, the hits keep coming ) but this is not due to any filth on Harry’s side of things. But rather the filthiness of a neighbouring suite from which the cockroaches are invading his suite. But the cockroaches are gaining entry because the quality of caulk in his suite is subpar so it is not barring their entry. But he can’t get the resident manager, Willy, to come in and redo the caulking. So, basically, Harry needs Willy to bring caulk to stop the cockroaches from coming. Thus creating a scenario that makes 5th graders giggle the longer you talk about it.
I was still bemused at this point until Harry returned to the topic of this letter. The one which included all of his grievances. Of which he was adding Willy too. This is where things stopped being funny and suddenly took a darker turn. Harry vowed to drop this letter off at the office himself, personally. Why you ask? Because he can’t afford to mail it. Why you ask? Because it is 27 pages long.
27 pages. 27 pages of grievances he has with the building and apparently every single person that lives in it aside from him. Heck, perhaps even him. He has 27 pages to work with after all. He could probably devote a page to every single resident in the entire building and still have enough left to document all the reasons that he himself annoys himself. Hell, it probably has a table of contents and an appendix. I’m not sure what he thinks a 27 page report is going to accomplish aside from making everyone at the office immediately dismiss him as an anal retentive asshole or a lunatic. Or both.
Oh So It's My Fault Now?
Hello again, Harry. Still having trouble I see? People are buzzing your buzzer again are they? I do believe I explained to you a couple of times previously that while I can fully document your complaints, there is little that I can physically do about them at this hour. You also have a very bad habit of continuing to mistake me for an entity of <company> when I am merely a pawn. So your extensive rambling and screaming is largely pointless as I am not actually the target of your ire and any verbal spittle you hurl at me is simply be absorbed. Any damage dealt to my person by your lunacy will heal momentarily, T-1000 style and no record nor scar of it shall remain for <company> themselves to witness. Thus this is completely futile on your behalf and I truly wish you could grasp this fact as it would make both of our lives much easier and likely reduce your blood pressure as well.
Also, I find your elaborate melodrama both bothersome and even somewhat offensive. Especially the part where you assured me that should your neighbour’s “pimp friends” kick in your door and “bust a cap” in the entirety of your family then the death of your 4 year old daughter would be solely my fault and my fault alone. Because I did not personally call the CEO of <company> right this moment at 4 in the morning to tell him that “Stacie” next door keeps committing “atrocities” against you by buzzing you from the intercom at night.
Yes, he specifically referred to them as “atrocities”.
THIS I VOW
SC: “I’ll try not to be annoying but will be persistent.”
O…kay? I can’t quite decide if that’s a threat or a pre-emptive apology. It did invoke an image of you furiously shaking one gauntleted fist towards the sky. Not that I don’t appreciate the warning, however persistence and annoyance are practically roommates. It’s pretty hard to be hanging out in their proverbial crib so to speak and not have to put up with both of them. They go hand in hand. Not in a happy cooperative sense, but more of a “chain gang” sense.
I Knew I Should Have Gotten Em Both
SC: “Da powa’s out.”
Me: “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh, well den where do I call!?”
Oh, I’m sorry I left my omni-sentience at home. Or rather I left it on the kitchen counter and the cat got to it. Batted it under the fridge on me. I don’t have omni-potence to get to it either. I know, I know, I really should have bought the 2 for 1 pack in the first place and gotten omni-potence for 50% along with omni-sentience. But I wasn’t really sure I wanted them both so I figured I’d just give omni-sentience a try then pick up omni-potence later on if omni-sentience worked out. Yeah, I can’t get the 50% off, but omnipotence came with a coupon for 10% off omni-sentience and a mail in rebate. So it’s not too bad.
Legally Incapable
Me: “And your name please?”
SC: “Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen”
…..right, ok I think I can safely ascertain you are just a tad too intoxicated to be placing orders for anything more complicated then pizza. Unless this is in fact an attempt to place an order for pizza in which case I’m afraid I really can’t help you.
Me: “Which catalog will you be ordering from?”
SC: “Hmmmmmmmmmmmummmmmmmm zeeeerrroooo seeeven fooooooour OH”
Me: “…..alright, which catalog are you looking at though?”
SC: “Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaantttttttttttt ttssssss”
Me: “……”
Ok, seriously, look. This is a common pitfall that many people encounter when they’ve ingested so much alcohol they can actually start a charcoal BBQ by spitting in it and tossing a match. Namely, you not only think you can do this, but actually believe yourself to be highly skilled at it. You know, like operating a motor vehicle or picking up women. You only think it’s working and are completely incapable of perceiving the rapidly unfolding failure before you. When all that truly awaits you is tragedy or a swift blow to the happy fun factory.
<shrug>
C: “Why doesn’t your website work?”
Can’t help ya, it’s under the fridge.
aaaaaaaaaaand rest.
Why? Who knows
Me: "Good evening, <company> How may I help you?
SC: “WHERE MY NIGGA AT?!”
Me: “…I would have absolutely no idea.”
Which I would like to point out is the official frontrunner as the understatement of 2010. It is completely beyond me why you would ask me that in any capacity. It is quite clear that you are not seeking me with that particular moniker, which means you’re asking me if I can pinpoint the location of…er….the person you are looking for. I do not possess this information and would frankly advise extreme caution if you wish to continue to use such terms totally at random towards strangers. As it does come with an inherent probability of being pummeled brutally in the street. In fact Webster’s Dictionary specifically lists it with an average of a 67% chance of a beating if used in a public space. 85% if you're painfully white like yourself.
Welcome to Canada
Wow, alright, where to start with you m’boy. Whilst our interaction was brief, there were many things said. Some of which I believe that we, as a couple, should probably sit down and examine together. So that we may explore the feelings and motivations that caused such things to leave your mouth before your brain could stop them.
SC: “I'm AMERICAN! I'm suppose to have more RIGHTS HERE!”
A curious statement. You are guaranteed certain rights of course, but assuming that you would obtain additional bonus rights for being American outside of America is rather odd. Considering what rights you are granted by default due to international treaties and standards, I do not know what more you wish to add? The right to a molest fire hydrants? The right to yogurt? Because we do have yogurt in Canada you know. We can get you yogurt. It’ll be ok. You can get through this. I’m not 100% sure on the fire hydrants. There’s probably some sort of tampering law there. But we can get you a nice fake plastic one if you like?
SC: "What kind of backwards fucking country is this?!?”
Right, ok, see this probably has something to do with why you were denied entry at the border in the first place. I realize we may not meet the, <ahem>, standards of American civilization but we are still ironically in control of our own borders. Thus, we can choose whether to grant or deny you entry into our fine lands. You’ll notice that we have taken the latter option in this case. You may wish to mediate on this for a while.
SC: “What do I have to do? Punch a cop!? Because I fucking will!”
……ok technically if you did that I would be forced to assist you in some legal capacity and you'd ironically get to remain within Canada longer. But I still would highly recommended against it. Highly. In fact perhaps you shouldn’t even look at or talk to any of the immigration officers until you’ve had 15-20 minutes of quiet time just to take a deep breath and find your happy place. You know, take some me time and embark a small journey of personal discovery. Let me know if you actually find anything. It’s not what I would call the most fertile of prospecting grounds but perhaps there’s at least some empties you can turn in.
In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about the yogurt, alright?
Danger Bay
Me: “and your name please?”
SC: “Jenny.”
Hello, Jenny. It appears you seek pants. I possess pants. Perhaps we can come to an agreement that involves 2 weeks shipping.
SC: “My son would like to make an order too.”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “His name is Denny.”
….Jenny and Denny? Might I assume the male parental unit operates under the moniker “Benny” and that there may or may not be a “Penny” somewhere within the clan? Is there some purpose to this strange naming scheme? There is no way it’s unintentional. So I must assume it has some sort of back story to it. An origin story if you will. Wait…..Benny, Jenny, Denny and Penny……a close knit family from the barren arctic lands of the Canadian north. Honed from birth to survive in one of the harshest climates on Earth. Forced to learn necessary skills to fight and survive the dangers of Nunavut lest they perish in its cruel, cold embrace.
Together, they fight crime.
Oh My God, It's Full Of Tits
I find myself having to admit weakness this evening. I had considered myself a much traveled wanderer now. An experienced vagrant who has seen and heard all this city has to offer upon public transit during the waning hours of the day. For I have spent many a year riding its rails and hopping from train to train with a can of beans and my hobo dog, Buckeye. But it seems I was overconfident. I thought I had seen and heard it all. That nothing could truly surprise me anymore regardless of what it was, how it acted or how it dressed. I had truly seen and learned of all the darkest horrors the chariots of the night could throw at me.
How wrong I was.
Upon boarding my train this evening I turned, walked to a seat, went to sit annnnnd had a bit of a mind seize as I beheld the spectacle before me and my brain struggled to reject reality. There are many things I expect on transit. Fools, idiots, drunks, crazies, piles of debris, vomit, possibly urine if it’s been a particularly celebratory evening in the city. But not this. Of all the possible topics I have mentally filed under my encounter tables for public transit, “Back of Skytrain wallpapered in disturbingly hardcore pornography” was totally absent. But, there it was. All over the back seats of the Skytrain. Strewn about over the seats and floor. As if some sort of porn grenade had been tossed through the window by a smut terrorist whose motives were not only suspect but downright creepy. It was literally everywhere and it every form. Magazines, postcards, playing cards, you name it. I walked on, turned, and was confronted by a spread eagle ocean of vagina.
Whomever this dubious villain was, they had long since fled the scene of their attack. Riding off into the night like some sort of porn bandit. El Pornito if you will. Leaving only scattered debris and tears in his wake. Amongst other completely unspeakable things I cannot actually put words too without losing my job. I don’t even know how to react to that sort of thing. I mean my work day mentally allows for a certain extent of hiccups and other oddities but “Translink Pornsplosion 2010” is not one of them.
Things of course became even worse upon arrival at Broadway. Where someone got on the train, a female none the less, and emitted a noise I can only describe as “Skweee!” before feverishly collecting this….”treasure” trove and fleeing the train with it at Stadium. An event which frankly leaves me with even more disturbing questions then the initial incident. I can’t decide which is the more settling scenario: That some random person actually got on the train and went “OMFG TITS!#” and furiously tried to grab as much of it as possible or that the random person was the intended recipient and the Skytrain was merely being used as a means to deliver the package from Surrey.
Hot Tips
SC: “Well, uh, just imagine Prince Charles like playing a part in the a movie. Playing Dumbo the elephant. Flying with his ears.”
I will admit this was pretty low on the list of things I expected to hear uttered from your spittle laden lips at this hour. Usually when you invoke the name of the Prince it leads to rather lurid theories involving picnics, serial killers and Facebook. I’m actually rather surprised. Not only did you complete a coherent, lucid thought but it was actually a jest that made sense. Albeit, a rather old jest which many, many have made long before you.
SC: “But now is the time to engage the royal family in psychological warfare and TAKE OVER THE WORLD!"
Gee Brain, what are we going to do tomorrow night?
Much Ado About Caulk
Alright, Harry. I spared you a dubious mention in my shift report yesterday only because I foolishly had some manner of sympathy for you. You’d think I would have learned by now to cull such weaknesses from my icy heart by now. But no, I had sympathy. I cared. You were having trouble with your neighbours. Whose guests kept buzzing your intercom by mistake over and over. This is grievously annoying. I actually felt a slight twinge for your misery. You mentioned you had a history with these fools and would be sending a letter <property management> documenting the times and dates of the incidents so that they could hopefully deal with the problems. I agreed this was a good course of action and actually hoped the situation would resolve well for you.
But now. Now you have gone and done this.
You called again in the late hours of the night but this time over something more trivial. I guess allowing any sort of caring to slip into my voice the first time only fed the desperate beast within you. Satiating your loneliness briefly and giving you hope for the future. Thus you have returned to ramble at length about your problems despite being fully aware of who I am and what services I can and cannot provide you at this hour.
Your problem? Caulk and Willy. No, I am not making that up and yes I will admit a small amount of juvenile amusement. It seems poor Harry is beset by cockroaches ( Yes, the hits keep coming ) but this is not due to any filth on Harry’s side of things. But rather the filthiness of a neighbouring suite from which the cockroaches are invading his suite. But the cockroaches are gaining entry because the quality of caulk in his suite is subpar so it is not barring their entry. But he can’t get the resident manager, Willy, to come in and redo the caulking. So, basically, Harry needs Willy to bring caulk to stop the cockroaches from coming. Thus creating a scenario that makes 5th graders giggle the longer you talk about it.
I was still bemused at this point until Harry returned to the topic of this letter. The one which included all of his grievances. Of which he was adding Willy too. This is where things stopped being funny and suddenly took a darker turn. Harry vowed to drop this letter off at the office himself, personally. Why you ask? Because he can’t afford to mail it. Why you ask? Because it is 27 pages long.
27 pages. 27 pages of grievances he has with the building and apparently every single person that lives in it aside from him. Heck, perhaps even him. He has 27 pages to work with after all. He could probably devote a page to every single resident in the entire building and still have enough left to document all the reasons that he himself annoys himself. Hell, it probably has a table of contents and an appendix. I’m not sure what he thinks a 27 page report is going to accomplish aside from making everyone at the office immediately dismiss him as an anal retentive asshole or a lunatic. Or both.
Oh So It's My Fault Now?
Hello again, Harry. Still having trouble I see? People are buzzing your buzzer again are they? I do believe I explained to you a couple of times previously that while I can fully document your complaints, there is little that I can physically do about them at this hour. You also have a very bad habit of continuing to mistake me for an entity of <company> when I am merely a pawn. So your extensive rambling and screaming is largely pointless as I am not actually the target of your ire and any verbal spittle you hurl at me is simply be absorbed. Any damage dealt to my person by your lunacy will heal momentarily, T-1000 style and no record nor scar of it shall remain for <company> themselves to witness. Thus this is completely futile on your behalf and I truly wish you could grasp this fact as it would make both of our lives much easier and likely reduce your blood pressure as well.
Also, I find your elaborate melodrama both bothersome and even somewhat offensive. Especially the part where you assured me that should your neighbour’s “pimp friends” kick in your door and “bust a cap” in the entirety of your family then the death of your 4 year old daughter would be solely my fault and my fault alone. Because I did not personally call the CEO of <company> right this moment at 4 in the morning to tell him that “Stacie” next door keeps committing “atrocities” against you by buzzing you from the intercom at night.
Yes, he specifically referred to them as “atrocities”.
THIS I VOW
SC: “I’ll try not to be annoying but will be persistent.”
O…kay? I can’t quite decide if that’s a threat or a pre-emptive apology. It did invoke an image of you furiously shaking one gauntleted fist towards the sky. Not that I don’t appreciate the warning, however persistence and annoyance are practically roommates. It’s pretty hard to be hanging out in their proverbial crib so to speak and not have to put up with both of them. They go hand in hand. Not in a happy cooperative sense, but more of a “chain gang” sense.
I Knew I Should Have Gotten Em Both
SC: “Da powa’s out.”
Me: “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh, well den where do I call!?”
Oh, I’m sorry I left my omni-sentience at home. Or rather I left it on the kitchen counter and the cat got to it. Batted it under the fridge on me. I don’t have omni-potence to get to it either. I know, I know, I really should have bought the 2 for 1 pack in the first place and gotten omni-potence for 50% along with omni-sentience. But I wasn’t really sure I wanted them both so I figured I’d just give omni-sentience a try then pick up omni-potence later on if omni-sentience worked out. Yeah, I can’t get the 50% off, but omnipotence came with a coupon for 10% off omni-sentience and a mail in rebate. So it’s not too bad.
Legally Incapable
Me: “And your name please?”
SC: “Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen”
…..right, ok I think I can safely ascertain you are just a tad too intoxicated to be placing orders for anything more complicated then pizza. Unless this is in fact an attempt to place an order for pizza in which case I’m afraid I really can’t help you.
Me: “Which catalog will you be ordering from?”
SC: “Hmmmmmmmmmmmummmmmmmm zeeeerrroooo seeeven fooooooour OH”
Me: “…..alright, which catalog are you looking at though?”
SC: “Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaantttttttttttt ttssssss”
Me: “……”
Ok, seriously, look. This is a common pitfall that many people encounter when they’ve ingested so much alcohol they can actually start a charcoal BBQ by spitting in it and tossing a match. Namely, you not only think you can do this, but actually believe yourself to be highly skilled at it. You know, like operating a motor vehicle or picking up women. You only think it’s working and are completely incapable of perceiving the rapidly unfolding failure before you. When all that truly awaits you is tragedy or a swift blow to the happy fun factory.
<shrug>
C: “Why doesn’t your website work?”
Can’t help ya, it’s under the fridge.
aaaaaaaaaaand rest.
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