Ah yes, it’s snowing fit to burst. White-out blizzard time. And She Who Must is being sent home early – it took her over two hours to get into work this morning. But me? Well, my commute isn’t exactly onerous any more is it? I wander into the study, have a bit of a scratch, and I’m at work. No snow day for poor Stuart.
And no snow day for telemarketing bastards either! Little buggers have been phoning me up all morning asking to speak to ‘the person responsible for the BT land line’ and ‘the householder’ and every other combination of stuff that lets you know the person on the other end has no idea who you are. The last one even had the cheek to say it wasn’t a marketing call! But would we be interested in…
And we’re ex-directory too, so all this telemarketing is the fault of the screw-obsessed halfwit who lived here before us. Damn his testicles.
I try to be polite, but firm: “No thank you, we’re not interested. Please take us off what ever scrofulous marketing list you’ve got us on, you parasitic arse-biscuit…” but I’m starting to get that little twitch under my left eye that precedes a good long rant involving the terms, ‘rectal’, ‘fist’, and ‘chewing gum’.
If you’ve ever been involved in telemarketing, ever done a job where you get people out of the bath, or interrupt them mid-murder, you’re going to Hell. No passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. Straight to the fiery pits with you, where you’ll spend all eternity snorkelling in a lake of burning jobbies.
Can’t you do something more socially constructive instead? Like vandalising bus stops, or mugging vicars, or weeing on little old ladies?