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The Boar King
......argh. >.>
420
Every get one of those calls that just…erodes? Everything seems perfectly normal at first, but things slowly start to slip then by the time you realize something is amiss you’re already knee deep in abject lunacy? Where the caller is little more then a clever doppelganger of a normal person and it is only through prolonged interaction that you realize they are merely wearing the barest costume of sanity and you can see the zipper showing? Yes, well, this is one of those calls.
It all seemed normal at first, he sounded sober, sane and fully clothed. But then he began to guide me through his story with the promise that like some sort of bizarre legal rainbow there would be a pot ( in more then one sense ) of reason at the end which would tell me exactly what the point of him calling was. Indeed, I did find this pot. But it was not full of gold.
According to him he is an Irish citizen who is simply visiting our fine city for Happy Nacho Pot Day or whatever they called it there on 4/20. Puffapalooza? The Doritos Solstice? I don’t know. Anyhow, it is rather telling that this is the event he was in town for, but I digress. It seems he wrote an article for the Vancouver Sun about entire throngs of people undergoing mass overdoses on pot cookies and just flopping around on the ground in droves. An epidemic of an event that I think I would have heard of had it occurred. Also, I am no expert, nor even a pot head, but I imagine if you were trying to OD on pot cookies the sheer volume of Chunky Weezer Chip cookies required would kill you long before any sort of narcotic build up.
Anyhow, he had wrote this article so naturally the RCMP phoned him and threatened to kill him. Naturally. Now he needs a lawyer to…er….acutally I’m not sure why. He wasn’t under arrest and wasn’t in custody. Just under the impression local law enforcement wanted him dead for talking about pot cookies. He also did not actually seem to clearly know why either, only that he believed a lawyer could somehow protect him from a group of people that drive around in body armour with 12 gauge shotguns in their trunk.
PRAISE HOJO
SC: “How long will they take to arrive?”
Me: “About 2 weeks.”
SC: “OH THANK GOD”
…..er….yes, praise be to a supreme deity for the timely arrival of your “blush tinted iridium” sunglasses. I’m sure your complete lack of coolness without blush tinted face ovals to shield your viewports was of grave concern to Him. In fact the only thing between us and the Rapture is probably these sunglasses. In which case perhaps I should just accidently hit “cancel call” rather then putting it through lest I inadvertently bring about the end of all things.
Argh!
Me: “Alright, can you spell your name, please?”
SC: “It’s B. As in Boy.”
Me: “………..?”
SC: “………….”
Me: “Did you get that?”
SC: “Yes.”
Don’t take this the wrong way, but I probably type faster then you think. So feel free to pitch them a bit harder then that. Currently you’re operating at around one letter per minute. Which, scientifically speaking, is around the SSSP or Sustained Sesame Street Point. A measure of verbal delivery that represents the peak average rate of alphabet delivery between Elmo, Grover and Big Bird. Whom all require an average pause of 9.6 seconds after the delivery of the letter for it to be represented visually on screen along with an associated animal, vegetable or mineral that begins with the corresponding letter. An additional 11.4 seconds are required for the letter to be repeated by any small children or felt based representations of wildlife.
Now, I will give you that this is a telephone connection. And while I did not hear any sort of echo or chorus after your statement, it is possible you’re operating a colourful hand puppet of a squirrel who is miming the letter in question. However, despite your fevered belief, there is no camera crew on site filming your shenanigans and televising them too me. So having your hand up Fizzle McNutty Cheek’s ass there isn’t really helping this conversation in any way shape or form.
Please, just put the squirrel down and give me the next letter already.
Jerk.
Me: “Alright, what time would be best for them to return your call?”
SC: “Anytime is fine.”
Me: “Alright.”
SC: “Oh except NIGHT TIME! HA HA! I’M ASLEEP THEN!”
HA HA! I’M NOT! I HOPE YOU ARE SET UPON BY RANDY OXEN!
No, Just No
Me: “And how did you hear about us?”
SC: “Oh, that’s actually a story-“
No! No it’s not! There will be no stories! No stories, tales, sagas, ballads, fables or parables. None. Natta. You tell me who you are, where you are and how to contact you and I will have the appropriate authorities contact you. That is the extent of information and promises that should be exchanged during this call. Nothing else. I do not require a plot synopsis to understand why you are calling.
Ghugtak, The Boar King
I made the tragic mistake of getting on the last car of the Skytrain this evening. It is one of the unspoken rules of transit. On a westbound train from Surrey, you never get on the last car. As for some reason it always has the highest concentration of…..events, as it were. But the Skytrain pulled up just as I was getting off my bus. I was weak. I gave in to the temptation to just make a run for it. It was foolish of me, and I have paid for this mistake.
My fate wasn’t sealed immediately either. Or rather, I had not realized it was sealed until the Skytrain itself had sealed. Trapping me within. Without a vent of fresh air, the scents washed over me. An unrelenting mixture of liquor, wet dog and what I can only describe as "swamp ass". They formed a motley potpourri which was surely the aroma failure itself would produce if left in the sun for a fortnight to curdle.
This scent was attached to a portly beer chugging boar of a man with no perceptible neck, chin or dignity. Surrounded by 3 underlings. Of which one had seemingly risen to the coveted position of “girlfriend”. Whilst the other two sat in cowed silence, either from fear or simply shame for being in the Boar King’s company. Probably the latter, actually, as despite several attempts to speak to them, they never said a single word back to him and did all they could to pretend he was not there. An endeavour I can relate too.
Even if you could ignore the smell being emitted, you could not ignore the voice being emitted. As the Boar King’s “indoor” voice was a normal person’s “Oh god I’m on fire please help” voice. And the utterances that came from him were all utterly baffling, but always prefixed what I assume was suppose to be a naughty word but was being pronounced “Fookin’”.
About every two stops there would be a new chant or utterance. These included: “BALL BUSTIN! BALL BUSTIN!”, “6 PACK!!!” and the crowd favourite “I FOOKIN’ LURV YOU BABY!”. None of these had any context whatsoever and were just random outbursts that went on in chant form for 30 seconds or more. In-between these outbursts he would place calls on his cell phone to other members of the tribe and try to arrange for them to pick up beer. He made several of these calls. He too was on his a quest to retrieve beer, despite still having beer with him. His entire plan apparently, was to get everyone he knew to pick up a 12 pack of beer, then have them all meet him at an assigned location to combine their beer resources for….well, he didn’t really seem to know. But it would be “fookin’ arsome!” to quote the beast directly.
They did not get off at Broadway as I had hoped either. Or rather, they were going too but one member of their web of intrigue that they were to meet at Broadway backed out of the plan at the last moment. This enraged the Boar King greatly, and forced them to stay on the train till they made it to the next stop and the next member of their plan. Unfortunately, this was not till Stadium. So I had to remain encapsulated in this tiny train car with the….the…..smell almost the entire way downtown. It is a thick, noxious thing that I’m surprised I can’t visually perceive as a low hanging fog. I fear it is seeping into everything I own, if not clinging to the very surface of my skin. Building up a film. I suspect I may have to burn everything I’m wearing when I get home just to make sure it isn’t clinging to my person, then enact a specific scene from the Crying Game for a while.
Why Do You Do This?
Me: “Alright, and your phone number please?”
SC: “It’s xxx-xxx-xxxx, but its changed now.”
Sooo….give me the current number then. The whole point of my inquiry was that I was attempting to obtain a method of contacting you. I did not ask for a historic perspective on your contact information, merely for your contact information.
Me: “And your address please?”
SC: “Its box number xxx. But that’s changed now too.”
And why did I need to know that? No, really, why do you keep doing this? Is this part of your parole conditions or something? I can accept that your package is probably going to be shoved out the back of a cargo plane at low altitude anyway so it doesn’t need a precise target for delivery. However, the Canada Post Dog Sled Team ( Canpost DST for short ) in charge of retrieving it from the unforgiving wilds will need to know the right box number to cram the “Hey, c’mere n’ get yer fookin' stuff” card into, to notify you of its arrival.
Filter Failure
( Forgive me, QA, for I have sinned )
Me: “Alright, and your name please?”
SC: “My name is Clit Commander!”
Me: “……….”
SC: “……hello?”
Me: “…….Yes.”
SC: “I AM THE CLIT COMMANDER!”
Me: “Somehow, I doubt you earned that rank.”
SC: "I didn't earn this rank, I am the Clit Comman......errr.."
That'll do, pig. That'll do.
Sometimes Its Both Ends
I realize you are a client, and I respect that. However, as I have said more times then I care to recall, have a pen ready when you are on call. So that when I call you with information you must document, you are ready to document it. I cannot sit here for 9 minutes while you brainlessly boot up your computer, check your emails, watch a cute clip of a kitty your cousin sent you, update your Facebook status, check the Fark.com headlines then open Notepad and take down the name and number of the caller.
I Require Context
I hate passing by people on the street and only catching a snippet of their conversation. Such as passing two guys a block up from here and only catching the statement "I'm like 4 more shots away from raping you." as I walked by.
I'm Beginning To Dislike Your State
( This scenario repeats itself in some form at least 4 or 5 times a week. We appear to be one number off from their number. Oh, and apologies to those of you from Georgia. -.- )
SC:: “We had a power outage over here.”
Me: “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.
SC: “Can I get the right number?”
Me: “I wouldn’t know the right number, you’re calling the wrong number.”
SC: “Well then what’s the number for Georgia Powa?”
Me: “I don’t know, you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Aren’t you connected ta Georgia Powa?”
Me: “No, you’re calling the WRONG number.”
SC: “Oh, ok. <click>”
Some days I wonder how Georgia even managed to get electricity in the first place. Frankly, I don’t even think Georgia Power is a real utility company. I think it’s just one guy in a sheet metal shed with a one eyed bloodhound out on the porch, right on the border, whose only job is to make sure the extension cord to Florida stays plugged in.
Oh Sweet Jesus
If there was some way I could get to this office with my headphones in and a blindfold on, I would do so. However, since I require at least one sense to navigate my way here, I am doomed to bear witness to what wanders the streets of our fair city. I took every precaution I could this evening, I even avoided the last car. I even made it all the way downtown without incident. But then I stepped off at Granville, and bore witness to what emerged from the last car.
I’m not even sure what it was I saw. It was female, I think. But she looked like she’d wandered out of a leather fetish shop and into Jim Henson’s Workshop with a knife and a shopping list. I’ve seen some pretty strange things in my years downtown, but nothing quite this spectacular fashion wise. This was a true masterpiece.
I’m not 100% sure what you call this particular look. “Muppet Cenobite” perhaps. I mean, she had all the leather fetish gear you could ask for ( if you were so inclined ). All the buckles, snaps, spiked collar, wrists, etc you could want. Combined with what appeared to be three layers of variously coloured ripped pantyhose and fishnet stockings. But then, for absolutely no reason I can comprehend, from her knees to her toes was all neon orange pom-pom fur. Every square inch. As if she was some sort of were-Teletubby caught halfway through the transformation. She also appeared to be wearing two entire peacocks in her hair. One on each side of her head. As ponytails.
I steered clear as best I could. I’m wasn’t about to tempt the wrath of Buffy the Muppet Slayer.
Annnnnd.....rest.
420
Every get one of those calls that just…erodes? Everything seems perfectly normal at first, but things slowly start to slip then by the time you realize something is amiss you’re already knee deep in abject lunacy? Where the caller is little more then a clever doppelganger of a normal person and it is only through prolonged interaction that you realize they are merely wearing the barest costume of sanity and you can see the zipper showing? Yes, well, this is one of those calls.
It all seemed normal at first, he sounded sober, sane and fully clothed. But then he began to guide me through his story with the promise that like some sort of bizarre legal rainbow there would be a pot ( in more then one sense ) of reason at the end which would tell me exactly what the point of him calling was. Indeed, I did find this pot. But it was not full of gold.
According to him he is an Irish citizen who is simply visiting our fine city for Happy Nacho Pot Day or whatever they called it there on 4/20. Puffapalooza? The Doritos Solstice? I don’t know. Anyhow, it is rather telling that this is the event he was in town for, but I digress. It seems he wrote an article for the Vancouver Sun about entire throngs of people undergoing mass overdoses on pot cookies and just flopping around on the ground in droves. An epidemic of an event that I think I would have heard of had it occurred. Also, I am no expert, nor even a pot head, but I imagine if you were trying to OD on pot cookies the sheer volume of Chunky Weezer Chip cookies required would kill you long before any sort of narcotic build up.
Anyhow, he had wrote this article so naturally the RCMP phoned him and threatened to kill him. Naturally. Now he needs a lawyer to…er….acutally I’m not sure why. He wasn’t under arrest and wasn’t in custody. Just under the impression local law enforcement wanted him dead for talking about pot cookies. He also did not actually seem to clearly know why either, only that he believed a lawyer could somehow protect him from a group of people that drive around in body armour with 12 gauge shotguns in their trunk.
PRAISE HOJO
SC: “How long will they take to arrive?”
Me: “About 2 weeks.”
SC: “OH THANK GOD”
…..er….yes, praise be to a supreme deity for the timely arrival of your “blush tinted iridium” sunglasses. I’m sure your complete lack of coolness without blush tinted face ovals to shield your viewports was of grave concern to Him. In fact the only thing between us and the Rapture is probably these sunglasses. In which case perhaps I should just accidently hit “cancel call” rather then putting it through lest I inadvertently bring about the end of all things.
Argh!
Me: “Alright, can you spell your name, please?”
SC: “It’s B. As in Boy.”
Me: “………..?”
SC: “………….”
Me: “Did you get that?”
SC: “Yes.”
Don’t take this the wrong way, but I probably type faster then you think. So feel free to pitch them a bit harder then that. Currently you’re operating at around one letter per minute. Which, scientifically speaking, is around the SSSP or Sustained Sesame Street Point. A measure of verbal delivery that represents the peak average rate of alphabet delivery between Elmo, Grover and Big Bird. Whom all require an average pause of 9.6 seconds after the delivery of the letter for it to be represented visually on screen along with an associated animal, vegetable or mineral that begins with the corresponding letter. An additional 11.4 seconds are required for the letter to be repeated by any small children or felt based representations of wildlife.
Now, I will give you that this is a telephone connection. And while I did not hear any sort of echo or chorus after your statement, it is possible you’re operating a colourful hand puppet of a squirrel who is miming the letter in question. However, despite your fevered belief, there is no camera crew on site filming your shenanigans and televising them too me. So having your hand up Fizzle McNutty Cheek’s ass there isn’t really helping this conversation in any way shape or form.
Please, just put the squirrel down and give me the next letter already.
Jerk.
Me: “Alright, what time would be best for them to return your call?”
SC: “Anytime is fine.”
Me: “Alright.”
SC: “Oh except NIGHT TIME! HA HA! I’M ASLEEP THEN!”
HA HA! I’M NOT! I HOPE YOU ARE SET UPON BY RANDY OXEN!
No, Just No
Me: “And how did you hear about us?”
SC: “Oh, that’s actually a story-“
No! No it’s not! There will be no stories! No stories, tales, sagas, ballads, fables or parables. None. Natta. You tell me who you are, where you are and how to contact you and I will have the appropriate authorities contact you. That is the extent of information and promises that should be exchanged during this call. Nothing else. I do not require a plot synopsis to understand why you are calling.
Ghugtak, The Boar King
I made the tragic mistake of getting on the last car of the Skytrain this evening. It is one of the unspoken rules of transit. On a westbound train from Surrey, you never get on the last car. As for some reason it always has the highest concentration of…..events, as it were. But the Skytrain pulled up just as I was getting off my bus. I was weak. I gave in to the temptation to just make a run for it. It was foolish of me, and I have paid for this mistake.
My fate wasn’t sealed immediately either. Or rather, I had not realized it was sealed until the Skytrain itself had sealed. Trapping me within. Without a vent of fresh air, the scents washed over me. An unrelenting mixture of liquor, wet dog and what I can only describe as "swamp ass". They formed a motley potpourri which was surely the aroma failure itself would produce if left in the sun for a fortnight to curdle.
This scent was attached to a portly beer chugging boar of a man with no perceptible neck, chin or dignity. Surrounded by 3 underlings. Of which one had seemingly risen to the coveted position of “girlfriend”. Whilst the other two sat in cowed silence, either from fear or simply shame for being in the Boar King’s company. Probably the latter, actually, as despite several attempts to speak to them, they never said a single word back to him and did all they could to pretend he was not there. An endeavour I can relate too.
Even if you could ignore the smell being emitted, you could not ignore the voice being emitted. As the Boar King’s “indoor” voice was a normal person’s “Oh god I’m on fire please help” voice. And the utterances that came from him were all utterly baffling, but always prefixed what I assume was suppose to be a naughty word but was being pronounced “Fookin’”.
About every two stops there would be a new chant or utterance. These included: “BALL BUSTIN! BALL BUSTIN!”, “6 PACK!!!” and the crowd favourite “I FOOKIN’ LURV YOU BABY!”. None of these had any context whatsoever and were just random outbursts that went on in chant form for 30 seconds or more. In-between these outbursts he would place calls on his cell phone to other members of the tribe and try to arrange for them to pick up beer. He made several of these calls. He too was on his a quest to retrieve beer, despite still having beer with him. His entire plan apparently, was to get everyone he knew to pick up a 12 pack of beer, then have them all meet him at an assigned location to combine their beer resources for….well, he didn’t really seem to know. But it would be “fookin’ arsome!” to quote the beast directly.
They did not get off at Broadway as I had hoped either. Or rather, they were going too but one member of their web of intrigue that they were to meet at Broadway backed out of the plan at the last moment. This enraged the Boar King greatly, and forced them to stay on the train till they made it to the next stop and the next member of their plan. Unfortunately, this was not till Stadium. So I had to remain encapsulated in this tiny train car with the….the…..smell almost the entire way downtown. It is a thick, noxious thing that I’m surprised I can’t visually perceive as a low hanging fog. I fear it is seeping into everything I own, if not clinging to the very surface of my skin. Building up a film. I suspect I may have to burn everything I’m wearing when I get home just to make sure it isn’t clinging to my person, then enact a specific scene from the Crying Game for a while.
Why Do You Do This?
Me: “Alright, and your phone number please?”
SC: “It’s xxx-xxx-xxxx, but its changed now.”
Sooo….give me the current number then. The whole point of my inquiry was that I was attempting to obtain a method of contacting you. I did not ask for a historic perspective on your contact information, merely for your contact information.
Me: “And your address please?”
SC: “Its box number xxx. But that’s changed now too.”
And why did I need to know that? No, really, why do you keep doing this? Is this part of your parole conditions or something? I can accept that your package is probably going to be shoved out the back of a cargo plane at low altitude anyway so it doesn’t need a precise target for delivery. However, the Canada Post Dog Sled Team ( Canpost DST for short ) in charge of retrieving it from the unforgiving wilds will need to know the right box number to cram the “Hey, c’mere n’ get yer fookin' stuff” card into, to notify you of its arrival.
Filter Failure
( Forgive me, QA, for I have sinned )
Me: “Alright, and your name please?”
SC: “My name is Clit Commander!”
Me: “……….”
SC: “……hello?”
Me: “…….Yes.”
SC: “I AM THE CLIT COMMANDER!”
Me: “Somehow, I doubt you earned that rank.”
SC: "I didn't earn this rank, I am the Clit Comman......errr.."
That'll do, pig. That'll do.
Sometimes Its Both Ends
I realize you are a client, and I respect that. However, as I have said more times then I care to recall, have a pen ready when you are on call. So that when I call you with information you must document, you are ready to document it. I cannot sit here for 9 minutes while you brainlessly boot up your computer, check your emails, watch a cute clip of a kitty your cousin sent you, update your Facebook status, check the Fark.com headlines then open Notepad and take down the name and number of the caller.
I Require Context
I hate passing by people on the street and only catching a snippet of their conversation. Such as passing two guys a block up from here and only catching the statement "I'm like 4 more shots away from raping you." as I walked by.
I'm Beginning To Dislike Your State
( This scenario repeats itself in some form at least 4 or 5 times a week. We appear to be one number off from their number. Oh, and apologies to those of you from Georgia. -.- )
SC:: “We had a power outage over here.”
Me: “I’m afraid you have the wrong number.
SC: “Can I get the right number?”
Me: “I wouldn’t know the right number, you’re calling the wrong number.”
SC: “Well then what’s the number for Georgia Powa?”
Me: “I don’t know, you have the wrong number.”
SC: “Aren’t you connected ta Georgia Powa?”
Me: “No, you’re calling the WRONG number.”
SC: “Oh, ok. <click>”
Some days I wonder how Georgia even managed to get electricity in the first place. Frankly, I don’t even think Georgia Power is a real utility company. I think it’s just one guy in a sheet metal shed with a one eyed bloodhound out on the porch, right on the border, whose only job is to make sure the extension cord to Florida stays plugged in.
Oh Sweet Jesus
If there was some way I could get to this office with my headphones in and a blindfold on, I would do so. However, since I require at least one sense to navigate my way here, I am doomed to bear witness to what wanders the streets of our fair city. I took every precaution I could this evening, I even avoided the last car. I even made it all the way downtown without incident. But then I stepped off at Granville, and bore witness to what emerged from the last car.
I’m not even sure what it was I saw. It was female, I think. But she looked like she’d wandered out of a leather fetish shop and into Jim Henson’s Workshop with a knife and a shopping list. I’ve seen some pretty strange things in my years downtown, but nothing quite this spectacular fashion wise. This was a true masterpiece.
I’m not 100% sure what you call this particular look. “Muppet Cenobite” perhaps. I mean, she had all the leather fetish gear you could ask for ( if you were so inclined ). All the buckles, snaps, spiked collar, wrists, etc you could want. Combined with what appeared to be three layers of variously coloured ripped pantyhose and fishnet stockings. But then, for absolutely no reason I can comprehend, from her knees to her toes was all neon orange pom-pom fur. Every square inch. As if she was some sort of were-Teletubby caught halfway through the transformation. She also appeared to be wearing two entire peacocks in her hair. One on each side of her head. As ponytails.
I steered clear as best I could. I’m wasn’t about to tempt the wrath of Buffy the Muppet Slayer.
Annnnnd.....rest.
He is my Black Dragon (and yes, a good one) strong, protective, the guardian. I am his Silver Dragon, always by his side, shining for him, cherishing him.
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