Telemarketers, inept, fatfingered dialers, Caller ID
I hate telephones. They're no fun anymore.
Three parts.
One, in which an amusing anecdote is related to me over the high-school lunch table.
I had this friend in high-school, Brent. We called him Brent Bottom-chicken, in reference to his surname. Of course, I won't plaster his name all over the internet, because he'd probably haunt me with dozens upon dozens of telemarketing calls.
See, Brent was a telemarketer. It was really the job to have in high-school; decent pay, no burger-flipping or pizza-driving, plus you got time to browse the internet for whatever you wanted. Brent excelled at telemarketing.... One day he sat down at the lunch table and the conversation went something like this:
Brent: The most amazing thing happened at work last night.
Me: Oh yeah?
Brent: I got fired.
[Laughter ensues]
Me: Why?
Brent: Well, I call up this lady, and I start giving her the spiel. You know, "My name is Brent, blah blah blah." And she says, very hesitantly, "Uhm, no hablo... espanol?"
[I chuckle]
Brent: So I hesitate for a moment. Then, 'cause I was having sort of a bad night, I'm like, "That's good. BECAUSE I'M SPEAKING TO YOU... IN ENGLISH!!!"
[More laughter]
Brent: The bad part is, my boss was in the cubicle right next to mine, and he overheard, and I don't have a job anymore. The good part is, I caught the whole thing on tape.
Two, in which I am harassed by a product of my former landlady's ignorance.
Ah, the wonders of 12-hour weekend shifts. I roll up to the house at about noon, after being at work for more like fourteen hours. I'm at the point of tired where the joints start to ache, the eyes itch from being held open so long.... Road-trip, cross-country red-eye flight tired.
Somehow I manage to get my clothing off and into a pile on the floor before hauling my semiconscious cadaver into bed. I sleep almost instantly. Until the phone rings. "Okay," I think as I wake instantly. The phone is one of the few things that wakes me up faster than French-press coffee. I answer.
Me: Hello?
Caller: Is Judy there? (Judy is my tax-evading landlady. Perhaps I shall write a special bit about her.)
Me: Wrong number.
I hang up and fall back asleep. Ten minutes or so, and the phone rings again. Same thing. This ensues for about oh, six or seven calls before I finally snap.
[Phone rings.]
Me: Hello?
Caller: May I speak with Judy please?
Me: Look. How many times do I have to tell you, you have the wrong freakin' number. Let's see. I've told you [significant pause] SEVEN TIMES? I suggest you learn how to dial and quit being dependent on speed dial... You've obviously got it programmed wrong. Now, I'm trying to sleep over here, because I was up all night working my ass off. (Okay, I was really internet-shopping for rare KMFDM schwag. Beside the point.)
Caller: Look, I'm sorry...
Me: No, sorry would have been the point at which you STOPPED CALLING ME after the first time I told you you had the wrong number! You're not sorry, you're annoying!
Caller: [distressed-sounding, inarticulate syllables]
Me: Call me again and I'll report you to the FCC. And the CIA. And I'll trace the call, find your address, drive to your house and reprogram your speed dial MYSELF.
[I hang up and go back to sleep.]
This gets more interesting. Apparently there was some miscommunication between members of my roommate's band... None of them knew who was supposed to come and get him. Well, someone did, because he was gone when I got home. So one of them calls.
Me: I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME, GODDAMNIT! [Long string of obscenities.]
Band member: Uhh, hi. Is Dino there?
Me: Oh. Sorry dude. No, he got a ride already.
Band member: Okay, cool.
Finally I get back to sleep...
Three, in which my courtesy is rewarded by an old woman's foul temper and even fouler mouth.
This is from when Caller ID was still fairly new, I'd say about '95 or '96, also, back when I was still a Young Angry Rivetgirl. Saturday morning. I'm bored. I call a couple friends to see if they want to go "do stuff." I dial someone's number. It rings once, and I realize, "Hey wait. I dialed the wrong number." So, rather than harassing someone and sounding like a complete slob, I quickly hang up and redial the correct number. Friend answers, we decide to go wake up a few more people and cause trouble in the local park.
I go get my pants out of the laundry. They're not dirty yet, but Mom wants to wash them anyway. Come back into my room, phone is ringing. Thinking it's a friend of mine, I pick up.
Me: Hello?
Old woman: Why the hell did you just call me?
Me: ... um? [ignorant sounding grunt]
Old woman: I've about had enough of you punkass kids calling me and hanging up. I should call the cops on you.
[I attempt to explain myself.]
Me: Well, I was trying to call a friend of mine...
Old woman: Yeah yeah, I've heard all these before.
Me: No really. I mis-dialled the last number or something, and I didn't want to bother anyone, so I just hung up.
At this point the old woman launches into a tirade about "when she was young." And I'm thinking, "Damn, lady, when you were young, phones didn't have number buttons on them, and there were only about a hundred telephone operators in the US. Freakin' dinosaur."
So I leave the phone off the hook and laying on the bed, continuing to get ready, while the old woman's tirade slowly winds down. I tell my friend about it when he arrives... Then I tell more people about it while sitting in the park.
Later that night, I stagger into the house. While digging through the fridge for something to soak up the alcohol in my stomach, I see that my mother has bought a Caller ID unit, and has it prominently displayed next to the phone. Now that I'm living on my own, I still refuse to call her from home, one because long-distance service is expensive and I can't rip off the phone company any more, damn digital lines.... and two, because of that damn Caller ID lady who blistered my ear so long ago.
I hate telephones. They're no fun anymore.
One, in which an amusing anecdote is related to me over the high-school lunch table.
I had this friend in high-school, Brent. We called him Brent Bottom-chicken, in reference to his surname. Of course, I won't plaster his name all over the internet, because he'd probably haunt me with dozens upon dozens of telemarketing calls.
See, Brent was a telemarketer. It was really the job to have in high-school; decent pay, no burger-flipping or pizza-driving, plus you got time to browse the internet for whatever you wanted. Brent excelled at telemarketing.... One day he sat down at the lunch table and the conversation went something like this:
Brent: The most amazing thing happened at work last night.
Me: Oh yeah?
Brent: I got fired.
[Laughter ensues]
Me: Why?
Brent: Well, I call up this lady, and I start giving her the spiel. You know, "My name is Brent, blah blah blah." And she says, very hesitantly, "Uhm, no hablo... espanol?"
[I chuckle]
Brent: So I hesitate for a moment. Then, 'cause I was having sort of a bad night, I'm like, "That's good. BECAUSE I'M SPEAKING TO YOU... IN ENGLISH!!!"
[More laughter]
Brent: The bad part is, my boss was in the cubicle right next to mine, and he overheard, and I don't have a job anymore. The good part is, I caught the whole thing on tape.
Two, in which I am harassed by a product of my former landlady's ignorance.
Ah, the wonders of 12-hour weekend shifts. I roll up to the house at about noon, after being at work for more like fourteen hours. I'm at the point of tired where the joints start to ache, the eyes itch from being held open so long.... Road-trip, cross-country red-eye flight tired.
Somehow I manage to get my clothing off and into a pile on the floor before hauling my semiconscious cadaver into bed. I sleep almost instantly. Until the phone rings. "Okay," I think as I wake instantly. The phone is one of the few things that wakes me up faster than French-press coffee. I answer.
Me: Hello?
Caller: Is Judy there? (Judy is my tax-evading landlady. Perhaps I shall write a special bit about her.)
Me: Wrong number.
I hang up and fall back asleep. Ten minutes or so, and the phone rings again. Same thing. This ensues for about oh, six or seven calls before I finally snap.
[Phone rings.]
Me: Hello?
Caller: May I speak with Judy please?
Me: Look. How many times do I have to tell you, you have the wrong freakin' number. Let's see. I've told you [significant pause] SEVEN TIMES? I suggest you learn how to dial and quit being dependent on speed dial... You've obviously got it programmed wrong. Now, I'm trying to sleep over here, because I was up all night working my ass off. (Okay, I was really internet-shopping for rare KMFDM schwag. Beside the point.)
Caller: Look, I'm sorry...
Me: No, sorry would have been the point at which you STOPPED CALLING ME after the first time I told you you had the wrong number! You're not sorry, you're annoying!
Caller: [distressed-sounding, inarticulate syllables]
Me: Call me again and I'll report you to the FCC. And the CIA. And I'll trace the call, find your address, drive to your house and reprogram your speed dial MYSELF.
[I hang up and go back to sleep.]
This gets more interesting. Apparently there was some miscommunication between members of my roommate's band... None of them knew who was supposed to come and get him. Well, someone did, because he was gone when I got home. So one of them calls.
Me: I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME, GODDAMNIT! [Long string of obscenities.]
Band member: Uhh, hi. Is Dino there?
Me: Oh. Sorry dude. No, he got a ride already.
Band member: Okay, cool.
Finally I get back to sleep...
Three, in which my courtesy is rewarded by an old woman's foul temper and even fouler mouth.
This is from when Caller ID was still fairly new, I'd say about '95 or '96, also, back when I was still a Young Angry Rivetgirl. Saturday morning. I'm bored. I call a couple friends to see if they want to go "do stuff." I dial someone's number. It rings once, and I realize, "Hey wait. I dialed the wrong number." So, rather than harassing someone and sounding like a complete slob, I quickly hang up and redial the correct number. Friend answers, we decide to go wake up a few more people and cause trouble in the local park.
I go get my pants out of the laundry. They're not dirty yet, but Mom wants to wash them anyway. Come back into my room, phone is ringing. Thinking it's a friend of mine, I pick up.
Me: Hello?
Old woman: Why the hell did you just call me?
Me: ... um? [ignorant sounding grunt]
Old woman: I've about had enough of you punkass kids calling me and hanging up. I should call the cops on you.
[I attempt to explain myself.]
Me: Well, I was trying to call a friend of mine...
Old woman: Yeah yeah, I've heard all these before.
Me: No really. I mis-dialled the last number or something, and I didn't want to bother anyone, so I just hung up.
At this point the old woman launches into a tirade about "when she was young." And I'm thinking, "Damn, lady, when you were young, phones didn't have number buttons on them, and there were only about a hundred telephone operators in the US. Freakin' dinosaur."
So I leave the phone off the hook and laying on the bed, continuing to get ready, while the old woman's tirade slowly winds down. I tell my friend about it when he arrives... Then I tell more people about it while sitting in the park.
Later that night, I stagger into the house. While digging through the fridge for something to soak up the alcohol in my stomach, I see that my mother has bought a Caller ID unit, and has it prominently displayed next to the phone. Now that I'm living on my own, I still refuse to call her from home, one because long-distance service is expensive and I can't rip off the phone company any more, damn digital lines.... and two, because of that damn Caller ID lady who blistered my ear so long ago.
I hate telephones. They're no fun anymore.