Christmastime in the Emerald City

{September 6, 2007}   Another day, another thousand stabbing gestures.

So, many of you may wonder why I remain at my current place of employment if I am surrounded by idiots and general mullet-worthy fucktards. After all, I gripe about them all day long, and mentioned in yesterdays post that Zombie dust to turn my angry brain off sounds pretty tempting even though I do nothing more than answer the phone for morons all day long.

Well, I thought about the statement and realized that it’s not entirely true. I don’t answer the phone for morons all day long. I answer the phone and listen to morons all day long, yes, but not necessarily on behalf of morons. The people around me, who actually work here, that I see every day, are actually more on the awesome side. And those who aren’t on the awesome side keep to themselves.

I have my best Sassy Friend working right alongside me, and while she is a hater of small talk, I get bored and therefore am not. The traffic ticket lawyer brings me lattes and offers to casually mention my name to the uber-sexy client he saw yesterday. The financial advisor brings me leftover cookies from his catered meeting, and asks about my bunny rabbits. Another vague lawyer type, whose awesomeness is in reverse proportion to how much I want to kick his clients in the face, saw that I was staying late one night and ordered up some pizza and potato wedges for us to much on. How awesome is that?! The guy who does something with metal trading brings me a lollipop every time he comes back from the bank. Who’s a cheap date? This girl right here – take me to the fucking candy store, and I’m all yours. I love candy.

Plus, since I only answer the phones, and figured out how to streamline the client billing process and cut my actual workload in half, I have time to blog all day long. I figure I’m getting paid to whine, and what girl doesn’t fucking love that?

Okay, so morons, idiots and assholes of all types wander in through my door each and every day. And I’m the first person they see, and I’m the first person onto whom they vomit their confused syllables. It’s even better on the phone. How fucking hard is it to pronounce the name Steve?

But then I think, I only have to see/hear these idiots for a few minutes. And it’s not like I have to talk to them long term, or remember what their fucking damage is every time I see them. I don’t evenhave to remember their names. The poor bastards I answer the phones for have to deal with jackasses like this for a goddamned living! It’s just an irritating extra to my job. Of course, I’m sure they make far more money than me and dwell in far nicer accomodations than an itsy bitsy apartment that smells like a pet store…

Here is an update on the most recent examples of Darwin’s apparent failings for which I truly pity the fools.

We’ve still got that scam thing with one of our guys here. You know, you get some letter in the mail saying you’ve won some contest you never entered, and now in order to claim your prize, all you have to do is send them a cheque? And there’s an obviously copied-and-pasted letterhead on it? And you toss it out thinking that only a fucking idiot would actually send a cheque or even bother calling the number on the letterhead to see what the deal was?

I’m the one who answers the phone with those fucking idiots call in.

“Ummmmmmmm? Hi, my name is (I’m already not listening at this point) and I got this, um, letter? In the mail? (Oh, wonderful, I can smell the I.Q. from here) Do y’all have an office up in, um, Tornado, Canada?”

“If you mean Toronto, then yes.” (You dumb cousinfucking twit.) “You’re currently speaking to the Toronto office.”

“Oh (trailor park giggle) well, yeah, this letter? It says -”

“That you won some money from a contest and it includes a cheque? Yeah, it’s completely fraudulent.”

“You mean it’s real?!?!”

(Yes. Go to the bank and cash it right now, then watch all twenty dollars of your life savings and a down payment on a new pair of spandex pants go twirling right down the shithole. You dumb fucker.)

“Fraudulent means it’s a scam.”

“Oh! You mean it’s faaaaaaaake?” Congratulations. Synonyms.

“Yes. You can disregard the letter.”


“*Sigh* Tear it up. Throw it away.”

“Ohhhh. But what happens if I cash the cheque?”

“I don’t know. But don’t do it.” (No, really, go ahead. I’d love to hear your sob story in a week or so. Why don’t I schedule you in right now?)

Of course, there’s always the idiot or two who doesn’t call in until after he’s cashed the cheque, seen it bounce, and then sent the fraudulent bastards a cheque for thousands of dollars to ‘set the funds in motion’ or some such happy shit. He calls in, mentions the letter, I interrupt with “it’s a scam, don’t cash it” to which he responds that he already has, and then sent them a cheque too. He hasn’t gotten any money from them, and now wants to know what he should do.

You, my friend, are shit out of luck, and you deserve your poverty.

“But what do I do now?”

How the fuck would I know? I didn’t write the cheque. Nobody here did. Do you not have the internet? A computer? Do you not know how simple it is to copy a logo from anywhere to make something look believable to the dumbest of eyes? You are a dumb gullible moron, and I want to hit you with the phone.

At least he’s only on the phone, and he’s only a pain in my ear as opposed to a full out holocaust on my senses. The lawyer who bought the pizza-and-wedges? He’s awesome. His clients? A full out holocaust on my senses, as well as an insult to whatever faith in humanity I might have left at the bitter age of early twenties.

I used to get pissed that he would seem to avoid calls and have me tell people he wasn’t in the office. Now….I understand.

First of all, it seems these people do not own a day timer. Because they will literally show up for a 1 pm appointment on Wednesday at 4pm on Thursday.

“Hey, um, is he in the office?”

“Do you have an appointment with him?”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

“Excellent. That means you don’t have one today. I don’t think he’s going to be in the office. Are you just dropping something off?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I need to leave it here or send it to these guys here. He needs to decide for me.”

“That would require speaking to him. That would require an appointment.”

I know this particular idiot on a first name basis. That’s how fucking often he walks in. Without an appointment. And without enough education to get a fucking non-mumbled grammatically correct sentence out.

A few days ago, a lady came in to see that same poor fellow who has to deal with these schmucks for a living. I’m actually rather enthralled with his level of patience. The same conversation ensued, except she never had an appointment to begin with. She also brought along her porch monkey of a child.

Now, I am surprisingly maternal. Kids are drawn to me. I’ve worked in daycare centres, and I can get the most delinquent inner city bastard to behave. One smarmy creature liked to bellow “You’re not allowed to touch me, I’ll call the cops on you!” My reply was that child caregivers are allowed to use as much restraint as any ‘loving parent’ would, and that may include physical contact when necessary – like when another smarmy creature would try to throw herself down the stairs. “I’m just not allowed to leave any marks on you,” I would explain. “Have you ever been hit with a phone book?”

However, this is obviously not my place at my current occupation. Nor should it be. I don’t get paid minimum wage to look after your unwanted offspring anymore. As such, kindly remove them from my fucking reception area you inconsiderate bastard! No daycare? Fine! Just have them sit fucking still! Stop fiddling with the courtesy phone and putting it on loudspeaker! Get away from the glass door with your smudgy chocolate covered hands! Oh my fucking God, it just sneezed on the glass doors. Oh my god. And the phone is ringing, I can’t leave my desk long enough to cross the floor, smack the kid, and Windex the shit off the door before someone important in a very expensive suit brushes up against this child’s effluent.

And don’t get me started on the plethora of people who show up not even knowing the name of the person they’re seeing, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned several times to anyone who even brings up my work day. How to fail an interview in one easy step. Or again and again and AGAIN show up twenty minutes early or late and then ask how long they will have to wait around because they don’t want to have to pay that much for parking downstairs. No, we don’t validate your fucking parking, transportation is part of the cost of living. Kind of goes along with groceries and gas mileage. Jerkface.

But to soothe my twitching nerves, I do try to remind myself that I’m only the gatekeeper for these idiots that make the letter opener look especially shiney and bright. I know that they’re going to go away eventually. Or that if they talk at me, I can type furiously away on my blog and make it look like I’m far too busy to converse. And as for the snot on the door…well, fuck, it’s not my Armani suit is it?

As for the people I work with, they are quite awesome, and I now have a little bit more sympathy for them. I’ll relish those lattes a little bit more, knowing they were paid for with hours of exasperation from which I’m able to spare myself with a simple cold glance (or the realization that it’s not my full-time job to make these jerkwads happy). Of course, once again, I feel a bit less sorry for them when I get home to my apartment and have to wrench open the warped door with my full body weight.

As for whatever nice accomodations they have, whatever cute condo or big lawn in the suburbs they’ve attained for all their trouble…I just hope it’s all worth the snot on their well-manicured lapels.


romi41 says:

I like your twisted sense of humour; for example those comments that I DON’T see coming, such as: “you dumb cousin-fucking twit”, or “she also brought along her porch monkey of a child”….hahahaha, that’s some pretty hilarious shit :-), and also, I’m glad that not everyone around you is a moron; I can only imagine how angry you’d be if you were AROUND morons all day, and also TALKED to morons all day….

greenmetropolis says:

Thanks a million! Yeah, I’m becoming a big ole’ fan of the term ‘cousinfucking twit’. Because if you call someone a motherfucker, it’s pretty boring. Also, it’s just a word. You don’t really think anyone’s fucked their mother. That would just be sad and psychologically scarring. But as for cousinfucking, that’s a little more realistic. There are people who think it’s okay. And how many hilarious situations have arisen when people don’t realize they are actually related to that attractive and/or drunk individual? Cousinfucking. Way funnier. I’m also quite in love with the term porch monkey. So degrading in a cute little way…

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