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Wherein I Am Physically Molested. Again.
I know, I'm late. I fell asleep. >.>
The Pagemaster
Me: “And which catalog will you be ordering from?”
SC: “Uh, I dunno…..I only have one torn out page.”
I would mock you for this, but I sense that there is some deeply moving story behind this all. A personal journey of triumph and sorrow that has all led up to this very moment and it would be cruel of me to cheapen it with my normal snide mockery. Who am I to mock the very story of your life: Growing up cold, alone and completely pantless in the unforgiving Canadian arctic. Having to hunt for your own food. Build your own shelter. All the while staving off murderous sea lions ( Are there sea lions up there? I don’t know. Everything is snow and misery. ) and polar bears. All the while without a shred of fabric covering you below the waist to protect your jibbles from the cruel northern winds.
All you ever wanted was pants and indeed you heard the tales. Of the strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for go-…..wait, no, wrong story. Of the rumoured picture book full of wondrous items that could warm both skull and jibbles alike. That all one had to do was find some sort of strange artifact that speaks when you poke it with your fingers and then read aloud the magic words within this mystic tomb. Then weeks later, these items would arrive as if by magic on the unflapping wings of a mighty iron bird.
Then one day, just by happenstance, you spotted such a bird only it was hurdling towards the ground. Engulfed in flames. Probably with some sort of sea lion or something clinging viciously to the wing ( Again, I cannot back this up with facts, but I have seen sea lions and I am confident they could bring down a plane if launched to a sufficient altitude ). After the great iron bird crashed to the ground you carefully, full of terror, approached the mangled corpse and low and behold, there was the tome. Strewn about amongst the wreckage and other fiery bits of sea lion. But the tome had been badly damaged in the crash. All you could salvage was one page. One page. And this page had pants on it.
In that single, glorious moment the twinkling light of hope must have finally cast a sliver ray into your black soul. So now, here we are. At this impasse. The greatest moment in your entire life. You clinging to a mildly singed page from the Spring catalog and me listening with feigned interest using my Caring Voice™. But I will not begrudge you your victory. Not after you have come this far.
We shall get you your pants, my friend, and your jibbles shall be cold no more.
Technobabble
SC: “I was doing a reset on the not exactly sure what’s called and-“
Easy there, Egghead. I’m not some sort of fancy pants astrophysicist that knows all your crazy science speak words. Give it to me again, but this time dial down the poindexter meter a few notches so us normal people can hear.
Long, Long Ago
Me: “And your name please?”
SC: “R277”
I assume the rest of your problem will be conveyed via tiny holographic princess?
The Hunt
Me: “Would you like me to page a technician for you?”
SC: “Oh yes, yep.”
Me: “Al-“
SC: “Not good enough.”
Me: “May-“
SC: “yesterday morning I called n’ he said he was still working on it!”
Me: “Al-“
SC: “That was fine.”
Me: “Wh-“
SC: “ARE YOU STILL THERE?!”
I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to tell at this point. Some scattered witness accounts do suggest such a thing and there is some fleeting background noise that to the untrained ear might suggest the presence of another human being in this call. But so far a protracted scientific study using the latest technology available has thus far been unable to confirm the presence of a second participant in this conversation. The leader of the expedition, one Dr J. Kaiser, has assured they will continue their efforts and requested that anyone interested in the project contact the university and show their support in the hopes the university will provide continued funding for the project.
A full length documentary entitled Where is GK: The Hunt For A Complete Sentence, will air on the BBC this fall and follow the teams journey on this treacherous expedition. A boxed DVD set will be available for the holiday season.
BAD TOUCH
Of course no Friday night Skytrain trip is complete without a drunken old man with a beret, who was at least 60+ years old, coming on to every teenage girl that got on the Skytrain. Specifically teenagers too. He showed utterly no interest in any female above the visible age of 16. But anyone beneath that marker was subject to a drunkenly slurred “Oh ma God, yers shore BEAUTIFAL! I LOVE YOU!”. Just for the maximum ick factor as it were. I think he may have attempted to grope one pair in particular. But a total lack of coordination and balance kept him firmly in his seat. So he could only sort of slovenly gesture towards them with his foot and make disturbing sucking noises.
Around 29th Ave, the last terrified underage girl fled the train, leaving him with no further objects of lust. At this point he changed seats to the one in front of me which was where the last two girls had been. Or rather, he lunged towards the seats in front of me and sort of flopped into a pile on them. I assume in some sort of attempt to absorb their delicious residual butt warmth.
At this point, a woman also boarded who I assume immediately decided I was lonely and needed love. Or a lap dance. Thus she sat down directly next to me and snuggled up so close I had to slide my thigh out from under her ass to free myself from initial landing. So now I have drunken beret molester sitting right in front of me, and some sort of desperate cuddletart beside me that has no concept of personal space. I was utterly trapped. The Beret Molester continued to make various sounds of random triumph, jubilation and then anguish for no apparent reason I could see. At one point he turned around and stared me straight in the eyes. Then looked at the woman beside me, then back at me again. Then gave me a look as if to say even he thought it was inappropriate of her.
So I got to ride all the way downtown with some strange woman pressed up against me so hard that even a drunken pervert that hits on underage girls looked at her and went “Hey, come on now, that’s not cool.”.
I love this city.
Circular Suffering
Me: “Alright, and which catalog do you have?”
SC: “Uhh….2009”
….hmm…I have a strange, ominous feeling….Winter doesn’t sound that bad. Yet I cannot shake this sense of impending doom…
Me: “Alright, and the item number please?”
SC: “Uh, you mean the number for what I want?”
No, the item numbers for everything else you don’t want. Rather then the direct approach we prefer an hour or two spent with the process of elimination to determine what callers want. Sure it takes a while, and it’s a pain in the ass. But hey, let’s face it. It’s not like you have anything better to do and this is probably the most human companionship you’ll get all week.
SC: “Do I have to tell you the page number?”
Me: “No, just the item number.”
SC: “Ok, it’s page B-“
Right, just let me stop you there for a moment. Clearly my response tripped and fell into the dark trench of your intellect and even if it had made it across that desolate no man’s land, B is not a number. Perhaps you mean 8. I know they look somewhat similar, but I assure you they are entirely different beasts. Perhaps there is somewhat I can convey the difference to you in a way that might be easier to grasp based on your personal experiences…..hmmm…alright. See, a B is just an 8 that got drunk and is now being propped up against a wall by the arresting officer.
SC: “It’s xxxx”
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “Ders one other hat I need….”
Note the structure of this sentence. It sounds simple on the surface, but within that simplicity lays several clues to the desperate psychology of a lonely man. Not only does he require multiple hats, but he has specifically stated that he needs them rather then wants them. They are an integral part of his being and perhaps all that truly defines his personality. Each hat represents a different mood and he is only capable of assuming that guise towards the outside world when he is wearing the corresponding hat.
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “I’m afraid I don’t have that one.”
SC: “Oh…uh…alright, how about xxxx”
Me: “Hmm, nope, afraid not. It’s an older catalog so I may not have every item still. Was there anything else?”
And this was the beginning of the end.
What followed was the journey of one broken, desperate man clinging to the only thing makes him feel whole. Yet failing over and over and over again to grasp onto his salvation. For the next 10 minutes I sat here running hat after hat after hat after hat after HAT through my catalog and each time, there was no hat to be had. Desperate, he stopped selecting hats and simply began ( by his own shameful admission ) to just give me the item number of every hat in the catalog one after another ( Turn's out the 2009 catalog had 24 of them ). Till finally, finally, he ran out of pages and hats. At which point he uttered a statement so tragically stupid that I leapt back trying to make sure none of it got on me.
SC: “Lemme try this one again. Xxxx”
Yes, that’s right. After going through every hat in the catalog for 10 minutes his solution was to simply start over again and hope that somehow the hats had been magically restocked over the last 10 minutes. So maybe this time I would actually have them. At this point I was ashamed for him and could do little more then step back and avert my eyes from the human tragedy unfolding before me.
Unwise
SC: “Yeah, I’m at <address> and I need a cab.”
Me: “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh, well f**k you then!”
I question the wisdom of phoning random strangers from a number that comes up on caller ID, telling them your exact location and then proceeding to insult them before hanging up. It doesn’t seem the wisest course of action. You’re lucky that I, like the mighty Minotaur, am currently trapped in a Labyrinth from which I cannot escape and will never see the light of day. Else I would depart my location, travel to yours and inform you face to face that you are in fact, a doodyhead.
Really Really?
SC: “I’m locked out of my suite, I forgot my keys. Can you page security?”
Me: “I’m sorry, I’m afraid the security guard doesn’t carry keys to the suites.”
SC: “Oh, are you sure?”
Me: “Yes, I actually just spoke with the guard not too long ago when another tenant was locked out.”
SC: “Oh….are you really really sure?”
Me: "Yes."
SC: ".....really?"
Yes, I’m really really really sure. What sort of question is that? I just told you I was absolutely sure and even provided evidence to back up my claim. Yet still, still you persist. Why do you struggle against reality? Reality is going to win every time. It’s rather stubborn that way.
Sometimes Wishes Do Come True
Me: “Good evening, thank you for calli-“
SC: “JESUS F**KING CHRIST, MARK-“
Me: “Excuse me?”
SC: “<sound of apes grappling and thrashing about the room>”
Me: “……..”
SC: “…..yeah- <things being smashed in the background> can I place an order?”
…….you sure? Do you want me to give you a few minutes to finish up with the drunken inbred family brawl going on there? I can wait, it’s no problem. It’s extremely rare that one of my work fantasies is fulfilled and I get to listen to a caller actually being beaten. No really, take all the time you need. Just do me a favour and set the phone down so its pointing in your guy’s direction, ok? Great, thanks.
I guess that sounds kind of mean, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be cruel, heartless and sadistic. My apologies. But seriously, point the phone towards you.
annnnd rest.
The Pagemaster
Me: “And which catalog will you be ordering from?”
SC: “Uh, I dunno…..I only have one torn out page.”
I would mock you for this, but I sense that there is some deeply moving story behind this all. A personal journey of triumph and sorrow that has all led up to this very moment and it would be cruel of me to cheapen it with my normal snide mockery. Who am I to mock the very story of your life: Growing up cold, alone and completely pantless in the unforgiving Canadian arctic. Having to hunt for your own food. Build your own shelter. All the while staving off murderous sea lions ( Are there sea lions up there? I don’t know. Everything is snow and misery. ) and polar bears. All the while without a shred of fabric covering you below the waist to protect your jibbles from the cruel northern winds.
All you ever wanted was pants and indeed you heard the tales. Of the strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for go-…..wait, no, wrong story. Of the rumoured picture book full of wondrous items that could warm both skull and jibbles alike. That all one had to do was find some sort of strange artifact that speaks when you poke it with your fingers and then read aloud the magic words within this mystic tomb. Then weeks later, these items would arrive as if by magic on the unflapping wings of a mighty iron bird.
Then one day, just by happenstance, you spotted such a bird only it was hurdling towards the ground. Engulfed in flames. Probably with some sort of sea lion or something clinging viciously to the wing ( Again, I cannot back this up with facts, but I have seen sea lions and I am confident they could bring down a plane if launched to a sufficient altitude ). After the great iron bird crashed to the ground you carefully, full of terror, approached the mangled corpse and low and behold, there was the tome. Strewn about amongst the wreckage and other fiery bits of sea lion. But the tome had been badly damaged in the crash. All you could salvage was one page. One page. And this page had pants on it.
In that single, glorious moment the twinkling light of hope must have finally cast a sliver ray into your black soul. So now, here we are. At this impasse. The greatest moment in your entire life. You clinging to a mildly singed page from the Spring catalog and me listening with feigned interest using my Caring Voice™. But I will not begrudge you your victory. Not after you have come this far.
We shall get you your pants, my friend, and your jibbles shall be cold no more.
Technobabble
SC: “I was doing a reset on the not exactly sure what’s called and-“
Easy there, Egghead. I’m not some sort of fancy pants astrophysicist that knows all your crazy science speak words. Give it to me again, but this time dial down the poindexter meter a few notches so us normal people can hear.
Long, Long Ago
Me: “And your name please?”
SC: “R277”
I assume the rest of your problem will be conveyed via tiny holographic princess?
The Hunt
Me: “Would you like me to page a technician for you?”
SC: “Oh yes, yep.”
Me: “Al-“
SC: “Not good enough.”
Me: “May-“
SC: “yesterday morning I called n’ he said he was still working on it!”
Me: “Al-“
SC: “That was fine.”
Me: “Wh-“
SC: “ARE YOU STILL THERE?!”
I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to tell at this point. Some scattered witness accounts do suggest such a thing and there is some fleeting background noise that to the untrained ear might suggest the presence of another human being in this call. But so far a protracted scientific study using the latest technology available has thus far been unable to confirm the presence of a second participant in this conversation. The leader of the expedition, one Dr J. Kaiser, has assured they will continue their efforts and requested that anyone interested in the project contact the university and show their support in the hopes the university will provide continued funding for the project.
A full length documentary entitled Where is GK: The Hunt For A Complete Sentence, will air on the BBC this fall and follow the teams journey on this treacherous expedition. A boxed DVD set will be available for the holiday season.
BAD TOUCH
Of course no Friday night Skytrain trip is complete without a drunken old man with a beret, who was at least 60+ years old, coming on to every teenage girl that got on the Skytrain. Specifically teenagers too. He showed utterly no interest in any female above the visible age of 16. But anyone beneath that marker was subject to a drunkenly slurred “Oh ma God, yers shore BEAUTIFAL! I LOVE YOU!”. Just for the maximum ick factor as it were. I think he may have attempted to grope one pair in particular. But a total lack of coordination and balance kept him firmly in his seat. So he could only sort of slovenly gesture towards them with his foot and make disturbing sucking noises.
Around 29th Ave, the last terrified underage girl fled the train, leaving him with no further objects of lust. At this point he changed seats to the one in front of me which was where the last two girls had been. Or rather, he lunged towards the seats in front of me and sort of flopped into a pile on them. I assume in some sort of attempt to absorb their delicious residual butt warmth.
At this point, a woman also boarded who I assume immediately decided I was lonely and needed love. Or a lap dance. Thus she sat down directly next to me and snuggled up so close I had to slide my thigh out from under her ass to free myself from initial landing. So now I have drunken beret molester sitting right in front of me, and some sort of desperate cuddletart beside me that has no concept of personal space. I was utterly trapped. The Beret Molester continued to make various sounds of random triumph, jubilation and then anguish for no apparent reason I could see. At one point he turned around and stared me straight in the eyes. Then looked at the woman beside me, then back at me again. Then gave me a look as if to say even he thought it was inappropriate of her.
So I got to ride all the way downtown with some strange woman pressed up against me so hard that even a drunken pervert that hits on underage girls looked at her and went “Hey, come on now, that’s not cool.”.
I love this city.
Circular Suffering
Me: “Alright, and which catalog do you have?”
SC: “Uhh….2009”
….hmm…I have a strange, ominous feeling….Winter doesn’t sound that bad. Yet I cannot shake this sense of impending doom…
Me: “Alright, and the item number please?”
SC: “Uh, you mean the number for what I want?”
No, the item numbers for everything else you don’t want. Rather then the direct approach we prefer an hour or two spent with the process of elimination to determine what callers want. Sure it takes a while, and it’s a pain in the ass. But hey, let’s face it. It’s not like you have anything better to do and this is probably the most human companionship you’ll get all week.
SC: “Do I have to tell you the page number?”
Me: “No, just the item number.”
SC: “Ok, it’s page B-“
Right, just let me stop you there for a moment. Clearly my response tripped and fell into the dark trench of your intellect and even if it had made it across that desolate no man’s land, B is not a number. Perhaps you mean 8. I know they look somewhat similar, but I assure you they are entirely different beasts. Perhaps there is somewhat I can convey the difference to you in a way that might be easier to grasp based on your personal experiences…..hmmm…alright. See, a B is just an 8 that got drunk and is now being propped up against a wall by the arresting officer.
SC: “It’s xxxx”
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “Ders one other hat I need….”
Note the structure of this sentence. It sounds simple on the surface, but within that simplicity lays several clues to the desperate psychology of a lonely man. Not only does he require multiple hats, but he has specifically stated that he needs them rather then wants them. They are an integral part of his being and perhaps all that truly defines his personality. Each hat represents a different mood and he is only capable of assuming that guise towards the outside world when he is wearing the corresponding hat.
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “I’m afraid I don’t have that one.”
SC: “Oh…uh…alright, how about xxxx”
Me: “Hmm, nope, afraid not. It’s an older catalog so I may not have every item still. Was there anything else?”
And this was the beginning of the end.
What followed was the journey of one broken, desperate man clinging to the only thing makes him feel whole. Yet failing over and over and over again to grasp onto his salvation. For the next 10 minutes I sat here running hat after hat after hat after hat after HAT through my catalog and each time, there was no hat to be had. Desperate, he stopped selecting hats and simply began ( by his own shameful admission ) to just give me the item number of every hat in the catalog one after another ( Turn's out the 2009 catalog had 24 of them ). Till finally, finally, he ran out of pages and hats. At which point he uttered a statement so tragically stupid that I leapt back trying to make sure none of it got on me.
SC: “Lemme try this one again. Xxxx”
Yes, that’s right. After going through every hat in the catalog for 10 minutes his solution was to simply start over again and hope that somehow the hats had been magically restocked over the last 10 minutes. So maybe this time I would actually have them. At this point I was ashamed for him and could do little more then step back and avert my eyes from the human tragedy unfolding before me.
Unwise
SC: “Yeah, I’m at <address> and I need a cab.”
Me: “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh, well f**k you then!”
I question the wisdom of phoning random strangers from a number that comes up on caller ID, telling them your exact location and then proceeding to insult them before hanging up. It doesn’t seem the wisest course of action. You’re lucky that I, like the mighty Minotaur, am currently trapped in a Labyrinth from which I cannot escape and will never see the light of day. Else I would depart my location, travel to yours and inform you face to face that you are in fact, a doodyhead.
Really Really?
SC: “I’m locked out of my suite, I forgot my keys. Can you page security?”
Me: “I’m sorry, I’m afraid the security guard doesn’t carry keys to the suites.”
SC: “Oh, are you sure?”
Me: “Yes, I actually just spoke with the guard not too long ago when another tenant was locked out.”
SC: “Oh….are you really really sure?”
Me: "Yes."
SC: ".....really?"
Yes, I’m really really really sure. What sort of question is that? I just told you I was absolutely sure and even provided evidence to back up my claim. Yet still, still you persist. Why do you struggle against reality? Reality is going to win every time. It’s rather stubborn that way.
Sometimes Wishes Do Come True
Me: “Good evening, thank you for calli-“
SC: “JESUS F**KING CHRIST, MARK-“
Me: “Excuse me?”
SC: “<sound of apes grappling and thrashing about the room>”
Me: “……..”
SC: “…..yeah- <things being smashed in the background> can I place an order?”
…….you sure? Do you want me to give you a few minutes to finish up with the drunken inbred family brawl going on there? I can wait, it’s no problem. It’s extremely rare that one of my work fantasies is fulfilled and I get to listen to a caller actually being beaten. No really, take all the time you need. Just do me a favour and set the phone down so its pointing in your guy’s direction, ok? Great, thanks.
I guess that sounds kind of mean, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be cruel, heartless and sadistic. My apologies. But seriously, point the phone towards you.
annnnd rest.
) Anyway, places to go, books to read...carry on.
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