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Wherein A Single Call Makes My Entire Week ( Epic )
There are not even words. Trust me. >.>
Yes, You
Me: “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”
SC: “You think *I* have the wrong number?”
…well, I certainly don’t have the wrong number. Unless you’re accusing me of somehow forcing you to dial this number and to call me through an unholy combination of witchcraft, sorcery and/or psychic power. This is something I appear to be accused or suspected of on quite a regular basis and I have yet to figure out why. Regardless, it happens with such alarming frequency that I have decided I must address it once and for all. Whenever you call me on any line, or indeed call any of our operators and suspect or assume that they have some sort of supernatural power with which to help or hinder you I want you to perform the following litmus test:
Ask yourself this: Are you currently on fire, flailing around wildly in the middle of a busy 4 lane highway covered in lobster with iron vise like grips upon the most tender parts of your searing flesh? No? Than no, we do not yet possess any sort of supernatural power.
Trust me, should the day come that we obtain such power. You will be amongst the first to become vividly aware of it.
Whoa.
Me: “Alright, and which credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “I’d like to use….uh….Canadian card….from….uh….Royal Bank.”
Me: “I’m sorry, what kind of card?”
SC: “Royal Bank, it’s….uh, Titanium.”
Oookay, not the question. But I can understand that perhaps your simplistic mind actually believes I needed that information and that was the substance of my question. I shall forgive this once.
Me: “Alright, but what type of credit card is it?”
SC: “From Toronto Dominion bank. It’s a great card, has gold printing.”
……but not twice. So let me see if I have your somewhat suspicious story straight here: You have a Royal Bank TD Bank Platinum credit card……with gold printing. Of course. You know, just so it’s fancy. I applaud you for somehow managing to make two competing banks join forces to create some sort of tag team championship credit card.
Me: “Alright but is it VISA, Mastercard or AMEX?”
SC: “Oh, it’s VISA, VISA. Wait, no Mastercard?”
Royal Bank TD Bank Platinum VISA Mastercard. Sure, why not. That sounds perfectly legitimate.
Me: “…alright, and the card number please?”
SC: “67745789.”
Me: “………..sorry, and the rest of it?”
SC: “677431489.”
Me: “….alright, start at the beginning again. What is the entire card number?”
SC: “67745789.”
Me: “67745789?”
SC: “Yeah”
Me: “I’m afraid that’s not long enough for a credit card number.”
SC: “Oh, oh, I forgot. There’s a 1 at the end.”
You’re more than one short……in more ways than one.
Me: “That’s still not long enough….”
SC: “Oh oh, sorry. 67745789.”
Me: “…alright, start from the beginning please and give me the entire number.”
SC: “6774….45789……..5?.”
Me: “That’s still not long enough-“
SC: “and a 0. I forgot the 0 at the end.”
Ah, of course. The 0. How silly of me. That’s all that was missing. Surely it will go through now!
Me: “That’s still not long enough-“
SC: “It’s 6….616. Its 666. Like 66666666.”
Me: “………I need a valid card number.”
SC: “That’s the number on the card. 66666666666666. Strange. They’re all just basically 6’s. <whispered> There’s 6 of them.”
Right, I sense that you have departed into a psychological condition for which I believe the scientific term is “Trippin’ bawls”. Unfortunately, as I am not partaking in this undoubtedly magical and/or terrifying journey with you communication is becoming somewhat difficult. As the wall of unicorns, goblins, pixie dust and Pink Floyd is causing some measure of signal degradation. I’m afraid employee regulations, common sense and an inbuilt survival mechanism desperately struggling to preserve my IQ prevent me from taking whatever chemicals, pharmaceuticals or Home Depot products required to communicate with you on your level. Therefore I will no longer be able to provide customer service. I apologize. To both you and your Pegasus made out of flaming raisins.
Me: “…..I need a valid credit card number.”
SC: “Well that’s the number……<click>."
My thanks to the flaming raisin Pegasus. Who I assume realized you’re embarrassing yourself and hoofed down the receiver.
Still, what was that. Everything was....reasonable….up until that point. He gave all relevant contact information. Perhaps I should ask the White Pages for a reverse look up to shed some light on this Technicolor mystery....
Ah ha. A clue, Sherlock. The phone number does not match his name or address. Belonging instead to one <name>. Occupation? Mental Health Practitioner. Suddenly it all makes sense. Though it appears a singular rooster has escaped the coop and may or may not have stolen his wallet and/or cellphone.
Naked Opposition
Pop quiz! There’s a road work crew working a night shift a few blocks from your house and they are too noisy for you to sleep. Do you:
A) Complain to the city council. Who issued the work permit for this hour to begin with.
B) Call the construction company in the middle of the night to complain.
C) Storm down the worksite in your night gown with only your cellphone to keep you warm. So that you can scream directly at the workers. Berate their foreman directly to his face while on the line with the construction company so you can yell at me at the same time as you yell at him…..while in your night gown. When that fails, demand that the 20 person crew on a night shift all cease their work immediately or you will stop them yourself by throwing yourself in front of the heavy machinery and refusing to move until they concede to your scantily clad demands. When this fails, call the cops on them and smugly await justice......and promptly get arrested.
Since this is a call on my shift, you can probably guess the answer.
Ritz Rapture
I saw the oddest scenario play out before me on the Skytrain this evening. In a scene that was otherwise perfectly normal. A resoundingly average gentleman got on the Skytrain at Metrotown. Sat down and began reading the paper. Nothing strange or unusual about him. However, directly across from him under one of the seats was an empty box of crackers that someone had tossed on the floor. Rubbish on the Skytrain late at night is not surprising. Nor is some guy reading the paper. In fact these are both perfectly normal factors that should not in any way interact….
But then he glanced over his paper and spotted the box…..and lunged for it suddenly with this look of absolute rapture on his face as if he had just spotted a Playboy magazine etched on 40 carat gold foil lovingly wrapped in $100 bills being propped up by a free iPhone. I’d never seen an expression like that on a human being in my life. Nor did I comprehend why a cracker box could invoke it.
Of course it’s just trash. So it is empty. After he seized it, he thrust one eager meaty fist into it and found nothing but emptiness. At which point the look on his face just dissolved into one of complete anguish and grief. Quickly followed by total rage. He then hurled the cracker box violently down the entire length of the train car. Before burying his head in his hands in despair. He buried his head in his hands. This man shed tears over an empty box of crackers.
It was also at this point I realized he was wearing moccasins. Because hey, if you’re the kind of person whose happiness comes in the form of finding crackers on the ground you may as well go for the moccasins too.
Eventually he buried his face in his arm. Still wrought with a sadness so absolute none of us could possible understand it. And stayed that way all the way to Stadium. Where he stumbled off the Skytrain with his shoulder sagging. Hunched over in total misery. I had just watched every one of the 5 stages of grief play out between Joyce and Stadium over a box of crackers.
Thats The Joke
Me: “And which credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “Um……Mastercard.”
Me: “And the card number please?”
SC: “Actually, I’d rather use yours.”
Me: “……er..and the card number please?”
SC: “I SAID I would like to use YOURS. Ha ha.”
Oh…oh God. Was that a joke? I’m so sorry for you. It was so awful it didn’t even register in my brain as an attempt to be funny. I thought you were talking to someone else in the background. My mind outright rejected that as a joke. You have my sincere condolences for having a sense of humour so grotesquely stunted that other people don’t even realize you’re trying to crack a joke. I mean there’s a difference between being painfully unfunny and being so unfunny it’s actually a negative value and doesn’t even register on the meter.
Me: “and the expiration?”
SC: “Yeah, let’s not make it fun. Let’s be serious.”
Hey don’t blame this on me. My sense of humour is fine. You’re the one whose sense of humour is so dynamically opposed to funny that science could probably harness your attempts at a punch line to synthesize anti-matter.
Me: “and how many tickets would you like?”
SC: “Just the winning one.”
Ok, see I recognize that one. More through repetition than anything else. That doesn’t mean it’s funny, however. In fact it’s so horrifically unfunny and generic I often wish jock itch on anyone that dares utter it during a call. But in your case I guess it is a marked improvement and I should at least commend you for being able to form a sentence that the human mind can recognize as an attempt at humour.
Me: “How many tickets would you like to order?”
SC: “I already gave you my answer, buddy.”
…..you’re not going to let this go, are you? You’re going to be an asshole about this and attempt to hold me hostage with your complete lack of funny until I emit a guffaw you think is worthy of your “talent”.
Me: “Thank you for calling, and your tickets should arrive in a weeks or so.”
SC: “Yeah, whatever. <click>”
Wow, really dude? You’re in that much of a snit that I didn’t catch your “joke” that you hang up on me? Remind me to keep an eye on the local news for a few weeks. I have a feeling you’re going to creep up on it after you climb onto a bus in a clown suit with a shotgun and hold it hostage for 8 hours. Screaming jokes at passengers and threatening to shoot anyone that doesn’t laugh. Until finally the police negotiate with you and you break down crying about how your mom never hugged you enough before surrendering to a SWAT team. Who will promptly taze you. After which the Youtube clip of you flopping around on the ground in a clown suit, crying like a little girl, will reach a million hits in 48 hours and become a new Internet meme.
I look forward to animated gif’s of your tear filled flailing permeating web forums for months to come.
Thank you, Officer
Officer: “I have a Mr Dumbass in custody here that would like to speak with his lawyer.”
Me: “Alright, whose his lawyer?”
Officer: “Mr Lawyer.”
Me: “Alright, what’s he in custody for?”
Officer: “Indecent exposure. He decided to pull his pants off in front of a crowd at a bar. Than when we pulled up he began humping our patrol car."
Me: "........"
Officer: "......."
Me: "....Wow."
Officer: “Indeed.”
Thank you, officer. I can honestly say that made my entire night. If not my entire week. Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I have to put you on hold so I can laugh my ass off and make a note to keep an eye on Youtube for the next couple of days to see if video documentation of this incident appears.
Come on Vancouver, I know you have cellphone cameras. Don't let me down.
Sometimes
SC: “Will they call this evening?”
Me: “It will probably be during the week-“
SC: “I don’t know how I’ll be able to catch them…..sometimes I shower.”
…..I’m not entirely sure which component of that statement is more unsettling. The “sometimes” or the fact you apparently spend so much time in there that it literally takes up your entire evening. Granted if you only shower “sometimes” it may take an extended session to scrub yourself back up to a level acceptable in polite society.
......
SC: “I can’t find where I’m suppose to park. It says the parking lot is at the back of the building. But I can’t find the back of the building.”
Me: “You......can’t find the back of the building?”
SC: “Yeah.”
That’s actually kind of impressive. I mean, the standard building has 4 sides and amazingly enough, all 4 are perfectly reachable simply by going around the building in a circle. I’m not entirely sure how you managed to fail at this endeavour. Hmmm….allow me to consult Google Maps and see if this is some sort of mutant Colosseum like the Vancouver Public Library…..nope. No that’s a pretty standard looking building….well maybe the parking lot is hidden….nope, there’s a parking lot at the back and even an entrance to an underground parkade.
Well, it appears you’re simply stupid, ma’am. My apologies.
Unhinged
You know you’ve been on graveyard shift too long when you find yourself in the break room at 3am uttering the phrase “Oh yes, Daddy needs his medicine” out loud to the left over piece of <coworker>'s Birthday cake in the fridge.
Oh Wow
They’ve done it. They’ve finally done it. <Northern Serving Client> now stocks a product so offensively ridiculous that I honestly think I would have to smack anyone I saw wearing it. Upside the back of the head. Than demand to know what the hell they were thinking when they actually paid money for it.
Behold:
Yes, that’s right. It’s a pair of gold foil headphones. Gold foil. Finally, headphones just as awful as your taste in music.
Brace Yourself, Even Reading This Will Make You Want To Hurt Someone
This was a 15 minute call and it is a window into my world. I cannot even explain it. Only transcribe it.
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Oo, oo, oo, yes!”
Take note that the very first thing to come out of her mouth was the imitation of a primate.
SC: “I’m orderin’ fer my boyfriend”
Me: “Alright, is he there?”
SC: “No, he’s not, but allow me to fooking order for him!”
This is going so well. Surely this will be a quick, painless transaction conducted between two mature, respectful adults. ( God help me. )
And yes, she said "Fooking".
Me: “I’m afraid I can’t really place an order in someone else’s name.”
SC: “Let it be under my name than.”
Thank you for your permission, your highness.
Me: “And how do you spell your last name?”
SC: “B-R-O-W-N”
Me: “B-R-O-W-N?”
SC: “B-R….er, wait, B-R-E-W-N.”
Me: “B-R-E-W-N?”
SC: “Wait, uh, oh! B-E-R-E-W-N”
…I honestly cannot tell if you’re deliberately being difficult or if you really are this intellectually challenged. The evidence could really swing either way at this point.
Me: “Is there is a PO box number?”
SC: “My box number is apparently 23.”
Me: “…..apparently?”
SC: “Apparently.”
Ah, ok. Deliberately difficult. Thanks for clearing that up.
Me: “and the product number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Yessir! OffiCER!”
Words you seem intimately familiar with, apparently.
Me: “I’m afraid that doesn’t come up as anything in our database.”
SC: “xxxx! ( Totally different number than before )”
Me: “Alright...What size?”
SC: “He said it was suppose to be a large.”
Me: “Large? Alright. Anything else?”
SC: “Yes, of fookin' course yes! FOOK!”
Yes, how silly of me. My apologies.
SC: “( At the absolute TOP of her fucking lungs ): LA LA LA LA LA LALAL ALALALAL LALALAL BLALAAGH BLAH BLAH LAALALA!!!!!!!!!!! Just give me a moment.”
Me: “……..”
I assume you need a minute to wrestle your other personality back under control. Very well, I can wait.
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Mhmmm.”
Me: “What size?”
SC: “Trynna think. Give me a second. Its suppose to be a size 38. Apparently.”
Are you familiar with the term “snotfaced”?
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Mhmm! It’s….where the hell is the….yo yo yo! It says xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Mhm!”
Me: “What size?”
SC: “Same size as the other one!”
Me: “and what colour?”
SC: “It says Black Raisin.”
Actually is says “Black Rinse”. But please, continue floundering around at a 2nd grade reading level.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Yes, my, uh, Mr Right Number Man!”
You really should be exceedingly thankful that the stars aligned in just such a way that you called at the right day and time to place this order with me. For my well of patience is far deeper than most. Mainly because it was dug deep into the very heart of the earth with the mithril shovel known as “Uncaring”. Had you called at any other hour on any other day and gotten another operator, this may not have gone so favourable. As any of them would have been well within their rights to hang up on your obnoxious self already. In fact I’m honestly wondering why I have not yet done so myself.
Me: “…in what size?”
SC: “Of course 38 right?!”
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Mr Right, Mr Right, I haven’t ordered nothing for me yet. So that fooking bastard better order something for me. Fooknig bastard. Fooking asshole.”
Me: “………”
SC: “And he better give me what I want! And what I want is…..uh….”
A G.E.D.?
SC: “What I want….let’s say I want jeans. Let’s say they are xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Yes, my dear!”
Me: “In what size?”
SC: “Size 27.”
Me: “and what colour?”
SC: “In what colour, this will be dark rinse, er, raisin.”
Me: “Rinse. Anything else?”
SC: “I need to get myself a jacket! Um, lemme look. Lemme look. Lemme look. There was some few choices. Hmmm, hmmm hmm hmmm! There was a black one, a black one. Let me think! Let me think! Let me think! LA LA LALALALALALA LA! LALALALALLALALALALAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. I’m enjoying my time shopping.”
….I’m not. In fact I'm slowly inching towards the wall to the glass case we keep the C word in, in the event of emergencies. I'm afraid at the rate we're going here I may have to smash the glass and retrieve it soon.
SC: “Hmmmm hmmm hm hm hm! LALALALALALLA LA L ALALA LA L ALA LA LA LAAAAAAAA LAAAAAAAAA LALALALALLALAAL! Shit. I can’t find myself a jacket. So I guess that’s about it.”
For fuck sakes, stop that. What are you? 5?
Me: “That’s everything?”
SC: “Wait wait wait whoa whoa whoa, give me two seconds. My Dearest <company> Person. I’m thinking.”
Ah, that’s what that smell is.
SC: “Are you enjoying your night?”
Me: “I’m fine.”
You do not want my honest answer. It would likely draw blood.
SC: “How’s Winnipeg’s weather?”
Me: “……..I’m afraid I’m not in Winnipeg, I would not know.”
SC: “Well than where the hell are you?! SIR?!”
Me: “Vancouver.”
SC: “Shit! Fook sakes. Why do I order way the fook from there?!”
Because we are foolishly the only company in the world that takes enough pity on you to ship that far north?
Me: “Was there anything else?”
SC: “Mister, you are so kind.”
This is not kindness. It is restraint. There is a difference. You will discover that difference if you keep this up.
SC:: “hmmm! Hmmm hmm. Thinking so hard! Lemme think. I’m trying to think. Lemme try um….uhh. I guess this is all I can order. This is all I can order. This is all I can order. I already ordered for my boyfriend.”
Me: “So this is everything than?”
SC: “Yes, mister mister mister.”
My God, you're a cunt. Not even a regular, run of the mill cunt. Some sort of evolved form of cunt. A cunt so powerful that normal cunts aren't even in the same league as you anymore. How do I even articulate this.........ok, see, you're basically a Cuntizard to the regular Cuntmander.
Me: “That will come to $xxx and it should arrive in about 2 weeks.”
SC: “Awesome!”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “It’ll go to PO BOX?!”
Me: “…..this will go to the PO Box, yes.”
SC: “Yay!"
Me: “...is there anything else?”
SC: “Look, seriously, what name did I give you?!”
Me: “…..er, you gave me your name.”
SC: “What’s my name?”
Me: “…..you don’t remember your name?”
I think I’m developing a facial twitch. Oh well, on the bright side it will keep people on the Skytrain away from me.
SC: “Did I give Aaron?”
Me: “No, you gave Sara.”
SC: “Oh, sorry, that’s the wrong name.”
Me: “….that’s the wrong name?”
SC: “I gave you my own name, but since I didn’t get anything for me I’ll give my boyfriends name.”
Me: “As I said, I can’t place an order in someone else’s name-“
SC: “Oh f**k sakes! It’s going to box 37 right?”
Me: “You said box 23.”
SC: “Oh, whose….oh ok, box 23.”
Me: “….is that everything?”
SC: “Can you give me the total?”
......<twitch>
Me: “$xxx”
SC: “So, what did I order? Tell me!”
Ok, even my patience has limits.
Me: “Right, do you want this order or not? Otherwise I will cancel it right this moment.”
SC: “Wait! Yes! Seriously I want this! He said 3 pairs of jeans and 1 shirt.”
Me: “You ordered 3 pairs of jeans, 1 shirt and 1 pair of jeans in size 27 for yourself.”
SC: “Ooo! Oo, oo, oo!”
And that’s when I killed her, your honour.
annnnd rest. -.-
Yes, You
Me: “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”
SC: “You think *I* have the wrong number?”
…well, I certainly don’t have the wrong number. Unless you’re accusing me of somehow forcing you to dial this number and to call me through an unholy combination of witchcraft, sorcery and/or psychic power. This is something I appear to be accused or suspected of on quite a regular basis and I have yet to figure out why. Regardless, it happens with such alarming frequency that I have decided I must address it once and for all. Whenever you call me on any line, or indeed call any of our operators and suspect or assume that they have some sort of supernatural power with which to help or hinder you I want you to perform the following litmus test:
Ask yourself this: Are you currently on fire, flailing around wildly in the middle of a busy 4 lane highway covered in lobster with iron vise like grips upon the most tender parts of your searing flesh? No? Than no, we do not yet possess any sort of supernatural power.
Trust me, should the day come that we obtain such power. You will be amongst the first to become vividly aware of it.
Whoa.
Me: “Alright, and which credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “I’d like to use….uh….Canadian card….from….uh….Royal Bank.”
Me: “I’m sorry, what kind of card?”
SC: “Royal Bank, it’s….uh, Titanium.”
Oookay, not the question. But I can understand that perhaps your simplistic mind actually believes I needed that information and that was the substance of my question. I shall forgive this once.
Me: “Alright, but what type of credit card is it?”
SC: “From Toronto Dominion bank. It’s a great card, has gold printing.”
……but not twice. So let me see if I have your somewhat suspicious story straight here: You have a Royal Bank TD Bank Platinum credit card……with gold printing. Of course. You know, just so it’s fancy. I applaud you for somehow managing to make two competing banks join forces to create some sort of tag team championship credit card.
Me: “Alright but is it VISA, Mastercard or AMEX?”
SC: “Oh, it’s VISA, VISA. Wait, no Mastercard?”
Royal Bank TD Bank Platinum VISA Mastercard. Sure, why not. That sounds perfectly legitimate.
Me: “…alright, and the card number please?”
SC: “67745789.”
Me: “………..sorry, and the rest of it?”
SC: “677431489.”
Me: “….alright, start at the beginning again. What is the entire card number?”
SC: “67745789.”
Me: “67745789?”
SC: “Yeah”
Me: “I’m afraid that’s not long enough for a credit card number.”
SC: “Oh, oh, I forgot. There’s a 1 at the end.”
You’re more than one short……in more ways than one.
Me: “That’s still not long enough….”
SC: “Oh oh, sorry. 67745789.”
Me: “…alright, start from the beginning please and give me the entire number.”
SC: “6774….45789……..5?.”
Me: “That’s still not long enough-“
SC: “and a 0. I forgot the 0 at the end.”
Ah, of course. The 0. How silly of me. That’s all that was missing. Surely it will go through now!
Me: “That’s still not long enough-“
SC: “It’s 6….616. Its 666. Like 66666666.”
Me: “………I need a valid card number.”
SC: “That’s the number on the card. 66666666666666. Strange. They’re all just basically 6’s. <whispered> There’s 6 of them.”
Right, I sense that you have departed into a psychological condition for which I believe the scientific term is “Trippin’ bawls”. Unfortunately, as I am not partaking in this undoubtedly magical and/or terrifying journey with you communication is becoming somewhat difficult. As the wall of unicorns, goblins, pixie dust and Pink Floyd is causing some measure of signal degradation. I’m afraid employee regulations, common sense and an inbuilt survival mechanism desperately struggling to preserve my IQ prevent me from taking whatever chemicals, pharmaceuticals or Home Depot products required to communicate with you on your level. Therefore I will no longer be able to provide customer service. I apologize. To both you and your Pegasus made out of flaming raisins.
Me: “…..I need a valid credit card number.”
SC: “Well that’s the number……<click>."
My thanks to the flaming raisin Pegasus. Who I assume realized you’re embarrassing yourself and hoofed down the receiver.
Still, what was that. Everything was....reasonable….up until that point. He gave all relevant contact information. Perhaps I should ask the White Pages for a reverse look up to shed some light on this Technicolor mystery....
Ah ha. A clue, Sherlock. The phone number does not match his name or address. Belonging instead to one <name>. Occupation? Mental Health Practitioner. Suddenly it all makes sense. Though it appears a singular rooster has escaped the coop and may or may not have stolen his wallet and/or cellphone.
Naked Opposition
Pop quiz! There’s a road work crew working a night shift a few blocks from your house and they are too noisy for you to sleep. Do you:
A) Complain to the city council. Who issued the work permit for this hour to begin with.
B) Call the construction company in the middle of the night to complain.
C) Storm down the worksite in your night gown with only your cellphone to keep you warm. So that you can scream directly at the workers. Berate their foreman directly to his face while on the line with the construction company so you can yell at me at the same time as you yell at him…..while in your night gown. When that fails, demand that the 20 person crew on a night shift all cease their work immediately or you will stop them yourself by throwing yourself in front of the heavy machinery and refusing to move until they concede to your scantily clad demands. When this fails, call the cops on them and smugly await justice......and promptly get arrested.
Since this is a call on my shift, you can probably guess the answer.
Ritz Rapture
I saw the oddest scenario play out before me on the Skytrain this evening. In a scene that was otherwise perfectly normal. A resoundingly average gentleman got on the Skytrain at Metrotown. Sat down and began reading the paper. Nothing strange or unusual about him. However, directly across from him under one of the seats was an empty box of crackers that someone had tossed on the floor. Rubbish on the Skytrain late at night is not surprising. Nor is some guy reading the paper. In fact these are both perfectly normal factors that should not in any way interact….
But then he glanced over his paper and spotted the box…..and lunged for it suddenly with this look of absolute rapture on his face as if he had just spotted a Playboy magazine etched on 40 carat gold foil lovingly wrapped in $100 bills being propped up by a free iPhone. I’d never seen an expression like that on a human being in my life. Nor did I comprehend why a cracker box could invoke it.
Of course it’s just trash. So it is empty. After he seized it, he thrust one eager meaty fist into it and found nothing but emptiness. At which point the look on his face just dissolved into one of complete anguish and grief. Quickly followed by total rage. He then hurled the cracker box violently down the entire length of the train car. Before burying his head in his hands in despair. He buried his head in his hands. This man shed tears over an empty box of crackers.
It was also at this point I realized he was wearing moccasins. Because hey, if you’re the kind of person whose happiness comes in the form of finding crackers on the ground you may as well go for the moccasins too.
Eventually he buried his face in his arm. Still wrought with a sadness so absolute none of us could possible understand it. And stayed that way all the way to Stadium. Where he stumbled off the Skytrain with his shoulder sagging. Hunched over in total misery. I had just watched every one of the 5 stages of grief play out between Joyce and Stadium over a box of crackers.
Thats The Joke
Me: “And which credit card would you like to use?”
SC: “Um……Mastercard.”
Me: “And the card number please?”
SC: “Actually, I’d rather use yours.”
Me: “……er..and the card number please?”
SC: “I SAID I would like to use YOURS. Ha ha.”
Oh…oh God. Was that a joke? I’m so sorry for you. It was so awful it didn’t even register in my brain as an attempt to be funny. I thought you were talking to someone else in the background. My mind outright rejected that as a joke. You have my sincere condolences for having a sense of humour so grotesquely stunted that other people don’t even realize you’re trying to crack a joke. I mean there’s a difference between being painfully unfunny and being so unfunny it’s actually a negative value and doesn’t even register on the meter.
Me: “and the expiration?”
SC: “Yeah, let’s not make it fun. Let’s be serious.”
Hey don’t blame this on me. My sense of humour is fine. You’re the one whose sense of humour is so dynamically opposed to funny that science could probably harness your attempts at a punch line to synthesize anti-matter.
Me: “and how many tickets would you like?”
SC: “Just the winning one.”
Ok, see I recognize that one. More through repetition than anything else. That doesn’t mean it’s funny, however. In fact it’s so horrifically unfunny and generic I often wish jock itch on anyone that dares utter it during a call. But in your case I guess it is a marked improvement and I should at least commend you for being able to form a sentence that the human mind can recognize as an attempt at humour.
Me: “How many tickets would you like to order?”
SC: “I already gave you my answer, buddy.”
…..you’re not going to let this go, are you? You’re going to be an asshole about this and attempt to hold me hostage with your complete lack of funny until I emit a guffaw you think is worthy of your “talent”.
Me: “Thank you for calling, and your tickets should arrive in a weeks or so.”
SC: “Yeah, whatever. <click>”
Wow, really dude? You’re in that much of a snit that I didn’t catch your “joke” that you hang up on me? Remind me to keep an eye on the local news for a few weeks. I have a feeling you’re going to creep up on it after you climb onto a bus in a clown suit with a shotgun and hold it hostage for 8 hours. Screaming jokes at passengers and threatening to shoot anyone that doesn’t laugh. Until finally the police negotiate with you and you break down crying about how your mom never hugged you enough before surrendering to a SWAT team. Who will promptly taze you. After which the Youtube clip of you flopping around on the ground in a clown suit, crying like a little girl, will reach a million hits in 48 hours and become a new Internet meme.
I look forward to animated gif’s of your tear filled flailing permeating web forums for months to come.
Thank you, Officer
Officer: “I have a Mr Dumbass in custody here that would like to speak with his lawyer.”
Me: “Alright, whose his lawyer?”
Officer: “Mr Lawyer.”
Me: “Alright, what’s he in custody for?”
Officer: “Indecent exposure. He decided to pull his pants off in front of a crowd at a bar. Than when we pulled up he began humping our patrol car."
Me: "........"
Officer: "......."
Me: "....Wow."
Officer: “Indeed.”
Thank you, officer. I can honestly say that made my entire night. If not my entire week. Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I have to put you on hold so I can laugh my ass off and make a note to keep an eye on Youtube for the next couple of days to see if video documentation of this incident appears.
Come on Vancouver, I know you have cellphone cameras. Don't let me down.
Sometimes
SC: “Will they call this evening?”
Me: “It will probably be during the week-“
SC: “I don’t know how I’ll be able to catch them…..sometimes I shower.”
…..I’m not entirely sure which component of that statement is more unsettling. The “sometimes” or the fact you apparently spend so much time in there that it literally takes up your entire evening. Granted if you only shower “sometimes” it may take an extended session to scrub yourself back up to a level acceptable in polite society.
......
SC: “I can’t find where I’m suppose to park. It says the parking lot is at the back of the building. But I can’t find the back of the building.”
Me: “You......can’t find the back of the building?”
SC: “Yeah.”
That’s actually kind of impressive. I mean, the standard building has 4 sides and amazingly enough, all 4 are perfectly reachable simply by going around the building in a circle. I’m not entirely sure how you managed to fail at this endeavour. Hmmm….allow me to consult Google Maps and see if this is some sort of mutant Colosseum like the Vancouver Public Library…..nope. No that’s a pretty standard looking building….well maybe the parking lot is hidden….nope, there’s a parking lot at the back and even an entrance to an underground parkade.
Well, it appears you’re simply stupid, ma’am. My apologies.
Unhinged
You know you’ve been on graveyard shift too long when you find yourself in the break room at 3am uttering the phrase “Oh yes, Daddy needs his medicine” out loud to the left over piece of <coworker>'s Birthday cake in the fridge.
Oh Wow
They’ve done it. They’ve finally done it. <Northern Serving Client> now stocks a product so offensively ridiculous that I honestly think I would have to smack anyone I saw wearing it. Upside the back of the head. Than demand to know what the hell they were thinking when they actually paid money for it.
Behold:
Yes, that’s right. It’s a pair of gold foil headphones. Gold foil. Finally, headphones just as awful as your taste in music.
Brace Yourself, Even Reading This Will Make You Want To Hurt Someone
This was a 15 minute call and it is a window into my world. I cannot even explain it. Only transcribe it.
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Oo, oo, oo, yes!”
Take note that the very first thing to come out of her mouth was the imitation of a primate.
SC: “I’m orderin’ fer my boyfriend”
Me: “Alright, is he there?”
SC: “No, he’s not, but allow me to fooking order for him!”
This is going so well. Surely this will be a quick, painless transaction conducted between two mature, respectful adults. ( God help me. )
And yes, she said "Fooking".
Me: “I’m afraid I can’t really place an order in someone else’s name.”
SC: “Let it be under my name than.”
Thank you for your permission, your highness.
Me: “And how do you spell your last name?”
SC: “B-R-O-W-N”
Me: “B-R-O-W-N?”
SC: “B-R….er, wait, B-R-E-W-N.”
Me: “B-R-E-W-N?”
SC: “Wait, uh, oh! B-E-R-E-W-N”
…I honestly cannot tell if you’re deliberately being difficult or if you really are this intellectually challenged. The evidence could really swing either way at this point.
Me: “Is there is a PO box number?”
SC: “My box number is apparently 23.”
Me: “…..apparently?”
SC: “Apparently.”
Ah, ok. Deliberately difficult. Thanks for clearing that up.
Me: “and the product number please?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Yessir! OffiCER!”
Words you seem intimately familiar with, apparently.
Me: “I’m afraid that doesn’t come up as anything in our database.”
SC: “xxxx! ( Totally different number than before )”
Me: “Alright...What size?”
SC: “He said it was suppose to be a large.”
Me: “Large? Alright. Anything else?”
SC: “Yes, of fookin' course yes! FOOK!”
Yes, how silly of me. My apologies.
SC: “( At the absolute TOP of her fucking lungs ): LA LA LA LA LA LALAL ALALALAL LALALAL BLALAAGH BLAH BLAH LAALALA!!!!!!!!!!! Just give me a moment.”
Me: “……..”
I assume you need a minute to wrestle your other personality back under control. Very well, I can wait.
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Mhmmm.”
Me: “What size?”
SC: “Trynna think. Give me a second. Its suppose to be a size 38. Apparently.”
Are you familiar with the term “snotfaced”?
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Mhmm! It’s….where the hell is the….yo yo yo! It says xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Mhm!”
Me: “What size?”
SC: “Same size as the other one!”
Me: “and what colour?”
SC: “It says Black Raisin.”
Actually is says “Black Rinse”. But please, continue floundering around at a 2nd grade reading level.
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Yes, my, uh, Mr Right Number Man!”
You really should be exceedingly thankful that the stars aligned in just such a way that you called at the right day and time to place this order with me. For my well of patience is far deeper than most. Mainly because it was dug deep into the very heart of the earth with the mithril shovel known as “Uncaring”. Had you called at any other hour on any other day and gotten another operator, this may not have gone so favourable. As any of them would have been well within their rights to hang up on your obnoxious self already. In fact I’m honestly wondering why I have not yet done so myself.
Me: “…in what size?”
SC: “Of course 38 right?!”
Me: “Anything else?”
SC: “Mr Right, Mr Right, I haven’t ordered nothing for me yet. So that fooking bastard better order something for me. Fooknig bastard. Fooking asshole.”
Me: “………”
SC: “And he better give me what I want! And what I want is…..uh….”
A G.E.D.?
SC: “What I want….let’s say I want jeans. Let’s say they are xxxx”
Me: “xxxx?”
SC: “Yes, my dear!”
Me: “In what size?”
SC: “Size 27.”
Me: “and what colour?”
SC: “In what colour, this will be dark rinse, er, raisin.”
Me: “Rinse. Anything else?”
SC: “I need to get myself a jacket! Um, lemme look. Lemme look. Lemme look. There was some few choices. Hmmm, hmmm hmm hmmm! There was a black one, a black one. Let me think! Let me think! Let me think! LA LA LALALALALALA LA! LALALALALLALALALALAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. I’m enjoying my time shopping.”
….I’m not. In fact I'm slowly inching towards the wall to the glass case we keep the C word in, in the event of emergencies. I'm afraid at the rate we're going here I may have to smash the glass and retrieve it soon.
SC: “Hmmmm hmmm hm hm hm! LALALALALALLA LA L ALALA LA L ALA LA LA LAAAAAAAA LAAAAAAAAA LALALALALLALAAL! Shit. I can’t find myself a jacket. So I guess that’s about it.”
For fuck sakes, stop that. What are you? 5?
Me: “That’s everything?”
SC: “Wait wait wait whoa whoa whoa, give me two seconds. My Dearest <company> Person. I’m thinking.”
Ah, that’s what that smell is.
SC: “Are you enjoying your night?”
Me: “I’m fine.”
You do not want my honest answer. It would likely draw blood.
SC: “How’s Winnipeg’s weather?”
Me: “……..I’m afraid I’m not in Winnipeg, I would not know.”
SC: “Well than where the hell are you?! SIR?!”
Me: “Vancouver.”
SC: “Shit! Fook sakes. Why do I order way the fook from there?!”
Because we are foolishly the only company in the world that takes enough pity on you to ship that far north?
Me: “Was there anything else?”
SC: “Mister, you are so kind.”
This is not kindness. It is restraint. There is a difference. You will discover that difference if you keep this up.
SC:: “hmmm! Hmmm hmm. Thinking so hard! Lemme think. I’m trying to think. Lemme try um….uhh. I guess this is all I can order. This is all I can order. This is all I can order. I already ordered for my boyfriend.”
Me: “So this is everything than?”
SC: “Yes, mister mister mister.”
My God, you're a cunt. Not even a regular, run of the mill cunt. Some sort of evolved form of cunt. A cunt so powerful that normal cunts aren't even in the same league as you anymore. How do I even articulate this.........ok, see, you're basically a Cuntizard to the regular Cuntmander.
Me: “That will come to $xxx and it should arrive in about 2 weeks.”
SC: “Awesome!”
Me: “Alright-“
SC: “It’ll go to PO BOX?!”
Me: “…..this will go to the PO Box, yes.”
SC: “Yay!"
Me: “...is there anything else?”
SC: “Look, seriously, what name did I give you?!”
Me: “…..er, you gave me your name.”
SC: “What’s my name?”
Me: “…..you don’t remember your name?”
I think I’m developing a facial twitch. Oh well, on the bright side it will keep people on the Skytrain away from me.
SC: “Did I give Aaron?”
Me: “No, you gave Sara.”
SC: “Oh, sorry, that’s the wrong name.”
Me: “….that’s the wrong name?”
SC: “I gave you my own name, but since I didn’t get anything for me I’ll give my boyfriends name.”
Me: “As I said, I can’t place an order in someone else’s name-“
SC: “Oh f**k sakes! It’s going to box 37 right?”
Me: “You said box 23.”
SC: “Oh, whose….oh ok, box 23.”
Me: “….is that everything?”
SC: “Can you give me the total?”
......<twitch>
Me: “$xxx”
SC: “So, what did I order? Tell me!”
Ok, even my patience has limits.
Me: “Right, do you want this order or not? Otherwise I will cancel it right this moment.”
SC: “Wait! Yes! Seriously I want this! He said 3 pairs of jeans and 1 shirt.”
Me: “You ordered 3 pairs of jeans, 1 shirt and 1 pair of jeans in size 27 for yourself.”
SC: “Ooo! Oo, oo, oo!”
And that’s when I killed her, your honour.
annnnd rest. -.-
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