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Hershey's Kisses
Just a forewarning I may be about to utterly ruin these delicious chocolaty treats forever for you.
My coworkers received no such warning.
But my boss thought it was funny so I'm safe. >.>
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “….uh…..do I just say the ID number?”
Nah, just describe the picture on the page and I should be able to figure it out. Hell, just lick the picture and tell me what it tastes like, I should be able to take it from there. Heck, you know what? Just take the catalog, roll it up, unzip your pants and shove it down the front and tell me the first muppet that comes to mind. I’ll figure it out from there.
Why, God? WHY?
Me: “Good evening, <company>, are you calling about our <product>?”
SC: “No.”
Me: “….”
SC: “….”
SC: “<click>”
Wait! What were you calling for!? You can’t just hang up now and leave me hanging! I must know the answer to this mystery lest it haunt me for days, weeks, or even right to the very foot of my likely shallow grave. When I’m on my death bed, dying from whatever complex mix of horrific diseases and/or disorders I’ve developed from the stress of interacting with you people, I don’t want to be wracking my brain for the elusive answer as to why you called. Why? WHY?! ANSWER ME!
...what
SC: “I have a kaka later.”
Alrighty. Well, er, you go…um…enjoy I guess. I’m not 100% sure what a “kaka” is. I have a few theories. None of which are overly appropriate for work and one that actually involves a goat. But in all honesty I can work a goat into practically any mental image, regardless of how bizarre or depraved.
Hey, everyone needs a talent.
Truly
Me: “Unfortunately, the number your calling is no longer in service.”
SC: “What? This is bull@#t!”
It is? I thought I was quite clear. The number is no longer assigned, hence it comes through to moi. That is the cruel, uncaring reality of this situation and you throwing pointless objections at it will in no way bend this heartless reality to your whim. Which is all really just an elaborate way of saying “Whatever, dumbass.”.
It Tells Me Things
Me: “and your zip code please?”
SC: “xxxxx”
Me: “Ok, is that Town A or Town B?”
SC: “I’m so glad you asked that! I always have to explain it too people that its Town B.”
Before you get too excited about my omnipotent greatness, it was actually the computer that told me. I personally have no knowledge of, utterly no caring of and even a small bit of contempt for Town B simply because it exists, you are in it, and you have chosen to call me. This trifecta of bitterness fuels the dark hatreds I quietly nurse behind my pleasant demeanor and phone manner which will eventually lead to the downfall of western civilization by my hands and the rise of my previously mentioned dark empire. Either that or I will simply go home and sooth the fires of my loathing with ice cream, inadvertently making Haagen Daas the saviour of society as you know it.
One of the two.
867
Me: “and what size?”
SC: “Black.”
….ok, so if I recall from last week, white meant something like “OH GOD I CAN SEE FOREVER AND IT IS ALL ICE AND ETERNAL LONELINESS” and thus 4XL. So the opposite, black, should be small as in the tiny, dark, lightless empty void inside your cranium where thoughts and dreams go to die. Right?
Me: “Ok, but what size?”
SC: “Uh, small.”
Bingo!
867
Me: “and your postal code please?”
SC: “…..um….”
Me: “……”
SC: “…..”
Why? Why is this always so hard? This is simple, basic, fundamentally information that every person should know. If you don’t know where you are, you either have severe mental problems or are currently tied up in someone’s trunk. Oh sure, there could be a logical explanation like you just moved and don’t know the new address yet. Except you live in the middle of absolutely nowhere and would likely die from exposure days before you ever reached another point of civilization if indeed you are even aware of the existence of civilization. To you, civilization is a dim concept that occasionally arrives by plane with pants, hats and beer. You were born there, live there and will likely die there if there is any justice in this world.
Then they’ll have to wait till spring, or whatever passes for spring there, before the ground is soft enough to bury your bloated carcass. In the meantime your buddy Jim will just keep you in his beer cooler in the shed to keep you fresh but then inevitably forget about you like that last near empty bag of fries that gets stuck in the back of the freezer behind everything else and goes unnoticed for 5 months until its completely freezer burnt and encased in a layer of frost. Then no matter what they do you just won’t thaw right and you’ll smell like the inside of the freezer all because they weren’t smart enough to use one of those Glad freezer ziplock bags to protect you from freezer burn. You know the ones where one side is yellow and the other is blue and you zip them together and they turn green? Yeah, those. Those things are ace I tell ya, they can keep a corpse fresh for months.
Not that I would know of course.
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size?”
SC: “Large.”
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “Make it a double!”
…it’s a jacket, ass tarp, not coffee. Stop trying to be clever and just tell me you want two. At least I’m assuming that’s what you want. If you want the jacket…er….double stuffed or something I’m afraid I can’t help you.
A Quick Note
Oh, and one last note. If a Skytrain cop tells you he’s denying you service and to get the hell off the train. NOW. The best response is “Yes, officer.” not “Hey, whats your badge number? GIVE ME YOUR BADGE NUMBER!” while poking him in the chest. That path leads only to ruin and possibly pepper spray.
867
Me: “Ok, and what’s the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Hmm, I don’t seem to have that one.”
SC: “I’m looking at the Spring catalog..”
Me: “O-“
SC: “2006.”
Me: “….”
Right. Just put it back into the cat litter box where you found it to begin with and let go of the brief, shimmering light of hope that suddenly filled your life as you were mining out kitty’s butt nuggets. It just wasn’t meant to be.
Hersey's Kiss
Me: “and your first name please?”
SC: “Ainalik”
…anal lick…right, ok. Well, that adds a whole new dimension to my fears and suspicions about my caller’s from the great white even more north then north. I realize there’s precious little to do there but this is pushing it a bit. When you reach the point where you’re seriously considering it after one of your buddies bets you $10 you won’t....how do I put this....suck the almond out of his Hersey's Kiss, then it’s probably time to take a step back and consider toning down your alcohol intake before you end up sitting at home, $10 richer, with a fantastic idea for the name of your first kid.
Also, a goat.
867
Caller: “I wanna order.”
Guy In Background: “Are you orderin’?!”
Caller: “Ya, I wanna order…er…um”
Guy In Background: “You dumbass!”
YES! Thank you! I never thought I’d agree with you northern yard apes on anything, but rock on my frozen scrotum'd friend! You speak the words I cannot and for that I thank you. Now if you could just strangle her with the phone cord for me I would be eternally grateful. Hey, there’s a pair of pants in it for you.
Just, no.
Me: “Ok, and just a single ticket?”
SC: “Yep.”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “The winning one, please!”
Me: “……”
SC: “…..”
SC: “I bet you’ve heard that like a million times already.”
Me: “Oh yes.”
Yet strangely that didn’t prevent you from your feeble attempt at humour. I guess you hadn’t yet made an ass of yourself today and what with it creeping up on midnight you had to rush to meet your quota. Try to plan ahead better tomorrow.
867
Me: “Alright, and your first name please?”
SC: “JULACANTA~!#”
Me: “….pardon?”
SC: “JULACANTA!”
Me: “….can you spell that for me, please?”
SC: “J-U-L-I-A”
Me: “…Julia?”
SC: “Yeah, JULACANTA~!”
Ok, you sound old enough to at least know how to say your own name. Even if you can’t quite scrawl it in crayon properly yet. I could sort of understand just “Jula”. Then I’d just assume you had some sort of neurological damage, high blood alcohol content or fervently inexplicable religious opposition to the letter “I” that was interfering. But the “CANTA~!” part is eluding me. Is that some sort of title? What does it translate too? “The Catalog Bearer”? Do the other villagers fall in awe at your feet and offer gifts of Doritos and plaid in exchange for 10 minutes alone with the catalog and a phone?
If so then by the gods you must be stopped at any cost. Even if I have to fly there and personally put an end to your reign of darkness with my bare hands. I know who you are now, Catalog Bearer, and I WILL find you!
Attire
So, its 10:15pm on a dark, cold, rainy October night. You’re downtown with your homies or dawgs or buds or whatever the Hell you call that pack of degenerates you hang out with. What would be your ideal choice of attire? If you said “Jeans and a wifebeater” then you’re right! You don’t typically see wifebeater attire outside of trailer parks, Nascar events and Walmart so I was a bit surprised to see it hunched over the counter at 7/11 this evening with absolutely no visible semblance of a neck or chin. Especially since its cold, miserable and pouring rain out.
But GK, you ask, why would a wifebeater clad man ape be at 7/11? Surely they tend to frequent vastly different establishments such as liquor stores or bingo halls? Yes, I was briefly puzzled as well. Then I noted his purchase: Approximately $17.53 worth of various Slim Jims and other dried meat snacks. I guess you can’t get a literal armful of meat snacks at a liquor store and it was getting really close to hibernation season. If you have an irrational late night lust for beef jerky, there’s really only one place you can go: 7/11. Though the bright lights, cars and other aspects of civilization seemed to have him alarmed and on edge. After getting his change he didn’t even wait for the clerk to bag anything, he scooped up all of his meat treats and made a bee line for the door.
Of course, it was the door with the big sign that said “Please Use Other Door” on it so he immediately and comically bounced off of it with a look of complete bafflement. It took him a moment to figure out what had happened then scurry over to the other door and away into the night with his cheeks full of delicious salty meat.
Hot Tips For America
SC: “Yeah, hi, I’m back in Vancouver. I made a promise with you guys and I’m just keeping that promise.”
Me: “…..ok”
SC: “I was over in Asia, you know, doing some mission work, fed some hungry kids. I promised you guys I’d call and let you know when I was back.”
Me: “…ok”
SC: “So just letting you know I’m back in town now.”
Me: “…ok.”
SC: “Thanks, bye.”
Me: “Bye.”
I’m not entirely sure what just happened but I’m glad at least one of us thought it was important. Because I certainly didn’t. I was afraid to say anything beyond “Ok” for fear it would come out “I could not feasibly care less about what you’re saying even if I actively spent the next 5 years secluding myself in the mountains, standing under waterfalls, wrestling bears and training specifically to kill all sense of emotion and worldly attachment I possess. You miserable rambling little ulcer in the very rectum of human society.”
You know, a little slip of the tongue.
Hot Tips for America #2
Me: “Good evening, <government agency<.”
SC: “Mr Bloomberg wants a 3rd term as mayor of New York. I say NO.”
Me: “….”
SC: “<click>”
…alright this is something I’ve been wondering about for a long, long time here. Why do people feel the need to call the <government agency> or the <other US agency> just to register their opinion about something happening in the US? What do they think this is, a suggestion box? Like I’m diligently writing all of this down and forwarded it to the White House by express post for immediate consideration. Oh hey, btw Mr Bloomberg. I know you were going to go for that 3rd term and all, but hold the phones my friend! Captain Assface from downtown Vancouver, yeah, you know, up here in Canada, a different country, took a break away from furiously masturbating to the Red Ranger in old Power Ranger reruns and rummaging through back alleys for cigarette butts to blindly stumble his way to a payphone to call and register his opinion on the matter. Now that Captain Assface disagrees, you really should just consider retiring.
Are You Doing This To Enrage Me?
SC: “I want to order 10 bags of shelled hemp seeds.”
Me: “Alright, what size bags?”
SC: “1.25lbs.”
Me: “Ok, t-“
SC: “It says they’re $128 on the website”
Me: “Yes”
SC: “But when you go to the next page, it says $167!”
Me: “Hmmm, its coming up as $128 for me.”
SC: “Go to the next page~!!”
Me: “It comes up as $128 in my shopping cart as well-“
SC: “It says $167 on the next page.}!@”
Me: “Right…ok, do you have an account with us already?”
SC: “Yes.”
Me: “Alright, can I have your user name and password please?”
SC: “Oh I don’t remember any of that.”
Me: “Hmm, ok, well I can have your password emailed to you, but I don’t have direct access to your account without your login.”
SC: “Can’t you just pull me up?!”
Me: “No, sorry, I can’t pull up your account info without your login.”
SC: “Well can’t you just place an order anyway?!”
Me: "I can but I'd have to make a new account for-"
SC: "FORGET IT I'LL JUST DO IT ON THE WEBSITE~!"
Are you doing this on purpose? Were you sitting there actively trying to figure out some way to experience the silent rage and loathing of a poor, faceless customer service representative? I thought hemp seeds were suppose to be some sort of super food that granted health and enlightenment. Not Butthole fuel. Because that’s what you are, and that’s what you’re ordering. Butthole fuel.
Dark Gods
SC: “Yeah, I just wanted to leave a message for my cousin to call me back.”
Me: “Ok-“
SC: “Yeah, I’m working at MacDonald’s now and I’m interested in his house.”
Me: “….ok?”
SC: “I only have an income of 1500, but I wanted to let my cousin know.”
Me: “Alright, we-“
SC: “Yeah, last time I saw him I hurt my back. So now I’m trying to get back on my feet at McDonalds”
Dude, stop. I don’t care. I seriously do. Not. Care. At all, on any level. Take your little burger flipping heinie, $1500 income and your crippling back injuries and go whine to whomever your cousin is. Because I am not your cousin and I care absolutely nothing for your pain or suffering. In fact I’m actively praying for the continuation and increased severity of your pain and suffering. I’m not 100% sure what God I have to pray too to inflict pain on McDonald’s employees, Anubis maybe? But I’ll figure it out and then me and my jackal headed friend will make you pay for this insolence. <shakes fist>
867
Me: “Good morning, <Company A>, <answering phrase from company B that has nothing to do with A?”
SC: “I wanna place an order.”
ARGH. I’m catching the STUPID. THEY'RE ROTTING MY BRAINMEATS.
Luckily, an hour later I was off shift and on my days off. >.>
My coworkers received no such warning.
But my boss thought it was funny so I'm safe. >.>
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “….uh…..do I just say the ID number?”
Nah, just describe the picture on the page and I should be able to figure it out. Hell, just lick the picture and tell me what it tastes like, I should be able to take it from there. Heck, you know what? Just take the catalog, roll it up, unzip your pants and shove it down the front and tell me the first muppet that comes to mind. I’ll figure it out from there.
Why, God? WHY?
Me: “Good evening, <company>, are you calling about our <product>?”
SC: “No.”
Me: “….”
SC: “….”
SC: “<click>”
Wait! What were you calling for!? You can’t just hang up now and leave me hanging! I must know the answer to this mystery lest it haunt me for days, weeks, or even right to the very foot of my likely shallow grave. When I’m on my death bed, dying from whatever complex mix of horrific diseases and/or disorders I’ve developed from the stress of interacting with you people, I don’t want to be wracking my brain for the elusive answer as to why you called. Why? WHY?! ANSWER ME!
...what
SC: “I have a kaka later.”
Alrighty. Well, er, you go…um…enjoy I guess. I’m not 100% sure what a “kaka” is. I have a few theories. None of which are overly appropriate for work and one that actually involves a goat. But in all honesty I can work a goat into practically any mental image, regardless of how bizarre or depraved.
Hey, everyone needs a talent.
Truly
Me: “Unfortunately, the number your calling is no longer in service.”
SC: “What? This is bull@#t!”
It is? I thought I was quite clear. The number is no longer assigned, hence it comes through to moi. That is the cruel, uncaring reality of this situation and you throwing pointless objections at it will in no way bend this heartless reality to your whim. Which is all really just an elaborate way of saying “Whatever, dumbass.”.
It Tells Me Things
Me: “and your zip code please?”
SC: “xxxxx”
Me: “Ok, is that Town A or Town B?”
SC: “I’m so glad you asked that! I always have to explain it too people that its Town B.”
Before you get too excited about my omnipotent greatness, it was actually the computer that told me. I personally have no knowledge of, utterly no caring of and even a small bit of contempt for Town B simply because it exists, you are in it, and you have chosen to call me. This trifecta of bitterness fuels the dark hatreds I quietly nurse behind my pleasant demeanor and phone manner which will eventually lead to the downfall of western civilization by my hands and the rise of my previously mentioned dark empire. Either that or I will simply go home and sooth the fires of my loathing with ice cream, inadvertently making Haagen Daas the saviour of society as you know it.
One of the two.
867
Me: “and what size?”
SC: “Black.”
….ok, so if I recall from last week, white meant something like “OH GOD I CAN SEE FOREVER AND IT IS ALL ICE AND ETERNAL LONELINESS” and thus 4XL. So the opposite, black, should be small as in the tiny, dark, lightless empty void inside your cranium where thoughts and dreams go to die. Right?
Me: “Ok, but what size?”
SC: “Uh, small.”
Bingo!
867
Me: “and your postal code please?”
SC: “…..um….”
Me: “……”
SC: “…..”
Why? Why is this always so hard? This is simple, basic, fundamentally information that every person should know. If you don’t know where you are, you either have severe mental problems or are currently tied up in someone’s trunk. Oh sure, there could be a logical explanation like you just moved and don’t know the new address yet. Except you live in the middle of absolutely nowhere and would likely die from exposure days before you ever reached another point of civilization if indeed you are even aware of the existence of civilization. To you, civilization is a dim concept that occasionally arrives by plane with pants, hats and beer. You were born there, live there and will likely die there if there is any justice in this world.
Then they’ll have to wait till spring, or whatever passes for spring there, before the ground is soft enough to bury your bloated carcass. In the meantime your buddy Jim will just keep you in his beer cooler in the shed to keep you fresh but then inevitably forget about you like that last near empty bag of fries that gets stuck in the back of the freezer behind everything else and goes unnoticed for 5 months until its completely freezer burnt and encased in a layer of frost. Then no matter what they do you just won’t thaw right and you’ll smell like the inside of the freezer all because they weren’t smart enough to use one of those Glad freezer ziplock bags to protect you from freezer burn. You know the ones where one side is yellow and the other is blue and you zip them together and they turn green? Yeah, those. Those things are ace I tell ya, they can keep a corpse fresh for months.
Not that I would know of course.
867
Me: “Ok, and what would you like to order?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Ok, what size?”
SC: “Large.”
Me: “Alright, anything else?”
SC: “Make it a double!”
…it’s a jacket, ass tarp, not coffee. Stop trying to be clever and just tell me you want two. At least I’m assuming that’s what you want. If you want the jacket…er….double stuffed or something I’m afraid I can’t help you.
A Quick Note
Oh, and one last note. If a Skytrain cop tells you he’s denying you service and to get the hell off the train. NOW. The best response is “Yes, officer.” not “Hey, whats your badge number? GIVE ME YOUR BADGE NUMBER!” while poking him in the chest. That path leads only to ruin and possibly pepper spray.
867
Me: “Ok, and what’s the item number please?”
SC: “xxxx-xx”
Me: “Hmm, I don’t seem to have that one.”
SC: “I’m looking at the Spring catalog..”
Me: “O-“
SC: “2006.”
Me: “….”
Right. Just put it back into the cat litter box where you found it to begin with and let go of the brief, shimmering light of hope that suddenly filled your life as you were mining out kitty’s butt nuggets. It just wasn’t meant to be.
Hersey's Kiss
Me: “and your first name please?”
SC: “Ainalik”
…anal lick…right, ok. Well, that adds a whole new dimension to my fears and suspicions about my caller’s from the great white even more north then north. I realize there’s precious little to do there but this is pushing it a bit. When you reach the point where you’re seriously considering it after one of your buddies bets you $10 you won’t....how do I put this....suck the almond out of his Hersey's Kiss, then it’s probably time to take a step back and consider toning down your alcohol intake before you end up sitting at home, $10 richer, with a fantastic idea for the name of your first kid.
Also, a goat.
867
Caller: “I wanna order.”
Guy In Background: “Are you orderin’?!”
Caller: “Ya, I wanna order…er…um”
Guy In Background: “You dumbass!”
YES! Thank you! I never thought I’d agree with you northern yard apes on anything, but rock on my frozen scrotum'd friend! You speak the words I cannot and for that I thank you. Now if you could just strangle her with the phone cord for me I would be eternally grateful. Hey, there’s a pair of pants in it for you.
Just, no.
Me: “Ok, and just a single ticket?”
SC: “Yep.”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “The winning one, please!”
Me: “……”
SC: “…..”
SC: “I bet you’ve heard that like a million times already.”
Me: “Oh yes.”
Yet strangely that didn’t prevent you from your feeble attempt at humour. I guess you hadn’t yet made an ass of yourself today and what with it creeping up on midnight you had to rush to meet your quota. Try to plan ahead better tomorrow.
867
Me: “Alright, and your first name please?”
SC: “JULACANTA~!#”
Me: “….pardon?”
SC: “JULACANTA!”
Me: “….can you spell that for me, please?”
SC: “J-U-L-I-A”
Me: “…Julia?”
SC: “Yeah, JULACANTA~!”
Ok, you sound old enough to at least know how to say your own name. Even if you can’t quite scrawl it in crayon properly yet. I could sort of understand just “Jula”. Then I’d just assume you had some sort of neurological damage, high blood alcohol content or fervently inexplicable religious opposition to the letter “I” that was interfering. But the “CANTA~!” part is eluding me. Is that some sort of title? What does it translate too? “The Catalog Bearer”? Do the other villagers fall in awe at your feet and offer gifts of Doritos and plaid in exchange for 10 minutes alone with the catalog and a phone?
If so then by the gods you must be stopped at any cost. Even if I have to fly there and personally put an end to your reign of darkness with my bare hands. I know who you are now, Catalog Bearer, and I WILL find you!
Attire
So, its 10:15pm on a dark, cold, rainy October night. You’re downtown with your homies or dawgs or buds or whatever the Hell you call that pack of degenerates you hang out with. What would be your ideal choice of attire? If you said “Jeans and a wifebeater” then you’re right! You don’t typically see wifebeater attire outside of trailer parks, Nascar events and Walmart so I was a bit surprised to see it hunched over the counter at 7/11 this evening with absolutely no visible semblance of a neck or chin. Especially since its cold, miserable and pouring rain out.
But GK, you ask, why would a wifebeater clad man ape be at 7/11? Surely they tend to frequent vastly different establishments such as liquor stores or bingo halls? Yes, I was briefly puzzled as well. Then I noted his purchase: Approximately $17.53 worth of various Slim Jims and other dried meat snacks. I guess you can’t get a literal armful of meat snacks at a liquor store and it was getting really close to hibernation season. If you have an irrational late night lust for beef jerky, there’s really only one place you can go: 7/11. Though the bright lights, cars and other aspects of civilization seemed to have him alarmed and on edge. After getting his change he didn’t even wait for the clerk to bag anything, he scooped up all of his meat treats and made a bee line for the door.
Of course, it was the door with the big sign that said “Please Use Other Door” on it so he immediately and comically bounced off of it with a look of complete bafflement. It took him a moment to figure out what had happened then scurry over to the other door and away into the night with his cheeks full of delicious salty meat.
Hot Tips For America
SC: “Yeah, hi, I’m back in Vancouver. I made a promise with you guys and I’m just keeping that promise.”
Me: “…..ok”
SC: “I was over in Asia, you know, doing some mission work, fed some hungry kids. I promised you guys I’d call and let you know when I was back.”
Me: “…ok”
SC: “So just letting you know I’m back in town now.”
Me: “…ok.”
SC: “Thanks, bye.”
Me: “Bye.”
I’m not entirely sure what just happened but I’m glad at least one of us thought it was important. Because I certainly didn’t. I was afraid to say anything beyond “Ok” for fear it would come out “I could not feasibly care less about what you’re saying even if I actively spent the next 5 years secluding myself in the mountains, standing under waterfalls, wrestling bears and training specifically to kill all sense of emotion and worldly attachment I possess. You miserable rambling little ulcer in the very rectum of human society.”
You know, a little slip of the tongue.
Hot Tips for America #2
Me: “Good evening, <government agency<.”
SC: “Mr Bloomberg wants a 3rd term as mayor of New York. I say NO.”
Me: “….”
SC: “<click>”
…alright this is something I’ve been wondering about for a long, long time here. Why do people feel the need to call the <government agency> or the <other US agency> just to register their opinion about something happening in the US? What do they think this is, a suggestion box? Like I’m diligently writing all of this down and forwarded it to the White House by express post for immediate consideration. Oh hey, btw Mr Bloomberg. I know you were going to go for that 3rd term and all, but hold the phones my friend! Captain Assface from downtown Vancouver, yeah, you know, up here in Canada, a different country, took a break away from furiously masturbating to the Red Ranger in old Power Ranger reruns and rummaging through back alleys for cigarette butts to blindly stumble his way to a payphone to call and register his opinion on the matter. Now that Captain Assface disagrees, you really should just consider retiring.
Are You Doing This To Enrage Me?
SC: “I want to order 10 bags of shelled hemp seeds.”
Me: “Alright, what size bags?”
SC: “1.25lbs.”
Me: “Ok, t-“
SC: “It says they’re $128 on the website”
Me: “Yes”
SC: “But when you go to the next page, it says $167!”
Me: “Hmmm, its coming up as $128 for me.”
SC: “Go to the next page~!!”
Me: “It comes up as $128 in my shopping cart as well-“
SC: “It says $167 on the next page.}!@”
Me: “Right…ok, do you have an account with us already?”
SC: “Yes.”
Me: “Alright, can I have your user name and password please?”
SC: “Oh I don’t remember any of that.”
Me: “Hmm, ok, well I can have your password emailed to you, but I don’t have direct access to your account without your login.”
SC: “Can’t you just pull me up?!”
Me: “No, sorry, I can’t pull up your account info without your login.”
SC: “Well can’t you just place an order anyway?!”
Me: "I can but I'd have to make a new account for-"
SC: "FORGET IT I'LL JUST DO IT ON THE WEBSITE~!"
Are you doing this on purpose? Were you sitting there actively trying to figure out some way to experience the silent rage and loathing of a poor, faceless customer service representative? I thought hemp seeds were suppose to be some sort of super food that granted health and enlightenment. Not Butthole fuel. Because that’s what you are, and that’s what you’re ordering. Butthole fuel.
Dark Gods
SC: “Yeah, I just wanted to leave a message for my cousin to call me back.”
Me: “Ok-“
SC: “Yeah, I’m working at MacDonald’s now and I’m interested in his house.”
Me: “….ok?”
SC: “I only have an income of 1500, but I wanted to let my cousin know.”
Me: “Alright, we-“
SC: “Yeah, last time I saw him I hurt my back. So now I’m trying to get back on my feet at McDonalds”
Dude, stop. I don’t care. I seriously do. Not. Care. At all, on any level. Take your little burger flipping heinie, $1500 income and your crippling back injuries and go whine to whomever your cousin is. Because I am not your cousin and I care absolutely nothing for your pain or suffering. In fact I’m actively praying for the continuation and increased severity of your pain and suffering. I’m not 100% sure what God I have to pray too to inflict pain on McDonald’s employees, Anubis maybe? But I’ll figure it out and then me and my jackal headed friend will make you pay for this insolence. <shakes fist>
867
Me: “Good morning, <Company A>, <answering phrase from company B that has nothing to do with A?”
SC: “I wanna place an order.”
ARGH. I’m catching the STUPID. THEY'RE ROTTING MY BRAINMEATS.
Luckily, an hour later I was off shift and on my days off. >.>
Glad I'm not the only one who does that!
(On the same subject, 5 mil plastic tarp is far superior to ziplocs. Of course, if you've done the kind of "preparation" needed to store things in ziplocs, you may not need that advice.)
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