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Short but sweet ( Well, for me anyway. -.- )
Confectionery Saviour
There was a rather odd man at 7/11 that looked exactly like Jesus. If Jesus had gotten a really bad sort of caramel dye job. After heading outside to the corner, Caramel Jesus didn't clue in that the cross walk by 7/11 doesn't immediately go to Walk when the light changes because of the left turn. Thus he walked directly out into the front of an oncoming bus. Catastrophe was narrowly avoided when Caramel Jesus realized his dilemma, flipped out like a rabbit that had been shot at and scurried down the street.
Run, Caramel Jesus, run. May you live on to spread delicious confectionery salvation for years to come.
At The Ready
Me: "Ok, and by what credit card?"
SC: "Alright, BE READY!"
Hmm? Wha? Oh, sorry, I wasn't paying attention. It’s a good thing you warned me! Now I can be at very height of alertness to take your credit card number. I am primed and ready for action. I am at Def Con 4. I am salted, seasoned and lovingly grilled over an open flame, waiting to be serve….er, ok, maybe not the last one. But I am ready! Oh yes! It’s a good thing you got my attention. Here I was dozing on my keyboard and drooling on the space bar with the corner of the MCSE Guide to Microsoft Windows Server 2000 lodged in my mouth. If it wasn't for your quick thinking, there's no telling what might have happened.
Ballad of the Werewanker
Tonight, I unhappily present the ballad of Steve.
Steve, Steve, Steve. You started out innocently enough. Yet at some point over our extended conversation you became a wanker, taking me by surprise. I surmise you are some form of were-wanker. I do not know what triggers this volatile lycanthropy in you. Perhaps it was airline food? Telephones? Breathing?
You seemed quite miffed that I couldn't tell you the star ratings of the hotels I offered. In fact you were down right upset that I could not guarantee you silk sheets and a complimentary arse licking upon your arrival at the hotel. This baffled me since you were calling an emergency line for stranded passengers and the hotel in question was a mere $49 a night with the stranded rate. You were actually annoyed I could not offer you a cheaper rate. Yet you still wanted the whole silk sheet arse lick treatment. You were even upset by the fact that I could not personally call the hotel and have them sent the shuttle to retrieve your highness and his spit polished butt cheeks. Luckily, by some divine blessing, I managed to get you off the line….eventually.
But that was not the end, was it? Oh no, you called back to complain about the exact same thing: The fact we would not call the hotel for you to get the shuttle. I guess in the intervening minutes between calls you struggled with the concept of actually having to take responsibility for yourself and failed admirably. You even made poor <operator #2> call the Toronto office to see if they could assist you with the rotting carcass of whatever mammal, reptile or briny aquatic creature had spelunked the depths of your backside and died therein. Of course they would have nothing to do with you. So she parked you to me and I was, of course, overcome with glee.
I greeted you, told you my name and asked how I could assist you. But you were busy talking on your cell phone in the background. Thus reinforcing the fact you are a wanker. A glorious wanker. A king among wankers. If wankers had their own country, you would sit upon its throne and the wankerions (wankereins? wankerans?) would shower you with gifts and praise. Unfortunately, no such country exists. So at this point in life you're still just a jerk on a cell phone in an airport.
When I finally got your attention you demanded to know why I had not informed you of my name and presence. At that point a muscle in my face twitched and I mentally awarded you 37 more points on my mental resentment scale. You then once again demanded I call the shuttle for you. I explained, once again, that I cannot do that. You began to go off on some sort of psychotic rant and asked me absolutely retarded questions like "I guess you spell customer service with SMALL letters don't you?!" then actually getting mad at me when I did not answer your fantastically stupid inquiries.
After weathering the storm of your idiocy, you informed me, and this is a direct quote: "I wish you to unemployed!" before hanging up on me.
Perhaps I would consider your request if it had been formed in proper English. But alas it was cobbled together from deceased limbs of English that you had dug out of the graveyard of your vocabulary. Thus I must pass.
That's going to be my new battle cry. "I WISH YOU TO UNEMPLOYMENT!"
Confectionery Saviour
There was a rather odd man at 7/11 that looked exactly like Jesus. If Jesus had gotten a really bad sort of caramel dye job. After heading outside to the corner, Caramel Jesus didn't clue in that the cross walk by 7/11 doesn't immediately go to Walk when the light changes because of the left turn. Thus he walked directly out into the front of an oncoming bus. Catastrophe was narrowly avoided when Caramel Jesus realized his dilemma, flipped out like a rabbit that had been shot at and scurried down the street.
Run, Caramel Jesus, run. May you live on to spread delicious confectionery salvation for years to come.
At The Ready
Me: "Ok, and by what credit card?"
SC: "Alright, BE READY!"
Hmm? Wha? Oh, sorry, I wasn't paying attention. It’s a good thing you warned me! Now I can be at very height of alertness to take your credit card number. I am primed and ready for action. I am at Def Con 4. I am salted, seasoned and lovingly grilled over an open flame, waiting to be serve….er, ok, maybe not the last one. But I am ready! Oh yes! It’s a good thing you got my attention. Here I was dozing on my keyboard and drooling on the space bar with the corner of the MCSE Guide to Microsoft Windows Server 2000 lodged in my mouth. If it wasn't for your quick thinking, there's no telling what might have happened.
Ballad of the Werewanker
Tonight, I unhappily present the ballad of Steve.
Steve, Steve, Steve. You started out innocently enough. Yet at some point over our extended conversation you became a wanker, taking me by surprise. I surmise you are some form of were-wanker. I do not know what triggers this volatile lycanthropy in you. Perhaps it was airline food? Telephones? Breathing?
You seemed quite miffed that I couldn't tell you the star ratings of the hotels I offered. In fact you were down right upset that I could not guarantee you silk sheets and a complimentary arse licking upon your arrival at the hotel. This baffled me since you were calling an emergency line for stranded passengers and the hotel in question was a mere $49 a night with the stranded rate. You were actually annoyed I could not offer you a cheaper rate. Yet you still wanted the whole silk sheet arse lick treatment. You were even upset by the fact that I could not personally call the hotel and have them sent the shuttle to retrieve your highness and his spit polished butt cheeks. Luckily, by some divine blessing, I managed to get you off the line….eventually.
But that was not the end, was it? Oh no, you called back to complain about the exact same thing: The fact we would not call the hotel for you to get the shuttle. I guess in the intervening minutes between calls you struggled with the concept of actually having to take responsibility for yourself and failed admirably. You even made poor <operator #2> call the Toronto office to see if they could assist you with the rotting carcass of whatever mammal, reptile or briny aquatic creature had spelunked the depths of your backside and died therein. Of course they would have nothing to do with you. So she parked you to me and I was, of course, overcome with glee.
I greeted you, told you my name and asked how I could assist you. But you were busy talking on your cell phone in the background. Thus reinforcing the fact you are a wanker. A glorious wanker. A king among wankers. If wankers had their own country, you would sit upon its throne and the wankerions (wankereins? wankerans?) would shower you with gifts and praise. Unfortunately, no such country exists. So at this point in life you're still just a jerk on a cell phone in an airport.
When I finally got your attention you demanded to know why I had not informed you of my name and presence. At that point a muscle in my face twitched and I mentally awarded you 37 more points on my mental resentment scale. You then once again demanded I call the shuttle for you. I explained, once again, that I cannot do that. You began to go off on some sort of psychotic rant and asked me absolutely retarded questions like "I guess you spell customer service with SMALL letters don't you?!" then actually getting mad at me when I did not answer your fantastically stupid inquiries.
After weathering the storm of your idiocy, you informed me, and this is a direct quote: "I wish you to unemployed!" before hanging up on me.
Perhaps I would consider your request if it had been formed in proper English. But alas it was cobbled together from deceased limbs of English that you had dug out of the graveyard of your vocabulary. Thus I must pass.
That's going to be my new battle cry. "I WISH YOU TO UNEMPLOYMENT!"
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