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PIMPJUICE.
Pimpjuice! Pimpjuice. Argh~@!
Also I've been told this week's edition includes some of the most horrifying imagery I have ever written. Just a head's up. =p
Hot Tips for America
Me: “Good evening, <client>.”
SC: “Yes, I just wanted to let you know that the RCMP have created a time paradox.”
Me: “Well, time paradoxes ARE their jurisdiction.”
SC: “They created a time paradox, and that’s bad.”
Me: “Well, yes, time paradoxes are bad ( mmkay? ). But that’s their jurisdiction. Time paradoxes aren’t in our jurisdiction.”
SC: “Oh, ok. Sorry. Bye.”
Is it bad that Reason(tm) works better on my delusional and/or mentally unstable callers then it does on my regular callers?
867
Me: “and what size would you like?”
SC: “27”
Me: “Ok, a-“
SC: “But I want a 25 in-seam.”
Me: “Unfortunately-“
SC: “I’m a short lady! Teehee!”
That’s very nice, and really just lends further credence to my theory that you’re all some sort of hunched over gremlin like bipeds with a genetic disposition towards plaid patterns, BUT, that being said I have no control over the length of your crotch destiny. You’ll have to roll up your pant legs to the required height yourself then affix them there with whatever materials are available be it duct tape, safety pins or Flintstones band-aids.
If anyone in the office has a 25’ inseam. Please don’t hurt me. You’re not a gremlin….I think. I mean…I’m pretty sure I’d notice gremlins. I'm not quite that desensitized yet.
867
Me: “and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh, the fighter shorts!”
Ah, yes. Those bad boys are +2 to Con, you know.
PIMPJUICE.
You know those beer coolers? Do you know what they come stocked with in the new Summer sale? Pimpjuice. Pimpjuice. Pimpjuice. I’ve been shipping PIMPJUICE to Nunavut. PIMPJUICE. What in the…..Hell is….but…..Pimpjuice? Seriously, Pimpjuice? I’m not only horrified by the fact such a product exists, but that its being ordered and shipped to the barren arctic reaches of Canada. What in the world are they doing with Pimpjuice? What is Pimpjuice? Do they even know what a pimp is up there? I don’t think Nunavut has any “hoes” with which one would practice the dubious profession of pimping, or pimpage or pimporing or whatever the verb is.
Apparently, it’s an energy drink. Full of raw pimpin’ energy. Pimpalicious if you will. I tried running it through Wiki and it further elaborated. It is uncarbonated and tastes kind of like apple juice with a bit of a medicine like aftertaste. So pimpjuice = apple juice cough syrup. Which makes apples the pimpfruit. That’s right.
Apples? Apples be pimpin’.
THE HORROR.
Whilst on my way in this morning I overheard a voice on the Skytrain….a familiar voice. It sounded exactly like….the voices of the arctic lands. The voices of Nunavut. Curiously, I turned my head to look…..and I shall forever regret that moment as long as I live. I’m not 100% how to describe the creature which I be held without painting a picture so horrifying that you, my peers, will not forgive me for many years. But I shall try none the less as perhaps by sharing the experience I can lessen the fear that now grips my soul.
It twas a creature at least in its mid twenties, but it had greedily pilfered cloths from what I’m assuming was the children’s section of Walmart. They were vastly inadequate for holding back the sheer…dough….that they were being forced to restrain. I’m actually surprised she had not yet passed out from the halter top cutting off blood to the arms and brain. Though that would indicate that the latter is of little use to the creature.
But that was not the true horror. The true horror was the pants. These poor, poor pants. Originally crafted for a 6 year old they had no idea what dark fate awaited them. It was not only that they were so tight they were almost drawing blood but they were so low. So very, very low. So frighteningly, horrifying low. So low they were revealing….things. Things in the front. Things that no one but her husband/boyfriend and or doctor should be forced to witness. I don’t mean plumber’s crack. I can endure that. I mean a dark, horrifying thing like the entrance to a hedge maze of unspeakable sadness.
My God. Oh My GOD. You could clean a rusty GRILL with that. It looks like it's trying to escape out from under a plastic bag full of warm cookie dough.
What has been seen cannot be unseen. ><
You sir, are kind of a dick.
Me: “and what credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “Oh, let me get it out here. I didn’t have it out yet. You answered too fast.”
Me: “Alright.”
SC: “That’s a first isn’t it?”
Awww, did the poor baby have to wait on hold more than 10 seconds the first time you called at the last minute to try and order before the sale deadline when you’ve already had *3* months in which you could have bought them? You’ll pardon me while I put you on hold again to try and find my magic pixie sympathy dust with which to frolic about the office locked in the embrace of intricate dance and bath myself with it in the hopes that by the time I come back on the line it’s magical power will infuse me with the ability to actually give a flaming rat’s ass hair over an open Kansai style grill about your whining.
Stylin'
I’m not 100% sure what a “Masta’ Card” is. But I’m assuming it’s far more hip and edgy then that square, Mastercard.
Questions
SC: “I’ve called 411 three times now and they keep giving me this number. I know it’s the wrong number but do you have the right number?”
No, no I do not have the right number. Why would you even think I had the right number? You’re fully aware this is the wrong number. Thus you are aware that I am nowhere near the right number, not related to the right number and there is no expectation or even chance that I would know anything about the right number. Yet, either from the port of desperation or abject stupidity, you have launched forth your rickety bamboo inquiry into Hurricane Common Sense in the hopes that maybe, MAYBE it would somehow survive and wash up on the shores of the new world.
Thanks.
SC: “Hi, I was calling to ask if you can you order online or is it just by phone?”
Me: “They can be ordered online as well.”
SC: “Well I’ll just order it on the phone since I already have you.”
Wow, what a fantastically pointless question. Thank you for that. I don’t get nearly enough of those at night so every possible one you can throw to me is like a sweet sweet vaguely chocolate scented jewel of happiness in my otherwise drab and mundane shift.
Yes.
Me: “Do you have customer id number?”
SC: “I do but I don’t have it in front of me.”
Me: “Ok.”
SC: “I should have had it ready before I called, eh?”
No! Get out of my head Charles!
7/11...
Attention bridge troll in line at 7/11: “Non-spiciest” is not only not a word but a logical fallacy. I assume you mean “least spicy” as you were inquiring about the rotating, sweaty room temperature tube meat 7/11 offers. However, “non-spiciest” would merely rule out the most spicy option. So technically everything on the rollers is the “non-spiciest” except for the spiciest roll of tube meat which would be your arch-nemesis.
Also, how about paying for your food and drink before you start chowing down. Jeebus, you didn’t have anything but a wrapper and half a bottle of Gatorade to offer the store clerk when you got to the front. If you seriously can’t wait 60 seconds to buy it before you eat it maybe you shouldn’t be allowed out from under the bridge without adult supervision.
Enunciate.
It’s Phoenix. Phoenix. Not “Foenix”, “Funix” or “Fieeeenax”. I’m not sure what’s going down there but apparently American Airlines flight xxx is where pronunciation goes to die.
Rebellion
Me: “Are you in Canada or the US?”
SC: “Oh, no, we’re in Grand Bend.”
Which, by your own admission, is an hour away from London, Ontario. Which is in Canada. Unless you’ve recently ceded from Confederation? A rather bold move if I do say so myself. Especially considering with your town’s population I could round up a couple friends, borrow my mom’s RV, drive over there and probably conquer you in the name of Canada in about half an hour of ground combat using only a couple hockey stick and some stale Timbits thrown from the passenger side window for fire support.
A 3 day old Timbit will take down an elk.
Not Again
Gah, you again. The carpet molesting leprechaun receipt woman. You’re starting to become a weekend regular and I can’t say I’m pleased by your career choice. I’m not entirely sure what your problem is but I hope there’s medication for it.
Tonight’s issue was something about a water leak, moldy ceilings, harassment and of course, compensation for all of the great trials that have been set upon you. All of these events “may or may not have happened” as you put it. But you did mention that you had video evidence of some of them as you had been dutifully recording every transgression in the form of filming your ceiling to see if water drips from it. I’m assuming even the slightest condensation would be a sign from the Gods of the injustices you’ve suffered. All of these things we’re robbing you of your “quiet enjoyment” of your suite.
You refused to give me your name or any contact information citing that the line may be tapped or bugged. Part of the grand conspiracy to molest your carpet and what not. You demanded to know if the property manager on call was currently enjoying a home free of various plagues that were set upon you. I assumed yes, since he doesn’t strike me as an overly paranoia, heavy meth user like yourself. So I’m guessing he doesn’t need to spend 8 hours videotaping his ceiling to vindicate his random suspicions of the cruel injustice that is life.
The best part was when I finally told her I was going to terminate the call she had the nerve to ask me what my problem was.
Like, Omigawd.
I’m not sure if anyone has ever had to try and book hotel rooms for a pack of teenage girls before. But it’s an experience akin to rounding up 3 Chihuahua’s and a Jack Russell terrier, feeding them 2 cans of Red Bull and a handful of Ecstasy pills each then trying to get them to wake a straight line through the Play Pen at Mcdonald’s during the dinner rush.
For reference I was talking to the Jack Russell terrier. For whom “Omigawd, Dude” was not a phrase, but a comma. Our most precious resource indeed.
Sigh.
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Yeah, can you gif me teh last number of carb?”
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “I need teh last number”
Me: “Last number of what?”
SC: “Of the cab!”
Me: “You have the wrong number.”
SC: “Wha?”
Me: “You’ve called the wrong number.”
SC: “Where’s this?”
Me: “This is <company>. You’ve dialed the wrong number.”
SC: “Yer like, the biggest fag. Gaylord.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “Really, you’re like a huge idiot. Fag.”
Me: “I’m not the one that called the wrong number.”
SC: "FAG!"
If you’re just about finished aiming that trebuchet at me from the comfort of the living room of your glass house, I’d appreciate it if you got off the line.
867
SC: “Yeah, I’d like to place another order.”
Me: “Ok, would you like me to just add it to your previous order?”
SC: “Nah, I’ll just make another order.”
Me: “You sure? It’d save you $40 on the shipping.”
SC: “I’ll just make another order.”
Me: “Ok….”
She then proceeded to give me the same name, number and address as the first order from 15 minutes ago. I tried to save her, I really did. But even I’m not at match for stupidity backed by that kind of blind determination. I could be wrong, maybe she really isn’t as big of a glaring idiot as she appears to be. Maybe she’s ordering for her brother/boyfriend/uncle and she wants him to pay separately, but she can’t use his name because he’s wanted on a Canada wide warrant for exposing himself to a tour bus full of senior citizens in downtown Toronto and then using both hands to have his man bits sing along with him through the first 3 verses of Come All Ye Faithful.
Could be either one, really.
Week over. -.-
Also I've been told this week's edition includes some of the most horrifying imagery I have ever written. Just a head's up. =p
Hot Tips for America
Me: “Good evening, <client>.”
SC: “Yes, I just wanted to let you know that the RCMP have created a time paradox.”
Me: “Well, time paradoxes ARE their jurisdiction.”
SC: “They created a time paradox, and that’s bad.”
Me: “Well, yes, time paradoxes are bad ( mmkay? ). But that’s their jurisdiction. Time paradoxes aren’t in our jurisdiction.”
SC: “Oh, ok. Sorry. Bye.”
Is it bad that Reason(tm) works better on my delusional and/or mentally unstable callers then it does on my regular callers?
867
Me: “and what size would you like?”
SC: “27”
Me: “Ok, a-“
SC: “But I want a 25 in-seam.”
Me: “Unfortunately-“
SC: “I’m a short lady! Teehee!”
That’s very nice, and really just lends further credence to my theory that you’re all some sort of hunched over gremlin like bipeds with a genetic disposition towards plaid patterns, BUT, that being said I have no control over the length of your crotch destiny. You’ll have to roll up your pant legs to the required height yourself then affix them there with whatever materials are available be it duct tape, safety pins or Flintstones band-aids.
If anyone in the office has a 25’ inseam. Please don’t hurt me. You’re not a gremlin….I think. I mean…I’m pretty sure I’d notice gremlins. I'm not quite that desensitized yet.
867
Me: “and what would you like to order?”
SC: “Uh, the fighter shorts!”
Ah, yes. Those bad boys are +2 to Con, you know.
PIMPJUICE.
You know those beer coolers? Do you know what they come stocked with in the new Summer sale? Pimpjuice. Pimpjuice. Pimpjuice. I’ve been shipping PIMPJUICE to Nunavut. PIMPJUICE. What in the…..Hell is….but…..Pimpjuice? Seriously, Pimpjuice? I’m not only horrified by the fact such a product exists, but that its being ordered and shipped to the barren arctic reaches of Canada. What in the world are they doing with Pimpjuice? What is Pimpjuice? Do they even know what a pimp is up there? I don’t think Nunavut has any “hoes” with which one would practice the dubious profession of pimping, or pimpage or pimporing or whatever the verb is.
Apparently, it’s an energy drink. Full of raw pimpin’ energy. Pimpalicious if you will. I tried running it through Wiki and it further elaborated. It is uncarbonated and tastes kind of like apple juice with a bit of a medicine like aftertaste. So pimpjuice = apple juice cough syrup. Which makes apples the pimpfruit. That’s right.
Apples? Apples be pimpin’.
THE HORROR.
Whilst on my way in this morning I overheard a voice on the Skytrain….a familiar voice. It sounded exactly like….the voices of the arctic lands. The voices of Nunavut. Curiously, I turned my head to look…..and I shall forever regret that moment as long as I live. I’m not 100% how to describe the creature which I be held without painting a picture so horrifying that you, my peers, will not forgive me for many years. But I shall try none the less as perhaps by sharing the experience I can lessen the fear that now grips my soul.
It twas a creature at least in its mid twenties, but it had greedily pilfered cloths from what I’m assuming was the children’s section of Walmart. They were vastly inadequate for holding back the sheer…dough….that they were being forced to restrain. I’m actually surprised she had not yet passed out from the halter top cutting off blood to the arms and brain. Though that would indicate that the latter is of little use to the creature.
But that was not the true horror. The true horror was the pants. These poor, poor pants. Originally crafted for a 6 year old they had no idea what dark fate awaited them. It was not only that they were so tight they were almost drawing blood but they were so low. So very, very low. So frighteningly, horrifying low. So low they were revealing….things. Things in the front. Things that no one but her husband/boyfriend and or doctor should be forced to witness. I don’t mean plumber’s crack. I can endure that. I mean a dark, horrifying thing like the entrance to a hedge maze of unspeakable sadness.
My God. Oh My GOD. You could clean a rusty GRILL with that. It looks like it's trying to escape out from under a plastic bag full of warm cookie dough.
What has been seen cannot be unseen. ><
You sir, are kind of a dick.
Me: “and what credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “Oh, let me get it out here. I didn’t have it out yet. You answered too fast.”
Me: “Alright.”
SC: “That’s a first isn’t it?”
Awww, did the poor baby have to wait on hold more than 10 seconds the first time you called at the last minute to try and order before the sale deadline when you’ve already had *3* months in which you could have bought them? You’ll pardon me while I put you on hold again to try and find my magic pixie sympathy dust with which to frolic about the office locked in the embrace of intricate dance and bath myself with it in the hopes that by the time I come back on the line it’s magical power will infuse me with the ability to actually give a flaming rat’s ass hair over an open Kansai style grill about your whining.
Stylin'
I’m not 100% sure what a “Masta’ Card” is. But I’m assuming it’s far more hip and edgy then that square, Mastercard.
Questions
SC: “I’ve called 411 three times now and they keep giving me this number. I know it’s the wrong number but do you have the right number?”
No, no I do not have the right number. Why would you even think I had the right number? You’re fully aware this is the wrong number. Thus you are aware that I am nowhere near the right number, not related to the right number and there is no expectation or even chance that I would know anything about the right number. Yet, either from the port of desperation or abject stupidity, you have launched forth your rickety bamboo inquiry into Hurricane Common Sense in the hopes that maybe, MAYBE it would somehow survive and wash up on the shores of the new world.
Thanks.
SC: “Hi, I was calling to ask if you can you order online or is it just by phone?”
Me: “They can be ordered online as well.”
SC: “Well I’ll just order it on the phone since I already have you.”
Wow, what a fantastically pointless question. Thank you for that. I don’t get nearly enough of those at night so every possible one you can throw to me is like a sweet sweet vaguely chocolate scented jewel of happiness in my otherwise drab and mundane shift.
Yes.
Me: “Do you have customer id number?”
SC: “I do but I don’t have it in front of me.”
Me: “Ok.”
SC: “I should have had it ready before I called, eh?”
No! Get out of my head Charles!
7/11...
Attention bridge troll in line at 7/11: “Non-spiciest” is not only not a word but a logical fallacy. I assume you mean “least spicy” as you were inquiring about the rotating, sweaty room temperature tube meat 7/11 offers. However, “non-spiciest” would merely rule out the most spicy option. So technically everything on the rollers is the “non-spiciest” except for the spiciest roll of tube meat which would be your arch-nemesis.
Also, how about paying for your food and drink before you start chowing down. Jeebus, you didn’t have anything but a wrapper and half a bottle of Gatorade to offer the store clerk when you got to the front. If you seriously can’t wait 60 seconds to buy it before you eat it maybe you shouldn’t be allowed out from under the bridge without adult supervision.
Enunciate.
It’s Phoenix. Phoenix. Not “Foenix”, “Funix” or “Fieeeenax”. I’m not sure what’s going down there but apparently American Airlines flight xxx is where pronunciation goes to die.
Rebellion
Me: “Are you in Canada or the US?”
SC: “Oh, no, we’re in Grand Bend.”
Which, by your own admission, is an hour away from London, Ontario. Which is in Canada. Unless you’ve recently ceded from Confederation? A rather bold move if I do say so myself. Especially considering with your town’s population I could round up a couple friends, borrow my mom’s RV, drive over there and probably conquer you in the name of Canada in about half an hour of ground combat using only a couple hockey stick and some stale Timbits thrown from the passenger side window for fire support.
A 3 day old Timbit will take down an elk.
Not Again
Gah, you again. The carpet molesting leprechaun receipt woman. You’re starting to become a weekend regular and I can’t say I’m pleased by your career choice. I’m not entirely sure what your problem is but I hope there’s medication for it.
Tonight’s issue was something about a water leak, moldy ceilings, harassment and of course, compensation for all of the great trials that have been set upon you. All of these events “may or may not have happened” as you put it. But you did mention that you had video evidence of some of them as you had been dutifully recording every transgression in the form of filming your ceiling to see if water drips from it. I’m assuming even the slightest condensation would be a sign from the Gods of the injustices you’ve suffered. All of these things we’re robbing you of your “quiet enjoyment” of your suite.
You refused to give me your name or any contact information citing that the line may be tapped or bugged. Part of the grand conspiracy to molest your carpet and what not. You demanded to know if the property manager on call was currently enjoying a home free of various plagues that were set upon you. I assumed yes, since he doesn’t strike me as an overly paranoia, heavy meth user like yourself. So I’m guessing he doesn’t need to spend 8 hours videotaping his ceiling to vindicate his random suspicions of the cruel injustice that is life.
The best part was when I finally told her I was going to terminate the call she had the nerve to ask me what my problem was.
Like, Omigawd.
I’m not sure if anyone has ever had to try and book hotel rooms for a pack of teenage girls before. But it’s an experience akin to rounding up 3 Chihuahua’s and a Jack Russell terrier, feeding them 2 cans of Red Bull and a handful of Ecstasy pills each then trying to get them to wake a straight line through the Play Pen at Mcdonald’s during the dinner rush.
For reference I was talking to the Jack Russell terrier. For whom “Omigawd, Dude” was not a phrase, but a comma. Our most precious resource indeed.
Sigh.
Me: “Good morning, <company>”
SC: “Yeah, can you gif me teh last number of carb?”
Me: “Pardon?”
SC: “I need teh last number”
Me: “Last number of what?”
SC: “Of the cab!”
Me: “You have the wrong number.”
SC: “Wha?”
Me: “You’ve called the wrong number.”
SC: “Where’s this?”
Me: “This is <company>. You’ve dialed the wrong number.”
SC: “Yer like, the biggest fag. Gaylord.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “Really, you’re like a huge idiot. Fag.”
Me: “I’m not the one that called the wrong number.”
SC: "FAG!"
If you’re just about finished aiming that trebuchet at me from the comfort of the living room of your glass house, I’d appreciate it if you got off the line.
867
SC: “Yeah, I’d like to place another order.”
Me: “Ok, would you like me to just add it to your previous order?”
SC: “Nah, I’ll just make another order.”
Me: “You sure? It’d save you $40 on the shipping.”
SC: “I’ll just make another order.”
Me: “Ok….”
She then proceeded to give me the same name, number and address as the first order from 15 minutes ago. I tried to save her, I really did. But even I’m not at match for stupidity backed by that kind of blind determination. I could be wrong, maybe she really isn’t as big of a glaring idiot as she appears to be. Maybe she’s ordering for her brother/boyfriend/uncle and she wants him to pay separately, but she can’t use his name because he’s wanted on a Canada wide warrant for exposing himself to a tour bus full of senior citizens in downtown Toronto and then using both hands to have his man bits sing along with him through the first 3 verses of Come All Ye Faithful.
Could be either one, really.
Week over. -.-
If something even remotely resembles something that could be used as a puck for street hockey, well... 
I am a faithful disciple of the religion of all true Canucks... pizza, beer and hockey, in any combination. Leftover timbits are just a bonus for the creative mind. 
.....Gyah! Just...gyah! *shudders*
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