.....<mutter>.....
Again? But That Trick Never Works.
SC: “I just got home and I want to complain that someone has been in my suite without my permission.”
Alright, I suppose I could at least take a message. Management is suppose to give notice before entertaining a suite unless it’s on fire or something.
Me: “Alright, was anything wrong with the suite?”
SC: “There are papers.”
….papers….
Me: “Papers?”
SC: “Yeah, you know. Papers. Like a receipt. There’s paper on the floor. It wasn’t there when I left!”
….there’s a receipt….on the floor…so someone must have snuck into your apartment?
SC: “These people have their own agenda! This isn’t like the people 3 doors down. I’m calling as my own person tonight! These people are taking advantage of me-“
Whoa whoa whoa, wait. I know you. You’re that raging psychotic from a week or two back that was convinced people were tampering with your suite because you came home and the carpet was “wrong”. Bloody Hell, is this a nightly occurrence for you? Do you meticulously map the position of every single object in your home before you leave? Then painstakingly measure it all when you get home because even the slightest millimeter of movement indicates an invader?
SC: “They’ve taken advantage of me in every single way! Physically, emotionally, financially-“
You’re drifting off into some really weird territory again….who exactly are these people and/or things that haunt you, sneak into your suite, do unspeakable things to your carpet and then leave a receipt for their services?
SC: “The building next door is called Dolphin something. Dawson or Dolphin. Dolphin street, Dolphin bay…”
Dolphins? How did we get to dolphins? I thought we were still talking about leprechauns breaking into your suite and molesting the upholstery?
Me: “Ok, this is the emergency line for property management. What exactly is it that you want me to do for you? The majority of your concerns should be addressed to the office-“
Or a psyche ward.
Me: “-during the day.”
SC: “Is this an emergency? How would you feel if you came home tonight and some ONE had been inside your suite and you could see that they’d been there!”
If a receipt was on the floor when I came home I would put it back on top of the fridge and go to bed. But this is because I’m relatively sane and do not attribute the slight displacement of small, unimportant objects in my home to leprechauns, home invaders, alien intervention or shadowy government organizations. Nor do I get down on my knees and examine individual carpet fibers for signs of tampering.
Luckily for me she eventually became so upset that I wasn’t upset that she hung up. Works for me.
For My Powers Are Vast
Me: “and your phone number please?”
SC: “uh…xxxx”
Me: “…….”
SC: “….um, wait, xxx-xxxx?”
Me: “……”
SC: “Oh, uh, xxx-xxx-xxxx?”
Me: “Thank you.
See that? I’ve actually perfected giving people The Look™ over a phone line.
Technically...
Me: “and what city are you in?”
C: “Las Vegas…..Nevada.”
Me: “Ok, w-“
C: “Well, I guess there’s really only one Las Vegas. Isn’t there?”
That would be a safe assumption to make, yes. But technically there is one other Las Vegas in New Mexico. However, due to certain…..factors, they are pretty easy to tell apart. So next time, if you want to be specific, just say “Las Vegas….you know, the one where you snort coke off the tit of a hooker dressed like Elvis and wake up married to her the next day."
That should clear up any confusion.
Public Transit <twitch>
On the big list of things you don’t want to hear your bus driver say:
Passenger: “Hey, you’ve got that blue LED on your speedometers now.”
Driver: “Yeah, pretty cool, ain’t it?”
Passenger: “Yeah..”
Driver: “It’s even cooler when you’re sober!”
Passenger: “Hah, yeah. Well jus get us there fast, ok?”
Driver: “I’ll drive it like I stole it, hang on.”
And indeed he did. >.>
867
Me: “and what would you like to order?”
SC: “SHIRT!$%!#%!”
Me: “….ok, what’s the id number?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Alright, and what size would you like?”
SC: “Uh….are they same size as pants?!”
Me: “…..no, they come in shirt sizes.”
SC: “Um…..28!?”
Me: “…..the highest I have is 11”
SC: “Oh…uh…..”
I believe I just pointed out you can’t apply the size of your jeans to a shirt. In fact if my sizing guide here is correct a size 28 shirt would be almost twice the size of a 28’’ pair of pants. So unless the rest of the village is planning to use you as a novelty kite for some sort of walrus shaving festival I think you better take a look at the catalog again and pick a number that actually appears under the item.
Me: “ok, anything else?”
SC: “Um, shirt, xxxx-xx”
Me: “Alright, in what size?”
SC: “Uh…..30!!!”
…didn’t we just cover this? Was my previous explanation insufficient or are you just trying to upgrade from kite flying to dog sled paragliding?
867
Me: “and your postal code?”
SC: “Uh….X….um….”
Me: “……”
SC: “uh…..wait, lemme get my mom. You can ask her.”
Yes, of course. I mean you only sound like you’re what? 35? 36? Clearly you don’t yet possess the maturity to handle the kind of responsibility I’m placing in your hands during this grueling interrogation. Perhaps someday, when you’re all grown up ( Say 40? 50? ) you’ll be ready to handle this awesome responsibility. Until then, isn’t it past your bed time? It is a school night, young man and the 6th grade waits for no one.
Right..
SC: “Oh, I didn’t even think! I’m English, sorry.”
That’s a strange explanation for your lack of mental capacity. England doesn’t leap to mind when I think of people that are tragically deficient in functioning brain cells. There is a place that does come to mind, but its more….north.
....
SC: “I NEVER TALK FOR YOU!”
Right back at ya, crack weasel.
STOP TOUCHING ME
( Friday the 13th.. >< )
I swear some nights the best part about working downtown is simply the fact that there’s an elevator and 2 locked doors separately me from everyone else downtown. So on that note, I would like to drop a few notes to a select few individuals this evening. A “shout out” to my “homies” if you will.
1) To the guy that got on the Skytrain at Joyce station: A zipped up winter coat, Hawaiian shorts, flipflops and a 6 pack? Really? If I ever reach the point where my train of thought seriously goes “Well, I want something from the store. But I can’t be bothered actually putting pants or shoes on. But it is kinda chilly out so I should grab my jacket.” please just shove me off the platform onto the track just as the train is pulling in.
2) To the gold chain laden iPod rat boy that got on at Patterson: Hold. On. To. Something. The last two stops have propelled you off balance and almost ended with your face in my groin. This is not an arrangement I find appealing in any way shape or form and I would like to avoid it at any and all costs even if it puts you at great personal risk.
3) To the tarted up bar hopping she-creature and cohort that got on at Broadway. Thank you for cramming me right into the corner against the door. The 3 inches of personal space you allowed me was magnificent for basking in whatever glorious Wal-Mart $8.99 special fragrance you had painted on yourself before leaving the barn. Also: Hold. On. To. Something. Daintily pressing one hand against the ceiling in such a fashion as to not damage your rainbow pastel eagle talon like nails does not constitute a stable foundation. Which of course meant every turn sent you backwards to cram your misshapen behind into my groin. I do not want you in my groin anymore then I wanted rat boy in that area. In fact if I had to make a choice I’d probably take rat boy over you. For all his flaws at least he had tunes and he didn’t reek like a basket of dollar store potpourri.
4) To the co-hort of tarted up bar hopping she-creature that stayed on the train after she-creature got off at main street: Can you please take one set forward so that your purse isn’t wedged into my groin? I know your aromatic friend established the precedent of standing a mere 3 inchs from me but she’s gone now and there’s plenty of space. I don’t know what the hell it is about you people and trying to molest me on public transit this evening but I’d really appreciate it if everyone would just stay away from my groin.
Have I mentioned how much I love Friday nights in this city?
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh, you know, this JUICE. On page 39.”
Me: “…juice?”
SC: “The temp juice. Xxxx-xx”
Me: “…you mean the cooler?”
SC: “Yeah!”
Temp juice? What the hell? How did you even come up with that term? Like I really believe you’re going to keep juice in it.
SC: “and one more thing, a hat.”
A beer cooler and a hat? Isn’t that the Coat of Arms for Nunavut?
Me: “Ok, what size?”
SC: “11.”
Me: “….it would have to be a size like 7-1/2, 7-1/4, etc.”
SC: “28”
Me: “….”
I’m dead, aren’t I? I’m dead and this is some sort of purgatory where I’m paying for everything bad I ever did in my life. My Skytrain derailed coming into downtown and slammed right through Science World then teetered into the harbour. I’m a wide eyed, bloated corpse 40 feet underwater right now with both hands desperately trying to protect my groin, aren’t I?
Well, damn.
You People Need To Be Shot Too
Me: “Good morning, <co-“
SC: “GOOD MORNING!”
Me: “Hello, ho-“
SC: “HOW ARE YOU TODAY?!”
Ok, look here, Skippy. There’s nothing wrong with being cheerful. But there’s cheerful cheerful and then there’s “Makes other people want to beat you about the head and neck with a tire iron then roll the corpse off a pier in the dead of night” cheerful. Guess which one you are?
To Each Their Own
Caller called to complain that our news story this evening implied homeless people should try to stay in shelters if at all possible. Caller indicated a nice, cool, urine soaked doorway was more comfortable and less “stuffy”. He resented the implication he should find some place to sleep that was warm, indoors and/or not soaked in urine.
And Again....
It seems I must continue my public transit “shout outs” again this evening.
1) To the skinny white skater boy in the “You can take the kid out of the ghetto but you can’t take the ghetto out of the kid” t-shirt: HAhahahahahahaha <gasp> Wait…wait…<snerk> ahahahahahahaha. Dude, you’re listening to an iPod and sipping a Starbucks iced mocha. You’re about as “ghetto” as The Gap. Which is where I’m sure you work part time after school to keep your iPod stocked with Eminem and Good Charlotte.
If you spend 24 hours in a real ghetto you'd end up in a back alley somewhere on your knees in a blue sequin dress answering to the name of "Pixiesticks" and wondering if you will ever, ever, EVER be able to get this taste out of your mouth.
2) To the 60 something German man that sat down beside me: Yes, that seat is free and you are welcome to take it. It is freely offered to the public. However, can you please not cuddle up to me? You smell like pickles and sadness.
3) To the Circus de Soleil performers heading downtown: You guys are awesome. I wish I had a valid excuse to wear an outfit like that in public. -.-
A boy can dream.
867
Me: “and your name please?”
SC: “Michael.”
Me: “Ok, last name?”
SC: “Jackson.”
Me: “…….”
SC: “…….”
Me: “….Michael Jackson?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “….your name is really Michael Jackson?”
SC: “Uh…..oh. Wait, no. <lastname>, Michael <lastname>.”
Wow. Just, wow. Here's a math problem for you: How much beer / whiskey / gas huffing / blows to the head do you have to endure to reach a mental state where you seriously have to sit down for a minute and think to figure out whether or not you’re Michael Jackson?
Me: “Postal code, please?”
SC: “Uh, XXX XXX”
Me: “Ok, and do you have a box number or-“
SC: "<Repeats postal code>"
Me: “Yes. But do you have a box number or is it general delivery?”
SC: “Didn’t I already tell you?”
Me: “No, you told me your postal code.”
SC: “Oh, uh…”
Ok, you are way, way too drunk to be attempting this. I don’t know exactly how much alcohol you’ve consumed this evening but I’m willing to bet your blood is probably flammable at this point. You may want to just set the phone down and seek immediate medical assistance.
Me: “and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh…..um….hold on….”
( At this point someone else picks up another phone in the house )
SC2: “411?”
( I have no idea why they picked up the phone to say that. )
SC: “LISA! I’M ON THE PHONE!$@”
SC2: “Ok, geez.”
SC: “Bye!”
At this point they both hung up their respective phones. Thus hanging up on me. He never called back. I assume because he succumbed to alcohol poisoning.
Patience
SC: “Yes, hi, I called a little while ago? No one’s shown up yet.”
Me: “Well, I did page the resident manager for you.”
SC: “It’s been over 10 minutes.”
( Actually, it’s been exactly 4 minutes according to my call logs )
Me: “Well it’s only been a few minutes since I paged him.”
SC: “I just thought someone would be here FASTER. But I understand and I’ll wait patiently.”
Oh, really? Will you? Whew, well, that’s a load off my shoulders! Why I’ve spent literally the last 4 whole minutes just wracked with worry about how long you’d end up waiting.
867
Me: “Alright and your name please?”
SC: “Uh…ragabblleffulslalsaaal………blaraaf……<click> ”
Ok, now he’s succumbed to alcohol poisoning.
867
( A very, very obviously male caller... )
Me: “Ok, and your name please?”
SC: “Anne.”
Me: “….Anne?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “…are you placing an order for Anne?”
SC: “Uh…no.”
Me: “So, your name is ireally Anne?”
SC: “Uhhhh....er....um...….yeah?”
The only way your name is Anne is if you just underwent a rather elaborate surgical procedure and the hormone treatments haven’t kicked in yet.
Really? No way!
SC: “Pacific time? That’s like…uh…what…9am here….”
Me: “In an hour and a half.”
SC: “Ah, ok. I’m in Jamaica and Jamaica’s like a WHOLE other time, dude..”
Umm….yes, yes it is. It’s also rather notable for some of its…er..….crops……which you seem to have been partaking in. Heavily.
and I rest....
Again? But That Trick Never Works.
SC: “I just got home and I want to complain that someone has been in my suite without my permission.”
Alright, I suppose I could at least take a message. Management is suppose to give notice before entertaining a suite unless it’s on fire or something.
Me: “Alright, was anything wrong with the suite?”
SC: “There are papers.”
….papers….
Me: “Papers?”
SC: “Yeah, you know. Papers. Like a receipt. There’s paper on the floor. It wasn’t there when I left!”
….there’s a receipt….on the floor…so someone must have snuck into your apartment?
SC: “These people have their own agenda! This isn’t like the people 3 doors down. I’m calling as my own person tonight! These people are taking advantage of me-“
Whoa whoa whoa, wait. I know you. You’re that raging psychotic from a week or two back that was convinced people were tampering with your suite because you came home and the carpet was “wrong”. Bloody Hell, is this a nightly occurrence for you? Do you meticulously map the position of every single object in your home before you leave? Then painstakingly measure it all when you get home because even the slightest millimeter of movement indicates an invader?
SC: “They’ve taken advantage of me in every single way! Physically, emotionally, financially-“
You’re drifting off into some really weird territory again….who exactly are these people and/or things that haunt you, sneak into your suite, do unspeakable things to your carpet and then leave a receipt for their services?
SC: “The building next door is called Dolphin something. Dawson or Dolphin. Dolphin street, Dolphin bay…”
Dolphins? How did we get to dolphins? I thought we were still talking about leprechauns breaking into your suite and molesting the upholstery?
Me: “Ok, this is the emergency line for property management. What exactly is it that you want me to do for you? The majority of your concerns should be addressed to the office-“
Or a psyche ward.
Me: “-during the day.”
SC: “Is this an emergency? How would you feel if you came home tonight and some ONE had been inside your suite and you could see that they’d been there!”
If a receipt was on the floor when I came home I would put it back on top of the fridge and go to bed. But this is because I’m relatively sane and do not attribute the slight displacement of small, unimportant objects in my home to leprechauns, home invaders, alien intervention or shadowy government organizations. Nor do I get down on my knees and examine individual carpet fibers for signs of tampering.
Luckily for me she eventually became so upset that I wasn’t upset that she hung up. Works for me.
For My Powers Are Vast
Me: “and your phone number please?”
SC: “uh…xxxx”
Me: “…….”
SC: “….um, wait, xxx-xxxx?”
Me: “……”
SC: “Oh, uh, xxx-xxx-xxxx?”
Me: “Thank you.
See that? I’ve actually perfected giving people The Look™ over a phone line.
Technically...
Me: “and what city are you in?”
C: “Las Vegas…..Nevada.”
Me: “Ok, w-“
C: “Well, I guess there’s really only one Las Vegas. Isn’t there?”
That would be a safe assumption to make, yes. But technically there is one other Las Vegas in New Mexico. However, due to certain…..factors, they are pretty easy to tell apart. So next time, if you want to be specific, just say “Las Vegas….you know, the one where you snort coke off the tit of a hooker dressed like Elvis and wake up married to her the next day."
That should clear up any confusion.
Public Transit <twitch>
On the big list of things you don’t want to hear your bus driver say:
Passenger: “Hey, you’ve got that blue LED on your speedometers now.”
Driver: “Yeah, pretty cool, ain’t it?”
Passenger: “Yeah..”
Driver: “It’s even cooler when you’re sober!”
Passenger: “Hah, yeah. Well jus get us there fast, ok?”
Driver: “I’ll drive it like I stole it, hang on.”
And indeed he did. >.>
867
Me: “and what would you like to order?”
SC: “SHIRT!$%!#%!”
Me: “….ok, what’s the id number?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Alright, and what size would you like?”
SC: “Uh….are they same size as pants?!”
Me: “…..no, they come in shirt sizes.”
SC: “Um…..28!?”
Me: “…..the highest I have is 11”
SC: “Oh…uh…..”
I believe I just pointed out you can’t apply the size of your jeans to a shirt. In fact if my sizing guide here is correct a size 28 shirt would be almost twice the size of a 28’’ pair of pants. So unless the rest of the village is planning to use you as a novelty kite for some sort of walrus shaving festival I think you better take a look at the catalog again and pick a number that actually appears under the item.
Me: “ok, anything else?”
SC: “Um, shirt, xxxx-xx”
Me: “Alright, in what size?”
SC: “Uh…..30!!!”
…didn’t we just cover this? Was my previous explanation insufficient or are you just trying to upgrade from kite flying to dog sled paragliding?
867
Me: “and your postal code?”
SC: “Uh….X….um….”
Me: “……”
SC: “uh…..wait, lemme get my mom. You can ask her.”
Yes, of course. I mean you only sound like you’re what? 35? 36? Clearly you don’t yet possess the maturity to handle the kind of responsibility I’m placing in your hands during this grueling interrogation. Perhaps someday, when you’re all grown up ( Say 40? 50? ) you’ll be ready to handle this awesome responsibility. Until then, isn’t it past your bed time? It is a school night, young man and the 6th grade waits for no one.
Right..
SC: “Oh, I didn’t even think! I’m English, sorry.”
That’s a strange explanation for your lack of mental capacity. England doesn’t leap to mind when I think of people that are tragically deficient in functioning brain cells. There is a place that does come to mind, but its more….north.
....
SC: “I NEVER TALK FOR YOU!”
Right back at ya, crack weasel.
STOP TOUCHING ME
( Friday the 13th.. >< )
I swear some nights the best part about working downtown is simply the fact that there’s an elevator and 2 locked doors separately me from everyone else downtown. So on that note, I would like to drop a few notes to a select few individuals this evening. A “shout out” to my “homies” if you will.
1) To the guy that got on the Skytrain at Joyce station: A zipped up winter coat, Hawaiian shorts, flipflops and a 6 pack? Really? If I ever reach the point where my train of thought seriously goes “Well, I want something from the store. But I can’t be bothered actually putting pants or shoes on. But it is kinda chilly out so I should grab my jacket.” please just shove me off the platform onto the track just as the train is pulling in.
2) To the gold chain laden iPod rat boy that got on at Patterson: Hold. On. To. Something. The last two stops have propelled you off balance and almost ended with your face in my groin. This is not an arrangement I find appealing in any way shape or form and I would like to avoid it at any and all costs even if it puts you at great personal risk.
3) To the tarted up bar hopping she-creature and cohort that got on at Broadway. Thank you for cramming me right into the corner against the door. The 3 inches of personal space you allowed me was magnificent for basking in whatever glorious Wal-Mart $8.99 special fragrance you had painted on yourself before leaving the barn. Also: Hold. On. To. Something. Daintily pressing one hand against the ceiling in such a fashion as to not damage your rainbow pastel eagle talon like nails does not constitute a stable foundation. Which of course meant every turn sent you backwards to cram your misshapen behind into my groin. I do not want you in my groin anymore then I wanted rat boy in that area. In fact if I had to make a choice I’d probably take rat boy over you. For all his flaws at least he had tunes and he didn’t reek like a basket of dollar store potpourri.
4) To the co-hort of tarted up bar hopping she-creature that stayed on the train after she-creature got off at main street: Can you please take one set forward so that your purse isn’t wedged into my groin? I know your aromatic friend established the precedent of standing a mere 3 inchs from me but she’s gone now and there’s plenty of space. I don’t know what the hell it is about you people and trying to molest me on public transit this evening but I’d really appreciate it if everyone would just stay away from my groin.
Have I mentioned how much I love Friday nights in this city?
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh, you know, this JUICE. On page 39.”
Me: “…juice?”
SC: “The temp juice. Xxxx-xx”
Me: “…you mean the cooler?”
SC: “Yeah!”
Temp juice? What the hell? How did you even come up with that term? Like I really believe you’re going to keep juice in it.
SC: “and one more thing, a hat.”
A beer cooler and a hat? Isn’t that the Coat of Arms for Nunavut?
Me: “Ok, what size?”
SC: “11.”
Me: “….it would have to be a size like 7-1/2, 7-1/4, etc.”
SC: “28”
Me: “….”
I’m dead, aren’t I? I’m dead and this is some sort of purgatory where I’m paying for everything bad I ever did in my life. My Skytrain derailed coming into downtown and slammed right through Science World then teetered into the harbour. I’m a wide eyed, bloated corpse 40 feet underwater right now with both hands desperately trying to protect my groin, aren’t I?
Well, damn.
You People Need To Be Shot Too
Me: “Good morning, <co-“
SC: “GOOD MORNING!”
Me: “Hello, ho-“
SC: “HOW ARE YOU TODAY?!”
Ok, look here, Skippy. There’s nothing wrong with being cheerful. But there’s cheerful cheerful and then there’s “Makes other people want to beat you about the head and neck with a tire iron then roll the corpse off a pier in the dead of night” cheerful. Guess which one you are?
To Each Their Own
Caller called to complain that our news story this evening implied homeless people should try to stay in shelters if at all possible. Caller indicated a nice, cool, urine soaked doorway was more comfortable and less “stuffy”. He resented the implication he should find some place to sleep that was warm, indoors and/or not soaked in urine.
And Again....
It seems I must continue my public transit “shout outs” again this evening.
1) To the skinny white skater boy in the “You can take the kid out of the ghetto but you can’t take the ghetto out of the kid” t-shirt: HAhahahahahahaha <gasp> Wait…wait…<snerk> ahahahahahahaha. Dude, you’re listening to an iPod and sipping a Starbucks iced mocha. You’re about as “ghetto” as The Gap. Which is where I’m sure you work part time after school to keep your iPod stocked with Eminem and Good Charlotte.
If you spend 24 hours in a real ghetto you'd end up in a back alley somewhere on your knees in a blue sequin dress answering to the name of "Pixiesticks" and wondering if you will ever, ever, EVER be able to get this taste out of your mouth.
2) To the 60 something German man that sat down beside me: Yes, that seat is free and you are welcome to take it. It is freely offered to the public. However, can you please not cuddle up to me? You smell like pickles and sadness.
3) To the Circus de Soleil performers heading downtown: You guys are awesome. I wish I had a valid excuse to wear an outfit like that in public. -.-
A boy can dream.
867
Me: “and your name please?”
SC: “Michael.”
Me: “Ok, last name?”
SC: “Jackson.”
Me: “…….”
SC: “…….”
Me: “….Michael Jackson?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “….your name is really Michael Jackson?”
SC: “Uh…..oh. Wait, no. <lastname>, Michael <lastname>.”
Wow. Just, wow. Here's a math problem for you: How much beer / whiskey / gas huffing / blows to the head do you have to endure to reach a mental state where you seriously have to sit down for a minute and think to figure out whether or not you’re Michael Jackson?
Me: “Postal code, please?”
SC: “Uh, XXX XXX”
Me: “Ok, and do you have a box number or-“
SC: "<Repeats postal code>"
Me: “Yes. But do you have a box number or is it general delivery?”
SC: “Didn’t I already tell you?”
Me: “No, you told me your postal code.”
SC: “Oh, uh…”
Ok, you are way, way too drunk to be attempting this. I don’t know exactly how much alcohol you’ve consumed this evening but I’m willing to bet your blood is probably flammable at this point. You may want to just set the phone down and seek immediate medical assistance.
Me: “and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh…..um….hold on….”
( At this point someone else picks up another phone in the house )
SC2: “411?”
( I have no idea why they picked up the phone to say that. )
SC: “LISA! I’M ON THE PHONE!$@”
SC2: “Ok, geez.”
SC: “Bye!”
At this point they both hung up their respective phones. Thus hanging up on me. He never called back. I assume because he succumbed to alcohol poisoning.
Patience
SC: “Yes, hi, I called a little while ago? No one’s shown up yet.”
Me: “Well, I did page the resident manager for you.”
SC: “It’s been over 10 minutes.”
( Actually, it’s been exactly 4 minutes according to my call logs )
Me: “Well it’s only been a few minutes since I paged him.”
SC: “I just thought someone would be here FASTER. But I understand and I’ll wait patiently.”
Oh, really? Will you? Whew, well, that’s a load off my shoulders! Why I’ve spent literally the last 4 whole minutes just wracked with worry about how long you’d end up waiting.
867
Me: “Alright and your name please?”
SC: “Uh…ragabblleffulslalsaaal………blaraaf……<click> ”
Ok, now he’s succumbed to alcohol poisoning.
867
( A very, very obviously male caller... )
Me: “Ok, and your name please?”
SC: “Anne.”
Me: “….Anne?”
SC: “Yeah.”
Me: “…are you placing an order for Anne?”
SC: “Uh…no.”
Me: “So, your name is ireally Anne?”
SC: “Uhhhh....er....um...….yeah?”
The only way your name is Anne is if you just underwent a rather elaborate surgical procedure and the hormone treatments haven’t kicked in yet.
Really? No way!
SC: “Pacific time? That’s like…uh…what…9am here….”
Me: “In an hour and a half.”
SC: “Ah, ok. I’m in Jamaica and Jamaica’s like a WHOLE other time, dude..”
Umm….yes, yes it is. It’s also rather notable for some of its…er..….crops……which you seem to have been partaking in. Heavily.
and I rest....
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