Far be it from me to give my readers actual advice on anything, most times I’m just winging it. However, today is a new day- a day to give you some advice on how to deal with those pesky, pond scum sucking, pieces of shart-stain people called “telemarketers”.
I am a very retro gal, and have what’s called a “land line phone” at home. I need this because the cell phone reception at my house sucks. You would think I live in a hole, surrounded by a 6 foot thickness of concrete, with equal amounts of lead surrounding said concrete. If I get even a bar of cell phone reception while at home, I almost go into orgasm.
So telemarketers take advantage of my situation, and they call my land line at all hours of the day and night. Most people get really pissy about things like this, and rightfully so- but I’m not well behaved and am always looking for the opportunity to mess with someone’s head. Telemarketers are the perfect victims. This is how it all goes down, I’ll use my most recent telemarketer interaction:
8:45pm Eastern Time-Land Line Rings-California Area Code
TM: Hi, my name is Vicky calling from the Boston Globe. May I speak to the head of the household?
Me: Just the head? Or do you need the entire body present?
TM: No, I mean the person who is in charge of paying the bills.
Me: Yes Vicky, I understand that-but do you need just the head to speak to you? Is this going to be a verbal phone call or is the person gonna need their hands for anything, like to push buttons or something?
TM: I don’t quite understand…….
Me: No worries Vicky, let me go get my husband for you. It might take a few minutes, I know he was masturbating just a few minutes ago.
At this point I slam the phone down on the kitchen counter, at a decibel I am hoping blows the ear piece right out of the telemarketers ear. I wait for about 2 minutes, figuring Vicky from the Boston Globe calling from California has hung up the phone. Nope, she’s a persistent one.
TM: Were you able to find your husband?
Me: Yes, this is the husband.
TM: Uh, okay. My name is Vicky calling from the Boston Globe.
Me: Oh! My mothers name was Vicky, what a beautiful name. I miss my mom so much.
TM: Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.
Me: It’s really not a big deal, I mean- she was the one who decided to jump out of a plane forgetting to put a parachute on before she jumped.
TM: Oh my goodness! That’s terrible.
Me: Yeah, she was high on crack.
TM: I’m……so, uh, sorry.
Me: So Vicky, please tell me why you are calling.
TM: Well I’m calling today because I’d like to present a special offer to you directly from the Boston Globe.
Me: I thought the globe contained, like, more than just Boston? When did that all change? Is this some sort of conspiracy? I mean, where did South America and Europe go?
TM: No, not at all. The Boston Globe that I am calling from is a newspaper, and a very good one at that!
Me: Well, how good can a newspaper be if it only talks about Boston? There are other places in the world you know.
TM: No worries about that ma’am, I mean sir- the Boston Globe has news in it from around the world!
Me: I’m confused, let me get my husband on the line.
TM: You are not the husband?
Me: No, I’m the husband . Hold on, I’ll go get my husband for you.
At this point you would think the wheels in Vicky’s squeaky brain have begun to work, helping her put two and two together. Yet, telemarketers are a hopeful bunch-feeding off of the fact that you haven’t told them “no” to their amazing special offers. So Vicky-she holds on the line.
Our conversation together continues, and poor Vicky realizes soon enough that I, and all my wonderful multiple personalities, are not interested in her offer. Nine times out of ten, telemarketers give up on you after a few minutes, but Vicky-that bitch was like a cockroach.
There is also an additional way to deal with telemarketers- I call them kids. Telemarketers hate speaking to children, especially children that tell them they just pooped a huge poop in the potty. Hey, my kids come up with this stuff by themselves-what can I say?