Multi National Mega Global has, as its name would denote, offices and employees (or “associates“, as they are smugly called) all around the world. It is not unusual for an associate from Brazil to pop in from one of his meetings and use a computer before heading to the airport, or from France to chat with one of the unit heads about Matters of Monumental Importance. Most recently, one of our esteemed German associates visited our fair city for a fun-filled day of client meetings, then dinner with our local mucky-mucks.
After the meetings, the German and Sam Shenanigan, Big Cheese and all-around pain in the ass, congenially walk the client to the door, and the second it closes, they begin to chat informally in the lobby.
"Well”, says Sam, “the train's not out of the station on this one yet. We need to get some architecture together that makes it begin to look like a house, or we’ll lose our window of opportunity. Now, there are a couple of flies in the ointment, and, of course, everyone is going to want their bite of the apple, but I’ve seen this movie before, and once we pull all the threads into one quilt, we’ll have the world by the tail.”
What the…?
Okay, everyone who’s ever met anyone from Western Europe knows that they just about all speak English. Good English. In some cases, more fluid and grammatically correct English than your average American. Evidently very few Freakish Corp-O-Speak classes are taught in Germany.
Looking utterly bewildered, Wolfgang musters a meek “Sorry?”
Sam takes a breath and clarifies for him. “Listen, we have a better mousetrap, I know it and you know it. Our first concern will be getting the right people on the bus, and then taking a couple swings at it, kicking it around, throwing ideas at the wall to see what sticks. This baby is going to be in the incubator for a while, but ultimately there is a need to feed the beast, so if we drill through the details and stay ahead of the curve, it puts them on our battlefield. See, it’s a line in the sand, and we can redraw the boundaries later on.”
Mistaking Wolfgang’s complete confusion for reluctance, Sam intensifies.
“All right, I know this seems like the project that ate Manhattan, and granted, I’d like to get a better look under the tent too, but for now, we just have to put together a straw man to get us down the road. Of course, we’ll eventually have to put flesh on the bone, you know, move the needle. But that’s a whole other kettle of fish. As it stands, we don’t have to boil the ocean or cure cancer. We’re not baking that cake right now. As long as we…”
Sam’s mixed-metaphor logorrhea is mercifully corked by his “Where’s the Party At?” ring tone.
Sam takes the call and wanders down the hall toward his office, motioning for Wolfgang to follow. The German looks at me, a hopeless, silent cry for help, and I can only shrug my shoulders and commiserate, saying “I'm truly sorry I can’t help you. English is my mother tongue, and he’s still unintelligible.” Wolfgang smiles at the joke, and then adds, “He’s been drinking some company Kool-Aid, yes?”
When I almost shoot Dr. Pepper through my nose, the international sign of astonished amusement, Wolfgang looks pleased.
As well he should.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
That's What It's Called
“Have you ever seen one of these?”
Alan, a company honcho on the verge of retirement, is walking toward my desk from his office. His question isn’t phrased in a Hey,-check-it-out,-I’m-showing-you-something-cool! sort of way, but in a What-the-heck-IS-this-thing? sort of way. He holds in his hand one of those old-school, 5.25-inch square black computer disks. My eyes almost bug out of my head.
It’s a floppy.
I first came into contact with those disks when my parents bought their first computer, a Tandy from Radio Shack. It had amber characters instead of green, which was super-duper cool at the time and I reveled in my 7-year-old hipness every time I laid eyes on that nifty blinking cursor. We had a typing tutor program installed on it, and my mother tried in vain to teach me some very fundamental DOS. Alas, I wasn’t interested. (You can see where that’s gotten me.) I knew only enough to get around in a very basic way, and it wasn’t more than a few years until that clunky platform was replaced with user-friendly windows, that new fangled revolution in computers that we take for granted today.
I digress.
When Alan proffers that disk, I really think he’s joking. “Oh, a floppy.” I say, waiting for some kind of joke or retro reference. Nothing. He waves it back and forth, testing out my assertion, and says, “Yes, it’s floppy, but what is it?” I smile, and realize that Alan is of a completely different era. Technologically, he completely skipped the petulant and awkard teen stages, and zipped right into the-world-is-my-oyster young adulthood, computer-wise. When I was learning about floppy disks and how to operate a “word processing machine”, Alan was still dictating to a stenographer who knew shorthand. His secretary took care of every word of correspondence that passed into and out of his office. They probably had a typing pool. Weird.
He hands it to me, and I read the sticker on the bottom of it.
“Alan, it’s a marketing campaign. See the web address on the sticker? They want you to go to their website. Probably a P.R. firm or something.” I hand it back to him.
“Okay, but what is it?” he asks, brow furrowed. Now he’s serious.
“Oh, uh…, it’s a floppy disk, a really old one.”
No recognition. I try again.
“You know those 3.5 disks? For the computer? This disk is a precursor to that.”
Crickets.
“Okay, the floppy did for very old computers what a CD or flash drive does now.” Probably not a technically correct metaphor, but that’s of little consequence. I’m at the point where I’d really like for him to go back to delegating from behind his desk instead of querying in front of mine.
Frowning, he manages a dubious “Oh.” I suddenly wonder if he knows what a flash drive is, but he seems to be at least a little satisfied with my answer and starts to walk away.
He suddenly turns back and says, again, “But what is it called?”
Oy. Retire already, Alan.
Alan, a company honcho on the verge of retirement, is walking toward my desk from his office. His question isn’t phrased in a Hey,-check-it-out,-I’m-showing-you-something-cool! sort of way, but in a What-the-heck-IS-this-thing? sort of way. He holds in his hand one of those old-school, 5.25-inch square black computer disks. My eyes almost bug out of my head.
It’s a floppy.
I first came into contact with those disks when my parents bought their first computer, a Tandy from Radio Shack. It had amber characters instead of green, which was super-duper cool at the time and I reveled in my 7-year-old hipness every time I laid eyes on that nifty blinking cursor. We had a typing tutor program installed on it, and my mother tried in vain to teach me some very fundamental DOS. Alas, I wasn’t interested. (You can see where that’s gotten me.) I knew only enough to get around in a very basic way, and it wasn’t more than a few years until that clunky platform was replaced with user-friendly windows, that new fangled revolution in computers that we take for granted today.
I digress.
When Alan proffers that disk, I really think he’s joking. “Oh, a floppy.” I say, waiting for some kind of joke or retro reference. Nothing. He waves it back and forth, testing out my assertion, and says, “Yes, it’s floppy, but what is it?” I smile, and realize that Alan is of a completely different era. Technologically, he completely skipped the petulant and awkard teen stages, and zipped right into the-world-is-my-oyster young adulthood, computer-wise. When I was learning about floppy disks and how to operate a “word processing machine”, Alan was still dictating to a stenographer who knew shorthand. His secretary took care of every word of correspondence that passed into and out of his office. They probably had a typing pool. Weird.
He hands it to me, and I read the sticker on the bottom of it.
“Alan, it’s a marketing campaign. See the web address on the sticker? They want you to go to their website. Probably a P.R. firm or something.” I hand it back to him.
“Okay, but what is it?” he asks, brow furrowed. Now he’s serious.
“Oh, uh…, it’s a floppy disk, a really old one.”
No recognition. I try again.
“You know those 3.5 disks? For the computer? This disk is a precursor to that.”
Crickets.
“Okay, the floppy did for very old computers what a CD or flash drive does now.” Probably not a technically correct metaphor, but that’s of little consequence. I’m at the point where I’d really like for him to go back to delegating from behind his desk instead of querying in front of mine.
Frowning, he manages a dubious “Oh.” I suddenly wonder if he knows what a flash drive is, but he seems to be at least a little satisfied with my answer and starts to walk away.
He suddenly turns back and says, again, “But what is it called?”
Oy. Retire already, Alan.
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Squeeze
He’s a total metrosexual, or whatever it’s called: bleached teeth, carefully coifed hair, abnormally tan. Sartorially gifted, his stylish glasses exude sensitivity, yet he’s man enough to pull off pairing a lavender gingham shirt with navy pinstripe. Underneath it all, though, there’s a pep in his step that just screams out for Valium. Trent’s not perky, he’s tense.
As of Friday, I completely understand why.
For over two weeks, she’d been calling easily once an hour. How do I know? I’ve got caller ID and unless they're blocked, repeated numbers tend to stick in my head. It’s simply a defense mechanism: when you’ve got over 300 published numbers all ringing at your console, the autodialers offering “free” trips to Jamaica or hawking timeshares and newspaper subscriptions drive you beyond nutty unless you hang up on them immediately. I consider frequent callers a nuisance because it means I have to work, at least a little bit. But I had no idea just what an interesting nuisance she would become.
Appearing suddenly in my lobby, she doesn’t offer her name, but she asks for Trent, and she’s pissed. It’s her. I recognize the voice. The ears never lie. Well, that and the trendy necklace with her name in crystal pave; sparkly, pink cursive. Marta. Marta from Fishbein & Stokemeyer.
She doesn’t have an appointment, but right now, that’s a minor consideration. Since my personal tawdry interests trump all others, Trent is immediately advised of his guest. He responds with an uncharacteristicly tight-lipped “Uh..., I’ll be right up”. Looking at her, 'high-maintenance' doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. No wonder he’s twitchy. He’s married with three kids, and his side dish is grumpy enough to strut her junk down to his workplace and pout conspicuously in the foyer. I consider this a potentially explosive situation.
I can’t wait.
Clearly apprehensive as he rounds the corner, in the split second before Marta sees him he glances at me, a brittle, Ken-doll smile affixed below hunted eyes. For a second I almost feel sorry for him.
She stands, arms crossed, sees me watching them and whines “Trent…”
“Hey, Marta, how are you?” and puts out his hand to shake hers. Puts out his hand. Clearly the unwished-for gesture, Marta looks at it as if he's offering her a large cockroach. Trent's hand lowers slowly, and for some reason ends up tucked lightly in his pocket, with all the artless and spontaneous realism of a Sears catalog model. He steers her toward the door, and unfortunately it opens loudly enough to cover up what he murmurs quietly to her. But to whatever he says, I hear her response. Boy, do I.
At a volume I am astounded her silicone obscured lungs produce, and coupled with the sharp crack of a tiny stamping stiletto, “No, Trent! NO!” echoes past me, tattling down the tiled hallway into a suddenly dead silent office. Mere moments too late, the pneumatic cylinder slowly presses the door closed. Two people prairie dog, and an internal line rings at my console, an eager gossipmonger on the job.
A few minutes later, a sheepish Trent carefully reenters the office, cheeks just flushed enough to subtly offset his celadon flecked tie. Avoiding my gaze, he makes no mention of it, for once wanting not to be noticed, instead preferring simply to skulk back to office and lick his wounds in peace.
I haven’t seen Marta since, and now she only calls once a day, from her cell phone.
As if I don’t know.
As of Friday, I completely understand why.
For over two weeks, she’d been calling easily once an hour. How do I know? I’ve got caller ID and unless they're blocked, repeated numbers tend to stick in my head. It’s simply a defense mechanism: when you’ve got over 300 published numbers all ringing at your console, the autodialers offering “free” trips to Jamaica or hawking timeshares and newspaper subscriptions drive you beyond nutty unless you hang up on them immediately. I consider frequent callers a nuisance because it means I have to work, at least a little bit. But I had no idea just what an interesting nuisance she would become.
Appearing suddenly in my lobby, she doesn’t offer her name, but she asks for Trent, and she’s pissed. It’s her. I recognize the voice. The ears never lie. Well, that and the trendy necklace with her name in crystal pave; sparkly, pink cursive. Marta. Marta from Fishbein & Stokemeyer.
She doesn’t have an appointment, but right now, that’s a minor consideration. Since my personal tawdry interests trump all others, Trent is immediately advised of his guest. He responds with an uncharacteristicly tight-lipped “Uh..., I’ll be right up”. Looking at her, 'high-maintenance' doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. No wonder he’s twitchy. He’s married with three kids, and his side dish is grumpy enough to strut her junk down to his workplace and pout conspicuously in the foyer. I consider this a potentially explosive situation.
I can’t wait.
Clearly apprehensive as he rounds the corner, in the split second before Marta sees him he glances at me, a brittle, Ken-doll smile affixed below hunted eyes. For a second I almost feel sorry for him.
She stands, arms crossed, sees me watching them and whines “Trent…”
“Hey, Marta, how are you?” and puts out his hand to shake hers. Puts out his hand. Clearly the unwished-for gesture, Marta looks at it as if he's offering her a large cockroach. Trent's hand lowers slowly, and for some reason ends up tucked lightly in his pocket, with all the artless and spontaneous realism of a Sears catalog model. He steers her toward the door, and unfortunately it opens loudly enough to cover up what he murmurs quietly to her. But to whatever he says, I hear her response. Boy, do I.
At a volume I am astounded her silicone obscured lungs produce, and coupled with the sharp crack of a tiny stamping stiletto, “No, Trent! NO!” echoes past me, tattling down the tiled hallway into a suddenly dead silent office. Mere moments too late, the pneumatic cylinder slowly presses the door closed. Two people prairie dog, and an internal line rings at my console, an eager gossipmonger on the job.
A few minutes later, a sheepish Trent carefully reenters the office, cheeks just flushed enough to subtly offset his celadon flecked tie. Avoiding my gaze, he makes no mention of it, for once wanting not to be noticed, instead preferring simply to skulk back to office and lick his wounds in peace.
I haven’t seen Marta since, and now she only calls once a day, from her cell phone.
As if I don’t know.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Unbreak My Ears
In this modern technological age, we think we’ve got it pretty good. And we do, don’t get me wrong. However, it’s important to realize that without a little vigilance on the part of the individual, things can go horribly awry.
An example:
Because selling is the lubricant that keeps the Multi National Mega Global pump primed, our sales force is often on the road. They'll generally call in for messages or to request some kind of menial assistance, as did Noah, yesterday. This time, though, it turns out that it’s not really Noah calling, but rather Noah’s mobile. Upon picking up the line, I realize that I have been bamboozled into the cell phone’s plot to mercilessly invade Noah‘s privacy. It’s calling from his pocket because the keypad isn’t locked.
His work number must be pretty high up on his speed dial, because this is not the first time it has happened. It is, however, the first time it has happened while the phone is in his shirt pocket, not his jacket pocket. How do I know? Dude is blasting an easy listening station while he drives, and it's not muffled one bit. Generally, for my own sake I hang up and call back immediately to advise that the cellular unit is making rogue calls. Unfortunately, just as I am about to do this, the song “Unbreak My Heart” comes on and he starts to sing along.
Oh, the horror.
Now, I’m not really the easy-listening sort, but I have to admit that Toni Braxton has got pipes. That girl can sing, and sing well. If her musical style were more to my taste, I could reasonably be expected to own some Toni Braxton. On the other hand, listening to Noah ruthlessly butcher Toni Braxton is excruciating, especially from the lamentable vantage point of his very own breast pocket, which leaves no unhit note unheard.
And, oh God, are they unhit.
It’s a train wreck, a paralyzing human imitation of cats being tortured with a dentist's drill. The falsettos, the made up lyrics, the changing of octaves mid-note; all of it bad enough were he a decent singer, but the man obviously couldn’t identify a tune if it came up, shook his hand and introduced itself. I’m still impressed his car windows didn’t blow out right then and there, a clear testament to Mercedes Benz engineering if there ever was one, I think.
Stirring me out of my stupor is a pause in the action as he speaks with the garage attendant downstairs. Downstairs. The realization that I will be face to face with the singing sensation himself in two minutes or less isn’t sobering enough to wipe the puerile grin from my face, so I do the only reasonable thing I can think of – hide in the ladies' room. He walks though the lobby to his office as I giggle my ass off in private.
Problem solved.
So, to Noah: right off the top there are three main obstacles to your singing Toni Braxton with any modicum of dignity-
1) You’re tone deaf.
2-3) Your testicles.
To everyone else: Lock your cell phone keypads.
Please.
An example:
Because selling is the lubricant that keeps the Multi National Mega Global pump primed, our sales force is often on the road. They'll generally call in for messages or to request some kind of menial assistance, as did Noah, yesterday. This time, though, it turns out that it’s not really Noah calling, but rather Noah’s mobile. Upon picking up the line, I realize that I have been bamboozled into the cell phone’s plot to mercilessly invade Noah‘s privacy. It’s calling from his pocket because the keypad isn’t locked.
His work number must be pretty high up on his speed dial, because this is not the first time it has happened. It is, however, the first time it has happened while the phone is in his shirt pocket, not his jacket pocket. How do I know? Dude is blasting an easy listening station while he drives, and it's not muffled one bit. Generally, for my own sake I hang up and call back immediately to advise that the cellular unit is making rogue calls. Unfortunately, just as I am about to do this, the song “Unbreak My Heart” comes on and he starts to sing along.
Oh, the horror.
Now, I’m not really the easy-listening sort, but I have to admit that Toni Braxton has got pipes. That girl can sing, and sing well. If her musical style were more to my taste, I could reasonably be expected to own some Toni Braxton. On the other hand, listening to Noah ruthlessly butcher Toni Braxton is excruciating, especially from the lamentable vantage point of his very own breast pocket, which leaves no unhit note unheard.
And, oh God, are they unhit.
It’s a train wreck, a paralyzing human imitation of cats being tortured with a dentist's drill. The falsettos, the made up lyrics, the changing of octaves mid-note; all of it bad enough were he a decent singer, but the man obviously couldn’t identify a tune if it came up, shook his hand and introduced itself. I’m still impressed his car windows didn’t blow out right then and there, a clear testament to Mercedes Benz engineering if there ever was one, I think.
Stirring me out of my stupor is a pause in the action as he speaks with the garage attendant downstairs. Downstairs. The realization that I will be face to face with the singing sensation himself in two minutes or less isn’t sobering enough to wipe the puerile grin from my face, so I do the only reasonable thing I can think of – hide in the ladies' room. He walks though the lobby to his office as I giggle my ass off in private.
Problem solved.
So, to Noah: right off the top there are three main obstacles to your singing Toni Braxton with any modicum of dignity-
1) You’re tone deaf.
2-3) Your testicles.
To everyone else: Lock your cell phone keypads.
Please.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
On A Claire Day...
She needs the Executive Meeting Room, she needs the overhead, she needs remote access, the easel, and a carafe of Kona coffee (not Columbian) and she needs it all at 9:00. This morning.
God, lack of planning chaps my hide.
I tell Claire she can either have it after 9:30 or she can have a different room, as that particular room is booked until then by our COO, Sam. At first, she sniffs at the insinuation that anyone is more important than Herself, but finally gives in, mainly because I’m not motivated enough to care either way. If she wants the big room at 9:00, she can wheedle Sam himself for it.
Claire: “Okay, 9:30’s fine. Have Shane set everything up”
Me: “Shane is out of the office today, Claire.”
Claire: “What? What do you mean?”
Me: “He sent out that email yesterday, reminding everyone he’d be out today so that he could handle requests ahead of time.”
Claire: “Oh, well then I need you to take care of it for me.”
Ah, yes, sloppy seconds.
Sloppy seconds for something I haven’t the slightest interest in doing, or, truthfully, the skill. The overhead is a tricky little poozer, and I inevitably set it up wrong. See, Claire, I have this thing called a “job”. My “job” is to answer a crazy machine called a “telephone”, which allows you to receive those all-important calls from your manicurist, your divorce lawyer and other personal service personnel. If I’m away from my desk, you might not receive notice that your hair appointment has been rescheduled.
Yeah, I know. Piss, moan, whine. Whatever.
However, because Shane is out of the office, I do have to do it. True, it’s not my job per se, that is, it wouldn’t appear in an official job description. However, an unofficial job description would read “Relentlessly Wiping Corporate Ass” and, alas, “Accommodating Last Minute Bullshit Requests” is a subcategory thereof. Damn. Suddenly I’m a coffee jerk.
It turns out only one other individual will be in attendance (in a room designed to hold 40. Of course.) Coffee? Brewed and delivered. Easel? Arranged. Overhead? Set up (after much cursing). Remote access? Ready to go. The client arrives, is ushered graciously into our swanky meeting room, doors glide shut and I go back to quietly surfing the web.
Until I hear a grunt, a slam, and then my name, muffled.
Entering the meeting room, I look to where the client is staring, bug-eyed, only to see Claire bent into a closet, her hand grasping a bottle of water. She is trying to pull it from the case at the bottom of the stack, and, as the laws of physics would demand, the stack has fallen over onto her, pinning her to the closet door. Well, duh.
Claire. Ass-up. In a client meeting. It's Christmas come early.
Walking over, I right the stack and place a bottle from the top of the stack down below to steady it. Finally uprighted, a red-faced Claire states, preemptively, “I wanted THIS one.”
Well, then. You got it.
God, lack of planning chaps my hide.
I tell Claire she can either have it after 9:30 or she can have a different room, as that particular room is booked until then by our COO, Sam. At first, she sniffs at the insinuation that anyone is more important than Herself, but finally gives in, mainly because I’m not motivated enough to care either way. If she wants the big room at 9:00, she can wheedle Sam himself for it.
Claire: “Okay, 9:30’s fine. Have Shane set everything up”
Me: “Shane is out of the office today, Claire.”
Claire: “What? What do you mean?”
Me: “He sent out that email yesterday, reminding everyone he’d be out today so that he could handle requests ahead of time.”
Claire: “Oh, well then I need you to take care of it for me.”
Ah, yes, sloppy seconds.
Sloppy seconds for something I haven’t the slightest interest in doing, or, truthfully, the skill. The overhead is a tricky little poozer, and I inevitably set it up wrong. See, Claire, I have this thing called a “job”. My “job” is to answer a crazy machine called a “telephone”, which allows you to receive those all-important calls from your manicurist, your divorce lawyer and other personal service personnel. If I’m away from my desk, you might not receive notice that your hair appointment has been rescheduled.
Yeah, I know. Piss, moan, whine. Whatever.
However, because Shane is out of the office, I do have to do it. True, it’s not my job per se, that is, it wouldn’t appear in an official job description. However, an unofficial job description would read “Relentlessly Wiping Corporate Ass” and, alas, “Accommodating Last Minute Bullshit Requests” is a subcategory thereof. Damn. Suddenly I’m a coffee jerk.
It turns out only one other individual will be in attendance (in a room designed to hold 40. Of course.) Coffee? Brewed and delivered. Easel? Arranged. Overhead? Set up (after much cursing). Remote access? Ready to go. The client arrives, is ushered graciously into our swanky meeting room, doors glide shut and I go back to quietly surfing the web.
Until I hear a grunt, a slam, and then my name, muffled.
Entering the meeting room, I look to where the client is staring, bug-eyed, only to see Claire bent into a closet, her hand grasping a bottle of water. She is trying to pull it from the case at the bottom of the stack, and, as the laws of physics would demand, the stack has fallen over onto her, pinning her to the closet door. Well, duh.
Claire. Ass-up. In a client meeting. It's Christmas come early.
Walking over, I right the stack and place a bottle from the top of the stack down below to steady it. Finally uprighted, a red-faced Claire states, preemptively, “I wanted THIS one.”
Well, then. You got it.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Rude Telemarketers
-
This is a call I get all the time: Immediately someone calling from a blocked number says “Hi, this is customer service from your copier company. Can I get the number from the front of your machine?”
I fall for it the first time, and rush around getting all the numbers, only to feel like a monumental jackass after he verifies the address, and then announces he’s going to send toner whether I like it or not. Apparently “the copier numbers are the order confirmation”. Click. The unwanted toner does indeed arrive and is somehow successfully sent back, but only after great personal inconvenience, and I end up looking like a dolt.
I hate that.
Not more than a month later, I receive another of these calls, same script. Still smarting from my first experience, and thinking I’m awfully clever, I ask him politely,
“Oh, okay. Did you want the number for the Canon or the Xerox?”
“Well,” he says, creaming his jeans, “why don’t I get both of those.”
“Hmm. See, we don’t actually have either of those brands, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t call here again.”
If you think good triumphs over evil and the world is set aright, think again.
Spittle audibly hits mouthpiece as I’m informed that I’m a “miserable little bitch-cunt with no fucking life who needs a good fuck because [I’m] a fat, ugly, diseased, lesbo whore and just a stupid fucking loser receptionist.” Click.
Wait, I'm a receptionist? Idiot.
So in response I have devised my own little game. Once I’ve established they’re conducting no legitimate business whatsoever, I sweetly ask them to hold while I “run and get those numbers” for them. And they wait. And wait. (Yawn.) And wait.
The console system I use has a timed hold, about 45 seconds, and upon ringing back I gush with helpful enthusiasm, “I’m getting those numbers for you, just a moment, please.” and them pop them back on hold. This goes on for as long as the telemarketer allows. Sometimes they disconnect and call back, thinking I’ve forgotten about them. I never forget.
I could do this all day long. With glee.
So, to all you telemarketers out there trying to bullshit me into buying overpriced toner from you, I do not apologize for putting you on hold, stringing you along and wasting your time in the hopes of saving even only one other receptionist from your torrent of asinine abuse. Instead, blame the guy two cubicles over jerking off into the Gap Kids catalog: that clammy, impotent, bitter mid-life crisis driving around in his mom’s janky, primer-colored Yugo, screaming obscenities at strangers who don't fall for his flimflam.
He’s the asshole, not me.
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