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Congradulations, you've ground half a city to a halt with your stupidty. BRAVO.
Ugh, god I wish I was kidding. Anyway...
Like, kinda.
SC: “My dad said I should call the police and report that my purse was stolen.”
Me: “I’m sorry, this a parole office.”
SC: “Yeah, but I thought parole, that’s kinda like police.”
Yes, kinda. Just like Aspirin is kinda like Morphine. So when you’re sitting in the ER, getting the dog door surgically removed from your face and head ( Yes, I’m pretty confident this day will come for you ), be sure to just ask for Aspirin. Because kinda is good enough.
867
SC: “Hey, do you still have those things?”
Me: “Which things? Do you have an item number for them?”
SC: “Uh, no.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “It’s this thing here.”
Me: “…..”
Ooooh, that thing. Sure, we have tons of that.
I’m really, seriously curious as to how much alcohol you need to consume, gas you need to huff, head trauma you need to endure or any combination of the three to actually think that people can see over your shoulder on the phone. When you get out of the shower, do you duck past the phone so now one can see you wearing just a towel? Well, actually, maybe you stop, throw the towel open, wriggle and give the phone a little show as it were?
Wha?
SC: “Is this Travelocity?”
Me: “No, sorry.”
SC: “Well, fiddle dee dee!”
Er….wow. I honestly didn’t think people like you existed. I thought you were all just..you know, cartoon characters. One’s that lived on a farm, possibly with a giant anthropomorphic rooster with strong Confederate undertones.
Cultural Divide
SC: “Ya’ll, ma husband’s jus bustin’ a gut ta order a roof before noon.”
….he’s….what? Doesn’t that mean he’s laughing? Or is there a some sort of vast cultural divide I’m missing here? Of course, please be aware I’m paying you and your kind an immense compliment by suggesting you have a culture. Also, why noon? What happens at noon? Does the Hairy Godmother’s magic wear off and he stops being a roofer and turns back into his normal, sweaty, half naked couch dwelling self that smells vaguely like a dumpster behind Taco Bell with a warrant for out for his arrest for domestic assault?
Don’t worry, if the arresting officer finds his glass hammer at the scene, he’ll turn back into a roofer and live happily ever after provided he doesn’t drop anything in the shower.
A Helpful Hint
How not to pick up women:
1) Go up to her and attempt to bum a cigarette.
2) Failing that, whine about how whenever you try and smoke on the Skytrain the cops get all up in your face, yo.
3) Whine about how hard it is to fare hop with the cops always all up in your face, yo.
4) Now tell her she’s hawt.
If you follow these easy step by step instructions, you too can ensure you die cold & alone in a halfway house laying on a mattress from the Salvation Army that smells kind of like your grandmother’s house.
Direct TV, still the occasional bane of my existence.
I am not Direct TV. I did not come out to your house and “install all this stuff you don’t want” nor can I come and take it away all of this undesired “stuff” of which you speak. You have the wrong number. Yelling at me about the failure of a completely unrelated company will get you nowhere. I do not sell TV. I sell home furnishes. Heck, I don’t even do that. I send you a package which may or may not enable you to purchase home furnishings.. But, regardless, I do not sell TV, let alone Direct TV. You have dialed incorrectly. You have made a grave mistake for which I have no explanation beyond your own stupidity, and I sit both baffled and impressed by the fact you don’t believe me.
As if this is some clever ploy by Direct TV to pretend they're not home, so you'll go away and keep paying for the service. Service I'm sure you signed up for to begin with. Because I highly doubt they scheduled and installation window, came out to your house, kicked in your door and installed Direct TV by force. Then left, laughing in a sinister manner, twiddle one end of their mustache.
Of course, my attempts to convince her otherwise were met with grave resistance. When she finally began to concede that perhaps I was indeed the wrong company, it was not without a parting threat:
“Well, I’ll try dialing this again, but if I get you again I’m going to be VERY ticked off!”
Yes, if she fails again, it will be my fault, and there will be Hell to pay apparently. I hope they can break a 20, because I'm not sure I have exact change.
How To Shut Down Half a City
I was late this evening, by a mere 5 minutes. This displeases me. Allow me to tell you my tale of how this came about:
The major stars of our tale are a makeshift group that I have dubbed the Fucktard Fashion Four. This quartet of intellectually challenged missing links between ape and man are the forefront cause of the misery of many hundreds of people this evening. But Gravekeeper, you ask, why the Fucktard Fashion Four? Well, young padawan, their title lays within their choices of guise and garb. Allow me to elaborate.
First up is a young gent whom I shall call Captain Colourblind. I’m not entirely sure what’s wrong with Captain Colourblind, as surely he must have at least one person in his life that could have stopped him at the door and said “Hey, I know you’re colourblind and all, but seriously, you look like rejected Chuck E Cheese mascot.”. But alas, his life must be devoid of people who care for him.
Foremost of his costume was a pair of plaid pants. Bad enough, I know. But these plaid pants were neon yellow. Neon. Yellow. I was a good 15 feet away yet still they lunged across the intervening distant and gouged at my eyes while my mind screamed “What the hell IS that?! Are those PANTS? Oh dear God.”. Over top of this was a leather jacket, which was mercifully zipped up. Thus containing whatever chromatic horrors might lay within.
His head, not to be outdone, was a purple Mohawk. Because really, nothing says grace, class and sophistication like a purple Mohawk and neon yellow pants.
Next up, was Loincloth Boy. Loincloth Boy was dressed completely normally except for the fact he was wearing a leather loincloth over his pants. I can find no explanation for this. I suspect a head impact as a child.
Backing them up was Old Biker Guy. Old Biker Guy wasn’t especially terrifying. He was just about 25 years too old to be even remotely daring to wear a leather jacket and tight leather pants combo.
Finally, there was the Harlot, Old Biker Guy’s sidekick. Dressed like a intrepid lady of the night whose price tag could not possibly exceed the $5 mark. Except old enough to be my mom. Yes, I threw up a little bit in my mouth too.
So what do these four skid marks on society have to do with why I was late? Well, let me tell you. All was going well this eve as the Skytrain approached downtown, when we suddenly slammed to a stop coming into the station and the telltale blare of the track intrusion alarm went off. Apparently some knob had tossed something on the track, thus triggering a system wide ( Yes, system wide, the ENTIRE line through out all of the city ) emergency screeching halt. Perhaps it was really the Fucktard Fashion Five, but I never did glimpse this possible fifth member. Anyhow, the Skytrain grinds to a halt and it’s not quite in the station, so the doors aren’t about to open for obvious safety reasons.
No biggy, just need to wait a minute for a Skytrain attendant to come by and make sure no one’s body is stuck under the wheels. Which typically only takes about 5-10 minutes, then the trains start moving again. But no, this wasn’t soon enough for the Fucktard Fashion Four. You see, these four weren’t even really together. It was only this neigh insurmountable crisis that threw them together and pressed them into action.
Captain Colourblind was first to the door. Unable to bare actually having to WAIT for two minutes, he wedged his simian like paws into the gap in the doors and began trying to wrest the door open with his mighty monkey strength. But despite his disturbing erotic grunting and panting, he was unable get the doors to open more than a few inches. It was at this point the other three leapt into action.
Old Biker Guy came to the rescue and pointed to the emergency door release. You can see where this is going.
The glint of salvation appeared in Captain Colourblind’s eyes and he began to desperately claw at the door release hatch while Harlot and Loincloth cheered him on. Finally he managed to pry it open, pull the emergency level and force the doors open. Upon which him, and his merry brood of fashion challenged ape creatures, escaped into the night.
Now, my opinion that the majority of the general public are fucking idiots was quickly reinforced. For right after those four idiots took off, everyone waiting on the platform, who had just watched this cabana monkey force open the Skytrain, began getting ON through the newly forced door. You know, onto the Skytrain with its emergency lights flashing, sitting on the track with the intrusion alarm lights flashing that's only half way into the station platform. Literally everyone on the platform tried to get in through this one door, because people are fucking idiots. This of course didn’t really work out too well because there’s only so much space in this end of the train into which people could expand from a single entry point. Not that that stopped anyone.
But of course this moronic act of forcing the emergency release shut the whole car down since the emergency signal was tripped. A rather irate voice from Skytrain control came over the PA to inform us to not force the emergency hatch release as all it would do would delay the entire Skytrain system even longer. How much longer you ask? 15 minutes longer. Because now not only do they have to make sure the track’s clear, but they have to manually reset the doors, then go through their safety check list to reset the train’s emergency system and make sure no one gets sucked out between here and the next station. They looked none too pleased having to do it too.
But of course the colossal fuckwits responsible for grinding half the city’s transit system to a halt and inconveniencing hundreds of people had already long fled into the night, and if there is any justice in this word, directly into the path of oncoming traffic.
Ok, I’m better now.
You know, it just occured to me that Captain Colourblind might actually be able to recognize himself from this story if he were reading. So, Captain Colourblind, if you're reading this: On behalf of the people of Vancouver, Fuck you, good sir.
But.
SC: “Yes, I know it’s really late, but-“
NO BUTS! It is really late and there is absolutely no excuse for calling at this hour. Any excuse you attempt to offer will be met with spite and ridicule. Do not even try. Just turn back now.
SC: “I just wanted to talk to <real estate agent>.”
Whargarbbl~! I’m sure she’ll be perfectly happy to drag herself out of bed in the middle of the bloody night to talk to you about one of her listings. Hey, why stop here. Why not go to her house and bang on her door incessantly till she either answers or calls the cops. Heck, knock with a bat, that’ll get her out there faster. I mean, how dare she sleep? There’s a house you want to talk about!
You Did What?
One of your electrical outlets has “exploded” and showered you with sparks. You are completely baffled as to why this happened. However, you did mention that you jammed a pair of pliers into the outlet in question.
While I’m certainly no electrician, I’m pretty sure I know what the problem is. I also know how to solve it. The dillemma here is pliers have a rubber grip so they’re a natural insulator. Try a fork.
Behold!
Guy 1: “When we get there, we’ve gotta mingle.”
Guy 2: “Cept you Andrew. You are so not a mingler, dude.”
Guy 3: “Yeah, he’d leave so many hurt feelings in his wake.”
Tonight I shared a Skytrain with Andrew. The Destroyer of Feelings.
......
Me: “Good evening, <company>, how may I help you?”
SC: “Yeah, I wants some SEX~!#””
Me: “Then you’re really calling the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh, alright.”
The fact he was actually surprised makes this all the worse. Because that means he was being completely serious and not just prank calling. So now I really have to wonder. Obviously neither my gender nor company affiliation made any difference to him. So is he just going through the phone book randomly calling places to try and find love?
........
Me: “Good evening, <completely different company>. How may I help you?”
SC: “Oh….uh….huhuhuhehehe.”
Me: “….can I help you?”
SC: “Sooooo, what’s goin’ on?”
Me: “…wrong number I assume?”
SC: “Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Yes, yes he is. Oh god.
Harhar
Me: “Ok, and what kind of system is it?”
SC: “Broken!”
Clever, but starkly unhelpful. Try again.
Hey!
SC: “No one’s in the office yet?”
Me: “No, sorry, we’re on pacific time so it’s only 5:30am here.”
SC: “Ohh, right you’re on pacific time. So what time is it there?”
Me: “5:30am..”
Hey, listen! While you may find my chattering to be annoying, if you'd just press C up for a second you'd find I really do have rather pertinent nuggets of information that may of use to you in overcoming the problems of your immediate future.
Meh, must vacuum.....
Like, kinda.
SC: “My dad said I should call the police and report that my purse was stolen.”
Me: “I’m sorry, this a parole office.”
SC: “Yeah, but I thought parole, that’s kinda like police.”
Yes, kinda. Just like Aspirin is kinda like Morphine. So when you’re sitting in the ER, getting the dog door surgically removed from your face and head ( Yes, I’m pretty confident this day will come for you ), be sure to just ask for Aspirin. Because kinda is good enough.
867
SC: “Hey, do you still have those things?”
Me: “Which things? Do you have an item number for them?”
SC: “Uh, no.”
Me: “…..”
SC: “It’s this thing here.”
Me: “…..”
Ooooh, that thing. Sure, we have tons of that.
I’m really, seriously curious as to how much alcohol you need to consume, gas you need to huff, head trauma you need to endure or any combination of the three to actually think that people can see over your shoulder on the phone. When you get out of the shower, do you duck past the phone so now one can see you wearing just a towel? Well, actually, maybe you stop, throw the towel open, wriggle and give the phone a little show as it were?
Wha?
SC: “Is this Travelocity?”
Me: “No, sorry.”
SC: “Well, fiddle dee dee!”
Er….wow. I honestly didn’t think people like you existed. I thought you were all just..you know, cartoon characters. One’s that lived on a farm, possibly with a giant anthropomorphic rooster with strong Confederate undertones.
Cultural Divide
SC: “Ya’ll, ma husband’s jus bustin’ a gut ta order a roof before noon.”
….he’s….what? Doesn’t that mean he’s laughing? Or is there a some sort of vast cultural divide I’m missing here? Of course, please be aware I’m paying you and your kind an immense compliment by suggesting you have a culture. Also, why noon? What happens at noon? Does the Hairy Godmother’s magic wear off and he stops being a roofer and turns back into his normal, sweaty, half naked couch dwelling self that smells vaguely like a dumpster behind Taco Bell with a warrant for out for his arrest for domestic assault?
Don’t worry, if the arresting officer finds his glass hammer at the scene, he’ll turn back into a roofer and live happily ever after provided he doesn’t drop anything in the shower.
A Helpful Hint
How not to pick up women:
1) Go up to her and attempt to bum a cigarette.
2) Failing that, whine about how whenever you try and smoke on the Skytrain the cops get all up in your face, yo.
3) Whine about how hard it is to fare hop with the cops always all up in your face, yo.
4) Now tell her she’s hawt.
If you follow these easy step by step instructions, you too can ensure you die cold & alone in a halfway house laying on a mattress from the Salvation Army that smells kind of like your grandmother’s house.
Direct TV, still the occasional bane of my existence.
I am not Direct TV. I did not come out to your house and “install all this stuff you don’t want” nor can I come and take it away all of this undesired “stuff” of which you speak. You have the wrong number. Yelling at me about the failure of a completely unrelated company will get you nowhere. I do not sell TV. I sell home furnishes. Heck, I don’t even do that. I send you a package which may or may not enable you to purchase home furnishings.. But, regardless, I do not sell TV, let alone Direct TV. You have dialed incorrectly. You have made a grave mistake for which I have no explanation beyond your own stupidity, and I sit both baffled and impressed by the fact you don’t believe me.
As if this is some clever ploy by Direct TV to pretend they're not home, so you'll go away and keep paying for the service. Service I'm sure you signed up for to begin with. Because I highly doubt they scheduled and installation window, came out to your house, kicked in your door and installed Direct TV by force. Then left, laughing in a sinister manner, twiddle one end of their mustache.
Of course, my attempts to convince her otherwise were met with grave resistance. When she finally began to concede that perhaps I was indeed the wrong company, it was not without a parting threat:
“Well, I’ll try dialing this again, but if I get you again I’m going to be VERY ticked off!”
Yes, if she fails again, it will be my fault, and there will be Hell to pay apparently. I hope they can break a 20, because I'm not sure I have exact change.
How To Shut Down Half a City
I was late this evening, by a mere 5 minutes. This displeases me. Allow me to tell you my tale of how this came about:
The major stars of our tale are a makeshift group that I have dubbed the Fucktard Fashion Four. This quartet of intellectually challenged missing links between ape and man are the forefront cause of the misery of many hundreds of people this evening. But Gravekeeper, you ask, why the Fucktard Fashion Four? Well, young padawan, their title lays within their choices of guise and garb. Allow me to elaborate.
First up is a young gent whom I shall call Captain Colourblind. I’m not entirely sure what’s wrong with Captain Colourblind, as surely he must have at least one person in his life that could have stopped him at the door and said “Hey, I know you’re colourblind and all, but seriously, you look like rejected Chuck E Cheese mascot.”. But alas, his life must be devoid of people who care for him.
Foremost of his costume was a pair of plaid pants. Bad enough, I know. But these plaid pants were neon yellow. Neon. Yellow. I was a good 15 feet away yet still they lunged across the intervening distant and gouged at my eyes while my mind screamed “What the hell IS that?! Are those PANTS? Oh dear God.”. Over top of this was a leather jacket, which was mercifully zipped up. Thus containing whatever chromatic horrors might lay within.
His head, not to be outdone, was a purple Mohawk. Because really, nothing says grace, class and sophistication like a purple Mohawk and neon yellow pants.
Next up, was Loincloth Boy. Loincloth Boy was dressed completely normally except for the fact he was wearing a leather loincloth over his pants. I can find no explanation for this. I suspect a head impact as a child.
Backing them up was Old Biker Guy. Old Biker Guy wasn’t especially terrifying. He was just about 25 years too old to be even remotely daring to wear a leather jacket and tight leather pants combo.
Finally, there was the Harlot, Old Biker Guy’s sidekick. Dressed like a intrepid lady of the night whose price tag could not possibly exceed the $5 mark. Except old enough to be my mom. Yes, I threw up a little bit in my mouth too.
So what do these four skid marks on society have to do with why I was late? Well, let me tell you. All was going well this eve as the Skytrain approached downtown, when we suddenly slammed to a stop coming into the station and the telltale blare of the track intrusion alarm went off. Apparently some knob had tossed something on the track, thus triggering a system wide ( Yes, system wide, the ENTIRE line through out all of the city ) emergency screeching halt. Perhaps it was really the Fucktard Fashion Five, but I never did glimpse this possible fifth member. Anyhow, the Skytrain grinds to a halt and it’s not quite in the station, so the doors aren’t about to open for obvious safety reasons.
No biggy, just need to wait a minute for a Skytrain attendant to come by and make sure no one’s body is stuck under the wheels. Which typically only takes about 5-10 minutes, then the trains start moving again. But no, this wasn’t soon enough for the Fucktard Fashion Four. You see, these four weren’t even really together. It was only this neigh insurmountable crisis that threw them together and pressed them into action.
Captain Colourblind was first to the door. Unable to bare actually having to WAIT for two minutes, he wedged his simian like paws into the gap in the doors and began trying to wrest the door open with his mighty monkey strength. But despite his disturbing erotic grunting and panting, he was unable get the doors to open more than a few inches. It was at this point the other three leapt into action.
Old Biker Guy came to the rescue and pointed to the emergency door release. You can see where this is going.
The glint of salvation appeared in Captain Colourblind’s eyes and he began to desperately claw at the door release hatch while Harlot and Loincloth cheered him on. Finally he managed to pry it open, pull the emergency level and force the doors open. Upon which him, and his merry brood of fashion challenged ape creatures, escaped into the night.
Now, my opinion that the majority of the general public are fucking idiots was quickly reinforced. For right after those four idiots took off, everyone waiting on the platform, who had just watched this cabana monkey force open the Skytrain, began getting ON through the newly forced door. You know, onto the Skytrain with its emergency lights flashing, sitting on the track with the intrusion alarm lights flashing that's only half way into the station platform. Literally everyone on the platform tried to get in through this one door, because people are fucking idiots. This of course didn’t really work out too well because there’s only so much space in this end of the train into which people could expand from a single entry point. Not that that stopped anyone.
But of course this moronic act of forcing the emergency release shut the whole car down since the emergency signal was tripped. A rather irate voice from Skytrain control came over the PA to inform us to not force the emergency hatch release as all it would do would delay the entire Skytrain system even longer. How much longer you ask? 15 minutes longer. Because now not only do they have to make sure the track’s clear, but they have to manually reset the doors, then go through their safety check list to reset the train’s emergency system and make sure no one gets sucked out between here and the next station. They looked none too pleased having to do it too.
But of course the colossal fuckwits responsible for grinding half the city’s transit system to a halt and inconveniencing hundreds of people had already long fled into the night, and if there is any justice in this word, directly into the path of oncoming traffic.
Ok, I’m better now.
You know, it just occured to me that Captain Colourblind might actually be able to recognize himself from this story if he were reading. So, Captain Colourblind, if you're reading this: On behalf of the people of Vancouver, Fuck you, good sir.
But.
SC: “Yes, I know it’s really late, but-“
NO BUTS! It is really late and there is absolutely no excuse for calling at this hour. Any excuse you attempt to offer will be met with spite and ridicule. Do not even try. Just turn back now.
SC: “I just wanted to talk to <real estate agent>.”
Whargarbbl~! I’m sure she’ll be perfectly happy to drag herself out of bed in the middle of the bloody night to talk to you about one of her listings. Hey, why stop here. Why not go to her house and bang on her door incessantly till she either answers or calls the cops. Heck, knock with a bat, that’ll get her out there faster. I mean, how dare she sleep? There’s a house you want to talk about!
You Did What?
One of your electrical outlets has “exploded” and showered you with sparks. You are completely baffled as to why this happened. However, you did mention that you jammed a pair of pliers into the outlet in question.
While I’m certainly no electrician, I’m pretty sure I know what the problem is. I also know how to solve it. The dillemma here is pliers have a rubber grip so they’re a natural insulator. Try a fork.
Behold!
Guy 1: “When we get there, we’ve gotta mingle.”
Guy 2: “Cept you Andrew. You are so not a mingler, dude.”
Guy 3: “Yeah, he’d leave so many hurt feelings in his wake.”
Tonight I shared a Skytrain with Andrew. The Destroyer of Feelings.
......
Me: “Good evening, <company>, how may I help you?”
SC: “Yeah, I wants some SEX~!#””
Me: “Then you’re really calling the wrong number.”
SC: “Oh, alright.”
The fact he was actually surprised makes this all the worse. Because that means he was being completely serious and not just prank calling. So now I really have to wonder. Obviously neither my gender nor company affiliation made any difference to him. So is he just going through the phone book randomly calling places to try and find love?
........
Me: “Good evening, <completely different company>. How may I help you?”
SC: “Oh….uh….huhuhuhehehe.”
Me: “….can I help you?”
SC: “Sooooo, what’s goin’ on?”
Me: “…wrong number I assume?”
SC: “Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Yes, yes he is. Oh god.
Harhar
Me: “Ok, and what kind of system is it?”
SC: “Broken!”
Clever, but starkly unhelpful. Try again.
Hey!
SC: “No one’s in the office yet?”
Me: “No, sorry, we’re on pacific time so it’s only 5:30am here.”
SC: “Ohh, right you’re on pacific time. So what time is it there?”
Me: “5:30am..”
Hey, listen! While you may find my chattering to be annoying, if you'd just press C up for a second you'd find I really do have rather pertinent nuggets of information that may of use to you in overcoming the problems of your immediate future.
Meh, must vacuum.....
!
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