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Wherein Fabulous Powers are Revealed to Me (epic)
Ho-lee carp. It's been a long time since I've been forced to use the epic tag but this week warrants it. From nightly Hot Tips to the Fan Girl to the barren arctic wastes, I had it all this week. ><
On a side note, I really am an asshole. ;p
Geography
Me: “Ok, and your first name please?”
SC: “Zed. Zee-E-D"
Me: “Alright, Zed-E-D?
SC: “….”
Me: “….?”
SC: “Ar yew English?”
Dammit! They’re on to me! I got careless and let my guard down.. Now our entire plan is in jeopardy.
Me: “No, I’m Canadian.”
SC: “Ohhhh. Where ya from?”
Me: "BC"
SC: “Oh! That’s right next to Massachusetts!”
….it….is? ….ok, my geographic knowledge isn’t fantastic, I mean I could only catch Carmen Santiago whenever she went to Paris or Rome as those were the only fabulous 4-bit CGA landmarks I could identify. But doesn’t Massachusetts have an Atlantic coast line?
I could always catch her when she was running through time though. Than I had her number. Oh yes.
Are you serious?
3:12am: Received call from end user complaining that computer monitor was too bright.
3:14am: End user demanded I contact an emergency tech to rectified this.
3:18am: End user hung up, confused and disappointed.
Hot Tips
The Problem:
Al-Qaeda
The Solution:
Do “what Lassie did in Vietnam”
What’s that girl? Timmy’s entrenched in a foreign country fighting an insurgency?
The Encounter
Oh. My. God. I saw it this evening. I encountered one of them. I mean, I knew they existed out there. Somewhere. But I had never thought I’d actually see one. I was naïve. Foolish even. But there it was. It had stepped foot on the Skytrain at 29th with apparent unease for its surroundings. A pitiful creature whose limited mental capacities were just barely allowing it to function within the complexities of our world.
This lanky creature intruded upon my urban chariot….dressed head to foot in Slim Shady clothes from <client>. The hat, the pants, the shoes, the “hoodie”, I recognized it all. Save the shirt. The shirt was a Slim Shady shirt, however for no apparent reason the front design was of the Pillsbury Doughboy attempting to look ghetto. Seriously. That was the artwork on the front. Yet it was still slim like Shady. I don’t think we have that one. I’m pretty sure I would have remember the Pillsbury Ghettoboy. Remembered and laughed aloud thus revealing myself.
Now, he has the hood up. Over the hat. Despite the fact he is indoors, it is not raining and it is fairly mild out. But of course the front is completely unzipped to show off the Doughboy. Adding further credence to my first impression that this boy was, in fact, a colossal idiot. This impression was further cemented by the fact he had not even succeeded in pulling his pants up all the way before leaving the house.
This peculiar creature, I knew what it was the moment I saw it and I will admit that there was a tiny, tiny piece of my brain way at the back whose initial reaction was “I MUST HURT THIS BOY”. ( Well, maybe not so tiny ) but I chose to remain silent and observe. I had never actually seen one of these beasts in person before. I must watch and learn all that I can about this strange, elusive creature. So that I may better understand it and ward myself against it in the future.
It shuffled towards a seat, weaving dangerously under the apparent effects of intoxication. It took him some time to manage to get himself into a seat without just flopping over on the Skytrain floor. Which, considering what’s stuck to it most nights truly is a fate beyond that of death. Once seated, he attempted to strike up a conversation with the two guys across from him for no apparent reason.
Well, conversation is a generous term. He quite literally just turned to them and asked them “Hey, you into gangsta sh*t?!”. Now, grasp the amount of Fail paint used in this particular portrait I must point out that the pair he was talking too were bespectacled, turtle neck sweatered chess club archetypes. I’m pretty sure “ganga sh*t” ranked remarkably low on their list of interests. After recovering from their initial confusion, they indicated just that back to him.
But he was undaunted. For his garb made him fly and ghetto and granted +300 Frost Resistance. He was quite proud of it and his fragile self esteem rested on their questionable threads. He began to ramble about his awesome Slim Shady gear and how amazingly gangsta it was. But he also noted, and whined, at length about how expensive it was. Well yes, because you’re paying for the label. The clothes themselves will likely fall apart inside a year or two. At which point you come back to suckle again at the sweet, sweet capitalist licensing teet that is Slim Shady.
Right, where was I? Oh yes.
His objects of conversation were utterly disinterested and not even replying. So he tried a new ploy: Beguile them with tales of his ghetto adventures. He began to brag, at length, about how he had managed to drink an entire half of a Forty Ouncer™. Which was why he was so gloriously fuzzy at the moment. Still, his audience failed to be captivated. Heart broken, the poor lad once again rose up ( desperately clutching the pole for support ) and moved towards the doors.
For the next 10 minutes every time the train stopped he asked someone at random if he was at Broadway yet. Despite multiple reassurances about how many more stations it would be, his fears could not be alleviated. Till finally, finally we pulled into Broadway. Which, as I have noted many times before, is the Loading / Unloading Zone for every living being in the lower mainland who spends the majority of their day desperately pushing on the pull door of life.
His exuberance at reaching his destination was rather short lived as he let go of the pole and went sideways into the Plexiglas divider. Much to my amusement. I cannot bring harm to him myself. But I will enjoy his misfortune by proxy.
Hot Tips
The Problem:
Al-Qaeda, again
The Solution:
Hire the Dirty Dozen. Combine them with the “Jalapenos”. Have the CIA train them all. Deploy them randomly.
I’m not 100% sure, but I think the only member of the Dirty Dozen still alive is Donald Sutherland. Now, I will admit that he is a terrifying man of unquestionable evil and perhaps the most formidable Canadian alive still walking this earth short of William Shatner. However, he is something like 70 years old so I doubt dropping him from a plane into the mountains of Pakistan would be that good for his health. Though I admit having Donald Sutherland fall from the sky on you would be rather terrifying. So I can’t entirely say this wouldn’t be at least somewhat effective.
I have no idea who the Jalapeno’s are though or how they would integrate into this unit to support Donald Sutherland. I assume they are some sort of Latin America based gang that makes delicious salsa and would serve as his morale support and comedic relief sort of like the penguins from Happy Feet.
Hot Tips: The Descent
SC: “I have a king you know.”
Me: “….”
SC: “He’s very real.”
Only when the meds wear off.
Me: “Oook.”
SC: “JESUS IS MY KING”
Me: “..and he keeps telling you to call us?”
SC: “..er...no, but he’s my KING”
If Jesus isn’t telling you to call us than why do you keep calling us? I mean, if it was Jesus himself I could kind of understand. Because if Jesus showed up at your house at 3am and went “Hey, bro, could you like, do me a quick favour?” you’d probably listen and at least get the man a Coke or something. But if not, I’m going to have to again assume your phone inquiries are driven by heavy drug usage.
Hot Tips: The Revelation
( Just, wow. )
SC: “Hey, do you know how to guarantee you’ll get super powers?”
Me: “……”
SC: “If you like, burn money to Jesus. Like a burnt offering.”
Me: “……”
SC: “Like if you burn a $1 you can get ESP like me.”
Wait, that’s your explanation for all this tomfoolery? You gave Jesus a dollar in exchange for superpowers and now you think you possess ESP? Well, at least I finally know the answer to this 3 year long mystery you’ve kept us enthralled with. I guess that’s that than. The truth, at least. Hrmm.
You know, I feel oddly empty inside now. Like you’ve just ruined everything. Our time together just doesn’t feel special anymore.
Me: “…….”
SC: “or like a 10 or a 20 or a 50 or something.”
Me: “So if you get ESP for a $1. What can I get for a $20?”
SC: “….uh….I don’t know, try it and find out.”
…you couldn’t afford more than a $1, could you?
Hot Tips: The End of All Things
The Problem:
…priests….touching altar boys?
The Solution:
ARMAGEDDON
That seems a tad extreme, don’t you think? Well, in all fairness he went from “mass execution” to the end of the world as we know it. I’m not entirely sure how, but than, I don’t have ESP.
Hang on, I think I’ve got a $20 here somewhere….does anyone have a lighter?
...k...
( She's calling about renovating and replacing her entire roof )
SC: “It can’t be more than $2000 or I can’t afford it.”
Er....well, ok. But with that price range I’m afraid you’re largely limited to syran wrap, tinfoil or macaroni as your choices of roofing material. If you want to push up to $2500 I might be able to swing you bubble wrap. But that has a tendency to get...er..."damaged"...in transit.
Why?
Me: “Ok, and what’s your phone number there please?”
SC: “Its xxx-xxx-xxx. But there’s no one there.”
Than, my obviously befuddled compatriot, why even bother giving it to me? The whole point of this endeavour was that you wanted me to page someone for you. A task one would assume would result in that someone calling you back. Therefore, would it not be a tad more prudent ( and less idiotic ) to give me a number you can be reached at? Rather than a number that will ring unanswered in a lonely void somewhere in Alberta?
k, granted, most of Alberta is a lonely, flat void, but still.
Why, yes
Me: “Alright, I can put you at <hotel> for <rate>"
SC: “Ohh…Hmmmmm….do they have a shuttle?”
Me :“I’m afraid it stopped running at midnight, however they are only about 5 minutes from the airport.”
SC: “Oh, ok, so I could take a taxi.”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “Hmmmm….”
Me: “So would you like a room there?”
SC: “That…..is a fantastic question.”
Why yes, I was quite proud of it myself.
In All Fairness, he had Initiative
SC: “Can you page Bob for me?”
Me: “Sure, what is your name please?”
SC: “Barney. Page him and tell him to call me.”
Me: “Ok, can I have your phone number please?”
SC: “Just tell him to call me.”
Me: “Alright, I’ll page him to return your call.”
SC: “Ok, thank you.”
Me: “You’re welcome.”
A simple request you would think, but alas, it was not to be so….5 minutes later
SC: “Yes, I just called to page Bob?!”
Me: “Ok, yes.”
SC: “But the line disconnected!”
Me: “….well, yes, I paged him to call you”
SC: “Than why did did you hang up1?!?"
Me: “……because…….you...asked me…..to page him....to call you back?”
SC: "TELL HIM TO TURN HIS PHONE ON!@$!"
Me: "....."
Sadly, I failed my Save vs Idiot roll and was stunned for 1D4 turns.
Ah Yes, They Did It Before
SC: “Can I get a reference number?”
Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t give reference numbers afterhours.”
SC: “Oh, I’ve called before and gotten one.”
Me: “We don’t assign them after hours.”
SC: “Well! I’ve called afterhours before and they’ve ALWAYS given one.”
Me: "We've never given out reference numbers."
SC: "They've always given me them BEFORE!"
No, no they haven't. We’ve never given reference numbers. Ever. In the 7 years we've had this account. We have no reference numbers. Our system does not even generate any sort of reference number. Do not attempt to argue this with me. I have no reference number to give and your petulant bovine like objections and attempts to invoke some sort of imaginary grandfather clause to the contrary will change nothing.
Relax, have a salt lick and sit tight. The tech will be with you shortly.
.....
Me: “Ok, and your last name please?”
SC: “Veldoodelmonk”
Apparently, Lord Voldemort’s distant and far less successfully cousin requires a new pair of sneakers.
It All Makes Sense Now
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “…mmfmm…”
Me: “….hello?”
SC: “Hai.”
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Mhmmm.”
Me: “Ok, can I have your name please?”
SC: “….uh….”
Me: “……..?”
SC: “………”
Me: “Hello?”
SC: “Hello.”
Me: “Can I have your name please?”
SC: “….I forgot.”
You know, I don’t even know how some of my callers manage to dial a phone to reach me in the first place. Heck, I’m not even sure how they manage to survive daily life without drinking bleach or trying to make toast in the bathtub or not succumbing to the elements after wandering outside into a blizzard without any pants on to try and get another 6 pack from the cooler in shed.
Really, I don’t understand. Most of the calls on this line at night are from the absolute harshest climates in all of Canada yet inversely have the single most weak minded person on the other end of the line. How do they survive? Don’t you need some sort of cunning wit and wilderness survival skills to live there? Seriously, if you make it to the age of 20 there shouldn’t you be like fucking Aragorn by now?
It flies in the face of Natural Selection. Unless every town only has a handful of simple minded idjits who are assigned to ordering clothing and the rest of the village works tirelessly just to try and keep them from killing themselves on a daily basis.
Cripes, maybe that’s it. It would explain why it always seems to be the same couple of idjits that call from each specific town. Perhaps the whole town is really quite intelligent and they’re just taking pity on the village idiot because dialing a phone is the only thing they were ever able to teach him to do right and it’s not like there’s any other place they can send him because the closest civilization is 400kms away.
That puts things in a whole different light. I shouldn’t be trying to struggle against their efforts. I should be trying to help them ease the dark burden they carry.
Fear not, Rangers of the North, you have my sword!
Time For A Little Talk
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “…mmfmm…”
Me: “Ok, can I have your name please?”
SC: “…uh…Robert.”
Oh oh, he’s remembered who he is now. That only took 10 minutes. I guess he had to go check the macaroni art on the fridge.
Me: “Ok, and what would like to order?”
SC: “Uh….SLIM SHADY SWITCH BLADE HOODIE~”
Oi. Ok, look here lad. Obviously no one’s ever had a chat with you about this. So it falls upon me. That “hoodie” you’re ordering? Right, that. Yes, let’s have a little discussion about that. Now you’re probably under the impression this hoodie will make you seem like a complete bad ass. But in all frank honesty bad asses do not wear designer gangsta’ clothing. Designer gangsta clothing is for people who think they’re bad ass and somehow think ridiculous clothing will convey this ill conceived notion to others. When in fact the only impression it really gives off is “I am physically and/or mentally a 12 year old boy and think I am bad ass. Hang on a sec, I need to update my Twitter with how bad ass I am chillin' at da DQ with my boYEEZ. Man I am so fucking bad ass.”
Complicating this is the fact your hoodie costs over $100. I too have a hooded sweatshirt. Which is what it is, a hooded sweatshirt. Not a hoodie. It is just as comfortable, better made and looks far classier than the object you are ordering. It cost me a mere $20 at Old Navy and will likely last 5-10 years longer than yours. Sure, it is a simple grey/white two tone and lacks any sort of “bad ass” design. But honestly? The one you’re ordering has a bunch of little perfect rows of tiny switchblade patterns all over it as if you told your grandmother to knit you something “cool”.
Sure, 12 year olds that flash gang signs may not think I’m cool. But if I actually gave a damn what they thought I’d have the Pillsbury Ghettoboy on the front of my t-shirt.
The Fangirl
Our insane resident stalker just told me how to win the lottery….first, you go to Safeway and buy some tickets. Than you take them home, get a vase, put the tickets in the vase and fill it with water. Not all the way though. Just 2/3rds. Now you add fresh Ginger root. I don’t know why. I wasn’t aware Ginger possessed magical fate alternating properties. Now you just leave it.
I’m not sure how you’re suppose to prevent the tickets from, well, dissolving into a pulp mulch either. But hey, whom am I to argue in the face of sheer unbridled lunacy.
The Fangirl
Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not a recipe for supreme luck. It’s a recipe for soup. Yes, soup. See, after you put the lottery tickets and the ginger in the vase you seal it for 48 to 52 days ( She was very specific ) and let the lottery tickets really absorb all that natural ginger flavour I guess. Than you open the vase, pour the contents into a pot and bring it to a boil over medium heat until it simmers down and thickens.
Yes, she specified medium heat. You wouldn’t want your Ginger 6/49 soup to burn now, would you?
Bravo
Me: “Ok, the total comes to $132”
SC: “Ya! I added doz already!”
Good for you! Elmo proud.
You Sir, Are a Goddamn Idiot
This is the last call I took right before getting off work and he ran me 5 minutes over the end of my shift. This isn't even funny, he's just a fscking idiot.
He got dumped by Continental ( Big surprise ) and called us for a hotel room. No problem, we put him up somewhere for the night. No big deal. End of story. The following morning, he calls us to complain that:
1) We told him the hotel had a shuttle. It didn't. So he had to pay for a cab.
2) That we had booked him a room there. But there was no room for him when he arrived.
3) That the rate was x when in fact it was y which was about $40 more.
4) That the hotel in question does not even work with our booking service.
Legitimate complaints, but highly unusual since we receive all of that information from the hotels to begin with. So I'm already wondering what exactly is up. Meanwhile, numbnuts wants me to talk to the desk clerk and basically force the desk clerk to honour the rate and refund the difference ( hah! ) AFTER he's already stayed the night in the room ( hah hah! ).
So I ask him which hotel it is and he tells me Hotel A. Now I've been working with Hotel A for the last 48 hours and have sent at least 100 people their way without a single issue. So this struck me as remarkably odd. But I want to solve this without dragging the poor desk clerk into it.
Than he tells me that the desk clerk told him he's at the wrong hotel. Whoa, back up there. What? The desk clerk told you that you were at the wrong hotel the second you arrived last night and you argued with him ( Like he doesn't know where he farking works ) and than decided you'd take the room anyway than call us in the morning so you could basically try and make us prove the desk clerk wrong and force him to pony up a refund.
Right.
So I ask where the desk clerk said he is, and the clerk says it Hotel B. But fucknuts insists its Hotel A. TO get an idea of how much fucking fail this is:
Hotel A and Hotel B's names both start with the same word. Both are 4 words long. The remaining 3 words are completely different and Hotel A ends with "Hotel" while Hotel B ends with "Inn". Its completely impossible to mistake the two unless you are blind, deaf and operating at the mental level of mildew. Even if you did make the mistake, who the fark ARGUES it with the people that work there than calls another company to tell those people they don't really work where they think they do?
So I ask fuckbulb what the address is there. He tells me. I tell him that's Hotel B, he's at the wrong hotel. Hotel A is at Address A. This shuts him up for a moment. Than he immediately blames us for telling him to us the courtesy phones in baggage claim and than the airport for not having a clear hotel listing next to said phone. Its not his fault we told him to use it and its not his fault he read the directory wrong, the directory itself must be wrong and he only used it because we told him too.
Holy shit, dude. Grow a pair and accept responsibility for once in your fucking life.
Being that I am a near saint with limitless compassion, I offer to move him to another hotel that's half the rate he is paying there because he has to stay in the city one more night. But he declines and says he'll just stay at Hotel B anyway.
Which means the only reason he called was to A) Blame us and B) Attempt to get us to prove the clearly incompetent desk clerk wrong so he could smugly gloat over him.
Asshole. ><
annnnd rest.
On a side note, I really am an asshole. ;p
Geography
Me: “Ok, and your first name please?”
SC: “Zed. Zee-E-D"
Me: “Alright, Zed-E-D?
SC: “….”
Me: “….?”
SC: “Ar yew English?”
Dammit! They’re on to me! I got careless and let my guard down.. Now our entire plan is in jeopardy.
Me: “No, I’m Canadian.”
SC: “Ohhhh. Where ya from?”
Me: "BC"
SC: “Oh! That’s right next to Massachusetts!”
….it….is? ….ok, my geographic knowledge isn’t fantastic, I mean I could only catch Carmen Santiago whenever she went to Paris or Rome as those were the only fabulous 4-bit CGA landmarks I could identify. But doesn’t Massachusetts have an Atlantic coast line?
I could always catch her when she was running through time though. Than I had her number. Oh yes.
Are you serious?
3:12am: Received call from end user complaining that computer monitor was too bright.
3:14am: End user demanded I contact an emergency tech to rectified this.
3:18am: End user hung up, confused and disappointed.
Hot Tips
The Problem:
Al-Qaeda
The Solution:
Do “what Lassie did in Vietnam”
What’s that girl? Timmy’s entrenched in a foreign country fighting an insurgency?
The Encounter
Oh. My. God. I saw it this evening. I encountered one of them. I mean, I knew they existed out there. Somewhere. But I had never thought I’d actually see one. I was naïve. Foolish even. But there it was. It had stepped foot on the Skytrain at 29th with apparent unease for its surroundings. A pitiful creature whose limited mental capacities were just barely allowing it to function within the complexities of our world.
This lanky creature intruded upon my urban chariot….dressed head to foot in Slim Shady clothes from <client>. The hat, the pants, the shoes, the “hoodie”, I recognized it all. Save the shirt. The shirt was a Slim Shady shirt, however for no apparent reason the front design was of the Pillsbury Doughboy attempting to look ghetto. Seriously. That was the artwork on the front. Yet it was still slim like Shady. I don’t think we have that one. I’m pretty sure I would have remember the Pillsbury Ghettoboy. Remembered and laughed aloud thus revealing myself.
Now, he has the hood up. Over the hat. Despite the fact he is indoors, it is not raining and it is fairly mild out. But of course the front is completely unzipped to show off the Doughboy. Adding further credence to my first impression that this boy was, in fact, a colossal idiot. This impression was further cemented by the fact he had not even succeeded in pulling his pants up all the way before leaving the house.
This peculiar creature, I knew what it was the moment I saw it and I will admit that there was a tiny, tiny piece of my brain way at the back whose initial reaction was “I MUST HURT THIS BOY”. ( Well, maybe not so tiny ) but I chose to remain silent and observe. I had never actually seen one of these beasts in person before. I must watch and learn all that I can about this strange, elusive creature. So that I may better understand it and ward myself against it in the future.
It shuffled towards a seat, weaving dangerously under the apparent effects of intoxication. It took him some time to manage to get himself into a seat without just flopping over on the Skytrain floor. Which, considering what’s stuck to it most nights truly is a fate beyond that of death. Once seated, he attempted to strike up a conversation with the two guys across from him for no apparent reason.
Well, conversation is a generous term. He quite literally just turned to them and asked them “Hey, you into gangsta sh*t?!”. Now, grasp the amount of Fail paint used in this particular portrait I must point out that the pair he was talking too were bespectacled, turtle neck sweatered chess club archetypes. I’m pretty sure “ganga sh*t” ranked remarkably low on their list of interests. After recovering from their initial confusion, they indicated just that back to him.
But he was undaunted. For his garb made him fly and ghetto and granted +300 Frost Resistance. He was quite proud of it and his fragile self esteem rested on their questionable threads. He began to ramble about his awesome Slim Shady gear and how amazingly gangsta it was. But he also noted, and whined, at length about how expensive it was. Well yes, because you’re paying for the label. The clothes themselves will likely fall apart inside a year or two. At which point you come back to suckle again at the sweet, sweet capitalist licensing teet that is Slim Shady.
Right, where was I? Oh yes.
His objects of conversation were utterly disinterested and not even replying. So he tried a new ploy: Beguile them with tales of his ghetto adventures. He began to brag, at length, about how he had managed to drink an entire half of a Forty Ouncer™. Which was why he was so gloriously fuzzy at the moment. Still, his audience failed to be captivated. Heart broken, the poor lad once again rose up ( desperately clutching the pole for support ) and moved towards the doors.
For the next 10 minutes every time the train stopped he asked someone at random if he was at Broadway yet. Despite multiple reassurances about how many more stations it would be, his fears could not be alleviated. Till finally, finally we pulled into Broadway. Which, as I have noted many times before, is the Loading / Unloading Zone for every living being in the lower mainland who spends the majority of their day desperately pushing on the pull door of life.
His exuberance at reaching his destination was rather short lived as he let go of the pole and went sideways into the Plexiglas divider. Much to my amusement. I cannot bring harm to him myself. But I will enjoy his misfortune by proxy.
Hot Tips
The Problem:
Al-Qaeda, again
The Solution:
Hire the Dirty Dozen. Combine them with the “Jalapenos”. Have the CIA train them all. Deploy them randomly.
I’m not 100% sure, but I think the only member of the Dirty Dozen still alive is Donald Sutherland. Now, I will admit that he is a terrifying man of unquestionable evil and perhaps the most formidable Canadian alive still walking this earth short of William Shatner. However, he is something like 70 years old so I doubt dropping him from a plane into the mountains of Pakistan would be that good for his health. Though I admit having Donald Sutherland fall from the sky on you would be rather terrifying. So I can’t entirely say this wouldn’t be at least somewhat effective.
I have no idea who the Jalapeno’s are though or how they would integrate into this unit to support Donald Sutherland. I assume they are some sort of Latin America based gang that makes delicious salsa and would serve as his morale support and comedic relief sort of like the penguins from Happy Feet.
Hot Tips: The Descent
SC: “I have a king you know.”
Me: “….”
SC: “He’s very real.”
Only when the meds wear off.
Me: “Oook.”
SC: “JESUS IS MY KING”
Me: “..and he keeps telling you to call us?”
SC: “..er...no, but he’s my KING”
If Jesus isn’t telling you to call us than why do you keep calling us? I mean, if it was Jesus himself I could kind of understand. Because if Jesus showed up at your house at 3am and went “Hey, bro, could you like, do me a quick favour?” you’d probably listen and at least get the man a Coke or something. But if not, I’m going to have to again assume your phone inquiries are driven by heavy drug usage.
Hot Tips: The Revelation
( Just, wow. )
SC: “Hey, do you know how to guarantee you’ll get super powers?”
Me: “……”
SC: “If you like, burn money to Jesus. Like a burnt offering.”
Me: “……”
SC: “Like if you burn a $1 you can get ESP like me.”
Wait, that’s your explanation for all this tomfoolery? You gave Jesus a dollar in exchange for superpowers and now you think you possess ESP? Well, at least I finally know the answer to this 3 year long mystery you’ve kept us enthralled with. I guess that’s that than. The truth, at least. Hrmm.
You know, I feel oddly empty inside now. Like you’ve just ruined everything. Our time together just doesn’t feel special anymore.
Me: “…….”
SC: “or like a 10 or a 20 or a 50 or something.”
Me: “So if you get ESP for a $1. What can I get for a $20?”
SC: “….uh….I don’t know, try it and find out.”
…you couldn’t afford more than a $1, could you?
Hot Tips: The End of All Things
The Problem:
…priests….touching altar boys?
The Solution:
ARMAGEDDON
That seems a tad extreme, don’t you think? Well, in all fairness he went from “mass execution” to the end of the world as we know it. I’m not entirely sure how, but than, I don’t have ESP.
Hang on, I think I’ve got a $20 here somewhere….does anyone have a lighter?
...k...
( She's calling about renovating and replacing her entire roof )
SC: “It can’t be more than $2000 or I can’t afford it.”
Er....well, ok. But with that price range I’m afraid you’re largely limited to syran wrap, tinfoil or macaroni as your choices of roofing material. If you want to push up to $2500 I might be able to swing you bubble wrap. But that has a tendency to get...er..."damaged"...in transit.
Why?
Me: “Ok, and what’s your phone number there please?”
SC: “Its xxx-xxx-xxx. But there’s no one there.”
Than, my obviously befuddled compatriot, why even bother giving it to me? The whole point of this endeavour was that you wanted me to page someone for you. A task one would assume would result in that someone calling you back. Therefore, would it not be a tad more prudent ( and less idiotic ) to give me a number you can be reached at? Rather than a number that will ring unanswered in a lonely void somewhere in Alberta?
k, granted, most of Alberta is a lonely, flat void, but still.
Why, yes
Me: “Alright, I can put you at <hotel> for <rate>"
SC: “Ohh…Hmmmmm….do they have a shuttle?”
Me :“I’m afraid it stopped running at midnight, however they are only about 5 minutes from the airport.”
SC: “Oh, ok, so I could take a taxi.”
Me: “Yes.”
SC: “Hmmmm….”
Me: “So would you like a room there?”
SC: “That…..is a fantastic question.”
Why yes, I was quite proud of it myself.
In All Fairness, he had Initiative
SC: “Can you page Bob for me?”
Me: “Sure, what is your name please?”
SC: “Barney. Page him and tell him to call me.”
Me: “Ok, can I have your phone number please?”
SC: “Just tell him to call me.”
Me: “Alright, I’ll page him to return your call.”
SC: “Ok, thank you.”
Me: “You’re welcome.”
A simple request you would think, but alas, it was not to be so….5 minutes later
SC: “Yes, I just called to page Bob?!”
Me: “Ok, yes.”
SC: “But the line disconnected!”
Me: “….well, yes, I paged him to call you”
SC: “Than why did did you hang up1?!?"
Me: “……because…….you...asked me…..to page him....to call you back?”
SC: "TELL HIM TO TURN HIS PHONE ON!@$!"
Me: "....."
Sadly, I failed my Save vs Idiot roll and was stunned for 1D4 turns.
Ah Yes, They Did It Before
SC: “Can I get a reference number?”
Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t give reference numbers afterhours.”
SC: “Oh, I’ve called before and gotten one.”
Me: “We don’t assign them after hours.”
SC: “Well! I’ve called afterhours before and they’ve ALWAYS given one.”
Me: "We've never given out reference numbers."
SC: "They've always given me them BEFORE!"
No, no they haven't. We’ve never given reference numbers. Ever. In the 7 years we've had this account. We have no reference numbers. Our system does not even generate any sort of reference number. Do not attempt to argue this with me. I have no reference number to give and your petulant bovine like objections and attempts to invoke some sort of imaginary grandfather clause to the contrary will change nothing.
Relax, have a salt lick and sit tight. The tech will be with you shortly.
.....
Me: “Ok, and your last name please?”
SC: “Veldoodelmonk”
Apparently, Lord Voldemort’s distant and far less successfully cousin requires a new pair of sneakers.
It All Makes Sense Now
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “…mmfmm…”
Me: “….hello?”
SC: “Hai.”
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “Mhmmm.”
Me: “Ok, can I have your name please?”
SC: “….uh….”
Me: “……..?”
SC: “………”
Me: “Hello?”
SC: “Hello.”
Me: “Can I have your name please?”
SC: “….I forgot.”
You know, I don’t even know how some of my callers manage to dial a phone to reach me in the first place. Heck, I’m not even sure how they manage to survive daily life without drinking bleach or trying to make toast in the bathtub or not succumbing to the elements after wandering outside into a blizzard without any pants on to try and get another 6 pack from the cooler in shed.
Really, I don’t understand. Most of the calls on this line at night are from the absolute harshest climates in all of Canada yet inversely have the single most weak minded person on the other end of the line. How do they survive? Don’t you need some sort of cunning wit and wilderness survival skills to live there? Seriously, if you make it to the age of 20 there shouldn’t you be like fucking Aragorn by now?
It flies in the face of Natural Selection. Unless every town only has a handful of simple minded idjits who are assigned to ordering clothing and the rest of the village works tirelessly just to try and keep them from killing themselves on a daily basis.
Cripes, maybe that’s it. It would explain why it always seems to be the same couple of idjits that call from each specific town. Perhaps the whole town is really quite intelligent and they’re just taking pity on the village idiot because dialing a phone is the only thing they were ever able to teach him to do right and it’s not like there’s any other place they can send him because the closest civilization is 400kms away.
That puts things in a whole different light. I shouldn’t be trying to struggle against their efforts. I should be trying to help them ease the dark burden they carry.
Fear not, Rangers of the North, you have my sword!
Time For A Little Talk
Me: “Are you calling to place an order?”
SC: “…mmfmm…”
Me: “Ok, can I have your name please?”
SC: “…uh…Robert.”
Oh oh, he’s remembered who he is now. That only took 10 minutes. I guess he had to go check the macaroni art on the fridge.
Me: “Ok, and what would like to order?”
SC: “Uh….SLIM SHADY SWITCH BLADE HOODIE~”
Oi. Ok, look here lad. Obviously no one’s ever had a chat with you about this. So it falls upon me. That “hoodie” you’re ordering? Right, that. Yes, let’s have a little discussion about that. Now you’re probably under the impression this hoodie will make you seem like a complete bad ass. But in all frank honesty bad asses do not wear designer gangsta’ clothing. Designer gangsta clothing is for people who think they’re bad ass and somehow think ridiculous clothing will convey this ill conceived notion to others. When in fact the only impression it really gives off is “I am physically and/or mentally a 12 year old boy and think I am bad ass. Hang on a sec, I need to update my Twitter with how bad ass I am chillin' at da DQ with my boYEEZ. Man I am so fucking bad ass.”
Complicating this is the fact your hoodie costs over $100. I too have a hooded sweatshirt. Which is what it is, a hooded sweatshirt. Not a hoodie. It is just as comfortable, better made and looks far classier than the object you are ordering. It cost me a mere $20 at Old Navy and will likely last 5-10 years longer than yours. Sure, it is a simple grey/white two tone and lacks any sort of “bad ass” design. But honestly? The one you’re ordering has a bunch of little perfect rows of tiny switchblade patterns all over it as if you told your grandmother to knit you something “cool”.
Sure, 12 year olds that flash gang signs may not think I’m cool. But if I actually gave a damn what they thought I’d have the Pillsbury Ghettoboy on the front of my t-shirt.
The Fangirl
Our insane resident stalker just told me how to win the lottery….first, you go to Safeway and buy some tickets. Than you take them home, get a vase, put the tickets in the vase and fill it with water. Not all the way though. Just 2/3rds. Now you add fresh Ginger root. I don’t know why. I wasn’t aware Ginger possessed magical fate alternating properties. Now you just leave it.
I’m not sure how you’re suppose to prevent the tickets from, well, dissolving into a pulp mulch either. But hey, whom am I to argue in the face of sheer unbridled lunacy.
The Fangirl
Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not a recipe for supreme luck. It’s a recipe for soup. Yes, soup. See, after you put the lottery tickets and the ginger in the vase you seal it for 48 to 52 days ( She was very specific ) and let the lottery tickets really absorb all that natural ginger flavour I guess. Than you open the vase, pour the contents into a pot and bring it to a boil over medium heat until it simmers down and thickens.
Yes, she specified medium heat. You wouldn’t want your Ginger 6/49 soup to burn now, would you?
Bravo
Me: “Ok, the total comes to $132”
SC: “Ya! I added doz already!”
Good for you! Elmo proud.
You Sir, Are a Goddamn Idiot
This is the last call I took right before getting off work and he ran me 5 minutes over the end of my shift. This isn't even funny, he's just a fscking idiot.
He got dumped by Continental ( Big surprise ) and called us for a hotel room. No problem, we put him up somewhere for the night. No big deal. End of story. The following morning, he calls us to complain that:
1) We told him the hotel had a shuttle. It didn't. So he had to pay for a cab.
2) That we had booked him a room there. But there was no room for him when he arrived.
3) That the rate was x when in fact it was y which was about $40 more.
4) That the hotel in question does not even work with our booking service.
Legitimate complaints, but highly unusual since we receive all of that information from the hotels to begin with. So I'm already wondering what exactly is up. Meanwhile, numbnuts wants me to talk to the desk clerk and basically force the desk clerk to honour the rate and refund the difference ( hah! ) AFTER he's already stayed the night in the room ( hah hah! ).
So I ask him which hotel it is and he tells me Hotel A. Now I've been working with Hotel A for the last 48 hours and have sent at least 100 people their way without a single issue. So this struck me as remarkably odd. But I want to solve this without dragging the poor desk clerk into it.
Than he tells me that the desk clerk told him he's at the wrong hotel. Whoa, back up there. What? The desk clerk told you that you were at the wrong hotel the second you arrived last night and you argued with him ( Like he doesn't know where he farking works ) and than decided you'd take the room anyway than call us in the morning so you could basically try and make us prove the desk clerk wrong and force him to pony up a refund.
Right.
So I ask where the desk clerk said he is, and the clerk says it Hotel B. But fucknuts insists its Hotel A. TO get an idea of how much fucking fail this is:
Hotel A and Hotel B's names both start with the same word. Both are 4 words long. The remaining 3 words are completely different and Hotel A ends with "Hotel" while Hotel B ends with "Inn". Its completely impossible to mistake the two unless you are blind, deaf and operating at the mental level of mildew. Even if you did make the mistake, who the fark ARGUES it with the people that work there than calls another company to tell those people they don't really work where they think they do?
So I ask fuckbulb what the address is there. He tells me. I tell him that's Hotel B, he's at the wrong hotel. Hotel A is at Address A. This shuts him up for a moment. Than he immediately blames us for telling him to us the courtesy phones in baggage claim and than the airport for not having a clear hotel listing next to said phone. Its not his fault we told him to use it and its not his fault he read the directory wrong, the directory itself must be wrong and he only used it because we told him too.
Holy shit, dude. Grow a pair and accept responsibility for once in your fucking life.
Being that I am a near saint with limitless compassion, I offer to move him to another hotel that's half the rate he is paying there because he has to stay in the city one more night. But he declines and says he'll just stay at Hotel B anyway.
Which means the only reason he called was to A) Blame us and B) Attempt to get us to prove the clearly incompetent desk clerk wrong so he could smugly gloat over him.
Asshole. ><
annnnd rest.
I DON'T SPEAK CRAZY!
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