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The Saddest Man
It has been a bad week at work...though not necessarily with calls. Ironically its been rather quiet on the front. -.-
A Challenger Appears
Me: “And the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “Alright-
SC: “Those are the jeans, right?”
Me: “Yes, what size would you like?”
SC: “Um….let me take a look in mine....”
That…..actually tops the naked “Lemme go find a shirt” guy from last week. Bravo. Rather than “I am disturbingly unclad, allow me to go find a garment with which to assess my size” you have gone with “Let me try and stare down the back of my own pants and/or take my pants off to answer your inquiry”. This is definitely not the course of action I had intended you to take and I deeply regret setting in motion this chain of events. Please, for future reference, know that the right answer to anything I ask you will never be “Take off your pants”.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Ya, imma get Stormed Out Beanie”
…Stormed….Out Beanie? A most peculiar name…..are you sure that’s real? It sounds like a novelty Christmas item in World of Warcraft. I should point out that while your head may be cold, thermal insulation is not measured in terms of “Frost Resistance” in the real world. So any stat gains you’re hoping to acquire by purchasing such a ridiculous sounding supposed hat are-..er…..ok, there is in fact a Storm Beanie in the catalog. In the colour “tulip” no less.
Once again I have underestimated the fashion depths of the <Catalog>, my apologies.
The Boxer Strikes
C: “Hi, this is <officer>. We have a Joe Colburn in custody-“
Wait, Joe Colburn? You mean Joe “The Boxer” Colburn from last? Oh thank god, you caught the Boxer. We can all rest easy. The streets are once again safe for good folk to walk. Though I question the Boxer’s judgment since he seems to have made it all of 7 days before getting arrested and thrown in jail again. That’s quite impressive. Hell, he was probably only out on bail to begin with. Dare I ask what stupidity he accomplished to get himself locked up this time?
C: “He’s being charged with attempted murder-”
Ah, I see, attempted murder, well th-wait, attempted murder? He managed to make it all of 7 days out of jail before committing attempted murder? Cripes sakes, man. Have a bit of emotional baggage that wouldn’t fit in the overhead compartment, do we?
And Co?
C: “Hi, it’s <officer>. We have the co-accused, Bob Hordel, that would also like to speak with a lawyer.”
……co-accused…..right, so does Bob have an alias as well? I mean, if Joe is the “Boxer” than what’s Bob’s? The “Wrestler”? Or is it something a little more Old Country like Bobby the Rat or Bobby Nine Fingers or something? We’re taking about two clearly nefarious criminal masterminds here. So Bob has to have some sort of moniker. I mean he’s the Bonnie to Joe’s Clyde. The Thelma to his Louise. The Dumber to his Dumb.
Oh well, I’m sure I’ll get an anonymous tip about it soon enough.
OMBO
Bit of a quiet night tonight, which is just fine by me as my body requires rest to recover from prolonged OMBO Exposure. Yes, that’s right, OMBO Exposure. You may be familiar with it. You may have even experienced it on several occasions ( for which you have my sympathy ). Normally, it is fairly easy to avoid as you can flee the immediate area. But in the enclosed space of a Skytrain tube, there is no escape and precious little air circulation.
Thus you sit there, blissfully unaware until suddenly your entire being recoils from a sudden onslaught of scent. Like curry and Old Spice had a child named Tragedy. I speak of course, of Old Man BO. It is potent, disturbingly spicy and manages to radiate a good 5-10 feet from the source. On a hurdling Skytrain, there is no escape. The penetrating stench of “Fuck it, I’m 64 and soap has tormented me long enough.” has engulfed you and the only fleeting moments of mercy you have are when the train stops and the doors open for a blissful handful of seconds of fresh air.
I Fscking Hate People That Do This
Me: “And your name please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: “Alright, how do you spell that please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: "….Alright, but can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: “Yes, can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: "Spell your name for me please."
SC: “It's Mahendra”
Perhaps I am going about this the wrong way and some incentive is in order. If your behaviour and mannerisms are of any indication than the most appropriate course of action would be to offer you a cracker.
The Saddest Man In Vancouver
Gather round children, and let me spin you a tragic tale. One of woe and…..er….woe. The tale of the saddest man in Vancouver. I did not know who he was a first as he confidently, or perhaps just obliviously sauntered into <store by my office> this morning whilst I was waiting in line at the casher. I must stress the time frame of this tale, as it occurred this morning right after I got off work. So it was approximately 7:15am in the morning when this encounter occurred. This is quite important as it will allow you to accurately gauge the depth and range of the sadness involved here.
So he saunters in just as it is my turn at the register, and cuts in line in front of me. Flashing me what I can only assume is some sort of “Bro-fist” gesture in an attempt to indicate that we are both of the same gender and since we share identical reproductive organs that means I should understand that we are part of an exclusive club. Thus I should yield to his intrusion into my attempt to purchase perogies and cat treats. Unfortunately, being sober, having cognitive abilities beyond that of asphalt, being gainfully employed and not living on my brother in law’s couch renders his attempt at communication completely ineffective with me.
Before I can say anything he turns to the cashier and begins to hit on her. Apparently there is a party that he and his friends are throwing. Surprisingly, they do not have enough ( any ) females attending this party. So he’s just randomly wandering Vancouver asking anything vaguely female if it wishes to attend this supposedly kickin’ party with him and his pathetic fellows. As I said, this is 7:15am. So he is wandering around trying to pick up girls at 7 in the morning and completely at random. I assume he was walking by <store>, peering inside and saw something with a bosom in the distance. Thus he came sauntering in an attempt to capture this prize and using some sort of odd frat boy sign language to try and signal to me his strategy. I assume so that I would….I don’t know, patiently wait, let him work his magic and then high five him?
He was of course instantly shot down. In flames. Plummeting out of control in a downward death spiral back towards the deck of the USS Bro-Fist while burning pieces of his dignity and self confidence trailed behind him. But he kept his chin up, and quickly sauntered back outside. I assume to go find a nice quiet corner somewhere to cry for 10-15 minutes before resuming the hunt for someone, anyone, that even looks female to come to his party.
But seriously though, how incredibly pathetic must you be to be wandering around at 7am into random businesses trying to solicit female company from complete strangers for your party?
"Compensation"
You purchased and installed a rather nice sliding screen door from one of our client's stores. Or more precisely, you had it purchased and installed for you by a contractor despite the fact it was a DIY kit. Which cost you $200 total beyond the product itself. Which….honestly I think is just as much if not more than the cost of the item you purchased. So bravo on that count. But the door is not “performing to your standards” and you’re wondering if there is any “compensation” for your “dissatisfaction”. Now, common courtesy and an hourly wage prevent me from laughing at you outright. So instead let us examine your issues point by point so that I may offer rebuttal.
Problem #1:
Your daughter is in a wheel chair. You purchased this door for her so she could open it. She cannot open it as it requires you to pull the latch and yank the top part of the door at the same time because it sticks. I would submit that this is because the door was not properly installed and your contractor sucks. But you seem quite confident in the fact that since you used a contractor it must be properly installed. Even though this contractor does not work for the manufacturer or for the store and charged you more than the product itself. Clearly he must be a professional with high standards and integrity.
Problem #2:
Its barely wide enough for her wheel chair. A most curious dilemma. Seeing as the product is for standard sized doorways and comes in various models to accommodate non-standard entry ways if need be. Not to mention every single model clearly states on the front of the box what its measurements are. So if wheel chair accessibility was your goal in this endeavour, perhaps you should have measured this to begin with. Or gotten your clearly professional contractor to measure it. Or perhaps even mentioned it to him and asked if it would be wide enough for a wheelchair and could he insure you bought the right product to accommodate it.
Problem #3:
Your cats have chewed through the screen. Again, I’m not entirely sure how the fault of this lays with us, the store or the manufacturer. They are your cats and as a cat owner myself I would submit that no product on this planet that involves a screen is truly cat proof. Especially if that screen is between a cat and the outside world.
Nowhere on the box is it advertised as “Cat Proof”. Or even pet proof. In fact I would submit that any product advertising itself as “Cat Proof” was manufactured by a bunch of filthy liars unless somewhere on the box is stamped "Product of Moria".
So no, there will be no "compensation" for your "dissatisfaction". You only get a refund or replacement if the product is defective or damaged. However, seeing as you neglected to take any responsibility or have any foresight to insure you purchased the right model. And then wisely decided to not ask for a professional installer from the manufacturer or even a certified one from the store. Opting instead to buy the DIY kit yourself without any knowledge or measurements, than hand it over to a random contractor from the Yellow Pages and telling him to install it on the entry way, measurements be damned.
You're lucky if the warranty is still intact at this point.
English Weeps
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Uuhhhh….order some uh, shoes, on uh….page 52.”
Shoes….on page 52. I am willing to bet there are more than one pair of shoes on page 52. There are also more than one page 52. You’re going to have to be a little more specific here. Perhaps by telling me what the item number of the shoes is and which of the 12 annual catalogs they appear in.
Me: “Which catalog are you looking in?”
SC: “Um…that….uh…on that…uh page 52.”
Me: “Of which catalog?”
SC: “Um….dat….dunno……”
Me: “Like September 2010 or?”
SC: “Uh…..September 2010.”
Me: “Alright, and the item number please?”
SC: “………uh....shoes.”
Me: “What’s the item number beside the shoes you’d like to order?”
SC: “Ummm….dat 52, that Adidas. The black one.”
Me: “Yes, but whats the item number by them?”
SC: “Umm…..super star black.”
Me: "Alright, but can you tell me the number beside them in the catalog?"
SC: "uhh......uh....rubber....shell toe?"
Dude, seriously. How the fuck do you know everything about these shoes except for the single piece of information that is actually important? I don’t need all these peripheral details. I just need the item number. It will tell me everything I need to know.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Um, dat waglisses.”
Me: “…I’m sorry what?”
SC: “wonglaces. Oklies.”
Wait...what? Sunglasses? Oakleys? Is that what you’re trying to say? Is it boy? Timmy’s trapped in a well? Are you sure? Seriously though….leave the English language alone. It’s obviously you two just don’t get along and you’re hurting her by staying together. It’s time to make a clean break of it and go your separate ways. It’ll be better for everyone involved. Trust me, you’ll feel better in the long run and you won’t be dragging down hundreds of years of linguistic history in the process.
Ugh.
There is yet another rapper up on the corner of Granville by the station. This is becoming a baffling regular occurrence and I am becoming confused. Because they’re all terrible. All of them. Not just bad, but terrible. This is not even a genre that requires you to have any singing talent, yet they are still awful. On a level that is a crime against music and humanity at large. They can’t possibly be getting spare change for this. Which means they are doing it for their art. Which is even more terrifying than if they were just trying to get spare change. Since it implies they actually think they have talent. Which is a delusion so profound they probably run the risk of psychological trauma if you told them otherwise. Which….perhaps is exactly why they’re still there. No one has the heart or the extensive years of therapist training required to break the bad news to them without completely crushing them as a human being.
Seriously though, anyone that uses the line “Blast off yo, like an astronaut inta outer space, my beats be real.” in their suppose rap should have their microphone, speakers, stereo and really all audio equipment confiscated. They will then be handed one of those novelty toy microphones that automatically auto-tunes your voice as you speak into them. Lastly, they will be put on a bus to Chicago and dropped off randomly somewhere on the south side with instructions that this area is full of people who will appreciate their “talented performances” and a note that says we’ll pick them up after dark.
Do try to work your "momma" into one of your songs so the police will have a touching story to tell when they knock on her door.
annnd rest. The other office misery of this week is not customer oriented. -.-
A Challenger Appears
Me: “And the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “Alright-
SC: “Those are the jeans, right?”
Me: “Yes, what size would you like?”
SC: “Um….let me take a look in mine....”
That…..actually tops the naked “Lemme go find a shirt” guy from last week. Bravo. Rather than “I am disturbingly unclad, allow me to go find a garment with which to assess my size” you have gone with “Let me try and stare down the back of my own pants and/or take my pants off to answer your inquiry”. This is definitely not the course of action I had intended you to take and I deeply regret setting in motion this chain of events. Please, for future reference, know that the right answer to anything I ask you will never be “Take off your pants”.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Ya, imma get Stormed Out Beanie”
…Stormed….Out Beanie? A most peculiar name…..are you sure that’s real? It sounds like a novelty Christmas item in World of Warcraft. I should point out that while your head may be cold, thermal insulation is not measured in terms of “Frost Resistance” in the real world. So any stat gains you’re hoping to acquire by purchasing such a ridiculous sounding supposed hat are-..er…..ok, there is in fact a Storm Beanie in the catalog. In the colour “tulip” no less.
Once again I have underestimated the fashion depths of the <Catalog>, my apologies.
The Boxer Strikes
C: “Hi, this is <officer>. We have a Joe Colburn in custody-“
Wait, Joe Colburn? You mean Joe “The Boxer” Colburn from last? Oh thank god, you caught the Boxer. We can all rest easy. The streets are once again safe for good folk to walk. Though I question the Boxer’s judgment since he seems to have made it all of 7 days before getting arrested and thrown in jail again. That’s quite impressive. Hell, he was probably only out on bail to begin with. Dare I ask what stupidity he accomplished to get himself locked up this time?
C: “He’s being charged with attempted murder-”
Ah, I see, attempted murder, well th-wait, attempted murder? He managed to make it all of 7 days out of jail before committing attempted murder? Cripes sakes, man. Have a bit of emotional baggage that wouldn’t fit in the overhead compartment, do we?
And Co?
C: “Hi, it’s <officer>. We have the co-accused, Bob Hordel, that would also like to speak with a lawyer.”
……co-accused…..right, so does Bob have an alias as well? I mean, if Joe is the “Boxer” than what’s Bob’s? The “Wrestler”? Or is it something a little more Old Country like Bobby the Rat or Bobby Nine Fingers or something? We’re taking about two clearly nefarious criminal masterminds here. So Bob has to have some sort of moniker. I mean he’s the Bonnie to Joe’s Clyde. The Thelma to his Louise. The Dumber to his Dumb.
Oh well, I’m sure I’ll get an anonymous tip about it soon enough.
OMBO
Bit of a quiet night tonight, which is just fine by me as my body requires rest to recover from prolonged OMBO Exposure. Yes, that’s right, OMBO Exposure. You may be familiar with it. You may have even experienced it on several occasions ( for which you have my sympathy ). Normally, it is fairly easy to avoid as you can flee the immediate area. But in the enclosed space of a Skytrain tube, there is no escape and precious little air circulation.
Thus you sit there, blissfully unaware until suddenly your entire being recoils from a sudden onslaught of scent. Like curry and Old Spice had a child named Tragedy. I speak of course, of Old Man BO. It is potent, disturbingly spicy and manages to radiate a good 5-10 feet from the source. On a hurdling Skytrain, there is no escape. The penetrating stench of “Fuck it, I’m 64 and soap has tormented me long enough.” has engulfed you and the only fleeting moments of mercy you have are when the train stops and the doors open for a blissful handful of seconds of fresh air.
I Fscking Hate People That Do This
Me: “And your name please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: “Alright, how do you spell that please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: "….Alright, but can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: “Yes, can you spell it for me please?”
SC: “Mahendra”
Me: "Spell your name for me please."
SC: “It's Mahendra”
Perhaps I am going about this the wrong way and some incentive is in order. If your behaviour and mannerisms are of any indication than the most appropriate course of action would be to offer you a cracker.
The Saddest Man In Vancouver
Gather round children, and let me spin you a tragic tale. One of woe and…..er….woe. The tale of the saddest man in Vancouver. I did not know who he was a first as he confidently, or perhaps just obliviously sauntered into <store by my office> this morning whilst I was waiting in line at the casher. I must stress the time frame of this tale, as it occurred this morning right after I got off work. So it was approximately 7:15am in the morning when this encounter occurred. This is quite important as it will allow you to accurately gauge the depth and range of the sadness involved here.
So he saunters in just as it is my turn at the register, and cuts in line in front of me. Flashing me what I can only assume is some sort of “Bro-fist” gesture in an attempt to indicate that we are both of the same gender and since we share identical reproductive organs that means I should understand that we are part of an exclusive club. Thus I should yield to his intrusion into my attempt to purchase perogies and cat treats. Unfortunately, being sober, having cognitive abilities beyond that of asphalt, being gainfully employed and not living on my brother in law’s couch renders his attempt at communication completely ineffective with me.
Before I can say anything he turns to the cashier and begins to hit on her. Apparently there is a party that he and his friends are throwing. Surprisingly, they do not have enough ( any ) females attending this party. So he’s just randomly wandering Vancouver asking anything vaguely female if it wishes to attend this supposedly kickin’ party with him and his pathetic fellows. As I said, this is 7:15am. So he is wandering around trying to pick up girls at 7 in the morning and completely at random. I assume he was walking by <store>, peering inside and saw something with a bosom in the distance. Thus he came sauntering in an attempt to capture this prize and using some sort of odd frat boy sign language to try and signal to me his strategy. I assume so that I would….I don’t know, patiently wait, let him work his magic and then high five him?
He was of course instantly shot down. In flames. Plummeting out of control in a downward death spiral back towards the deck of the USS Bro-Fist while burning pieces of his dignity and self confidence trailed behind him. But he kept his chin up, and quickly sauntered back outside. I assume to go find a nice quiet corner somewhere to cry for 10-15 minutes before resuming the hunt for someone, anyone, that even looks female to come to his party.
But seriously though, how incredibly pathetic must you be to be wandering around at 7am into random businesses trying to solicit female company from complete strangers for your party?
"Compensation"
You purchased and installed a rather nice sliding screen door from one of our client's stores. Or more precisely, you had it purchased and installed for you by a contractor despite the fact it was a DIY kit. Which cost you $200 total beyond the product itself. Which….honestly I think is just as much if not more than the cost of the item you purchased. So bravo on that count. But the door is not “performing to your standards” and you’re wondering if there is any “compensation” for your “dissatisfaction”. Now, common courtesy and an hourly wage prevent me from laughing at you outright. So instead let us examine your issues point by point so that I may offer rebuttal.
Problem #1:
Your daughter is in a wheel chair. You purchased this door for her so she could open it. She cannot open it as it requires you to pull the latch and yank the top part of the door at the same time because it sticks. I would submit that this is because the door was not properly installed and your contractor sucks. But you seem quite confident in the fact that since you used a contractor it must be properly installed. Even though this contractor does not work for the manufacturer or for the store and charged you more than the product itself. Clearly he must be a professional with high standards and integrity.
Problem #2:
Its barely wide enough for her wheel chair. A most curious dilemma. Seeing as the product is for standard sized doorways and comes in various models to accommodate non-standard entry ways if need be. Not to mention every single model clearly states on the front of the box what its measurements are. So if wheel chair accessibility was your goal in this endeavour, perhaps you should have measured this to begin with. Or gotten your clearly professional contractor to measure it. Or perhaps even mentioned it to him and asked if it would be wide enough for a wheelchair and could he insure you bought the right product to accommodate it.
Problem #3:
Your cats have chewed through the screen. Again, I’m not entirely sure how the fault of this lays with us, the store or the manufacturer. They are your cats and as a cat owner myself I would submit that no product on this planet that involves a screen is truly cat proof. Especially if that screen is between a cat and the outside world.
Nowhere on the box is it advertised as “Cat Proof”. Or even pet proof. In fact I would submit that any product advertising itself as “Cat Proof” was manufactured by a bunch of filthy liars unless somewhere on the box is stamped "Product of Moria".
So no, there will be no "compensation" for your "dissatisfaction". You only get a refund or replacement if the product is defective or damaged. However, seeing as you neglected to take any responsibility or have any foresight to insure you purchased the right model. And then wisely decided to not ask for a professional installer from the manufacturer or even a certified one from the store. Opting instead to buy the DIY kit yourself without any knowledge or measurements, than hand it over to a random contractor from the Yellow Pages and telling him to install it on the entry way, measurements be damned.
You're lucky if the warranty is still intact at this point.
English Weeps
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Uuhhhh….order some uh, shoes, on uh….page 52.”
Shoes….on page 52. I am willing to bet there are more than one pair of shoes on page 52. There are also more than one page 52. You’re going to have to be a little more specific here. Perhaps by telling me what the item number of the shoes is and which of the 12 annual catalogs they appear in.
Me: “Which catalog are you looking in?”
SC: “Um…that….uh…on that…uh page 52.”
Me: “Of which catalog?”
SC: “Um….dat….dunno……”
Me: “Like September 2010 or?”
SC: “Uh…..September 2010.”
Me: “Alright, and the item number please?”
SC: “………uh....shoes.”
Me: “What’s the item number beside the shoes you’d like to order?”
SC: “Ummm….dat 52, that Adidas. The black one.”
Me: “Yes, but whats the item number by them?”
SC: “Umm…..super star black.”
Me: "Alright, but can you tell me the number beside them in the catalog?"
SC: "uhh......uh....rubber....shell toe?"
Dude, seriously. How the fuck do you know everything about these shoes except for the single piece of information that is actually important? I don’t need all these peripheral details. I just need the item number. It will tell me everything I need to know.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Um, dat waglisses.”
Me: “…I’m sorry what?”
SC: “wonglaces. Oklies.”
Wait...what? Sunglasses? Oakleys? Is that what you’re trying to say? Is it boy? Timmy’s trapped in a well? Are you sure? Seriously though….leave the English language alone. It’s obviously you two just don’t get along and you’re hurting her by staying together. It’s time to make a clean break of it and go your separate ways. It’ll be better for everyone involved. Trust me, you’ll feel better in the long run and you won’t be dragging down hundreds of years of linguistic history in the process.
Ugh.
There is yet another rapper up on the corner of Granville by the station. This is becoming a baffling regular occurrence and I am becoming confused. Because they’re all terrible. All of them. Not just bad, but terrible. This is not even a genre that requires you to have any singing talent, yet they are still awful. On a level that is a crime against music and humanity at large. They can’t possibly be getting spare change for this. Which means they are doing it for their art. Which is even more terrifying than if they were just trying to get spare change. Since it implies they actually think they have talent. Which is a delusion so profound they probably run the risk of psychological trauma if you told them otherwise. Which….perhaps is exactly why they’re still there. No one has the heart or the extensive years of therapist training required to break the bad news to them without completely crushing them as a human being.
Seriously though, anyone that uses the line “Blast off yo, like an astronaut inta outer space, my beats be real.” in their suppose rap should have their microphone, speakers, stereo and really all audio equipment confiscated. They will then be handed one of those novelty toy microphones that automatically auto-tunes your voice as you speak into them. Lastly, they will be put on a bus to Chicago and dropped off randomly somewhere on the south side with instructions that this area is full of people who will appreciate their “talented performances” and a note that says we’ll pick them up after dark.
Do try to work your "momma" into one of your songs so the police will have a touching story to tell when they knock on her door.
annnd rest. The other office misery of this week is not customer oriented. -.-
I write, my friend Red draws. Comments welcome. Leave them on their, or on my profile here.
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