Rude Telemarketers

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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.