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Calling All Cluetards

Today I’m ready, people. I’m in full ‘countdown to smackdown’ mode.

I think I’ve bitched about this before, but hey — it’s still better than a post about which Google searches got people here (which I’ve done, more than once), or a ‘what was I blogging about last year on this day?’ post (which is likely coming very soon, so get that disappointed look ready).

Anyway, here’s the thing — every few months, some person or other calls the house. Every day. At nine-thirty in the morning.

Now, many of you don’t quite see the problem yet, I’m thinking. You’re up and scurrying around by nine-thirty, doing whatever it is you crazy ‘early riser’ types do at that ungodly hour. Hell, some of you have probably already left for work by then — or, heaven help us all, arrived at work. Oh, the humanity.

But, see, we’re talking about me here. And I’ve never bought into that Ben Franklin bullshit of:

‘Early to bed, early to rise —

makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.‘

Dogknockers, I say. I’ve got my own little motto, and Benny-boy can shove his where the kite don’t fly:

‘Tardy to bed, and late to awaken —

Feeds the soul, and the liver, and the booties a-shakin’.

(Look, it’s nine o’frickin’ clock in the morning — that’s the best I can come up with right now. You got a better one; let’s see it.)

Anyway, back to the whining: I’m often not awake at nine thirty — especially on weekends, dammit — and certainly not coherent. So when the phone rings and wakes me up, I never get the chance to verbally beat the shrinky balls off of whoever would do such a thing. The phone, she rings. I slowly wake up. I get pissed; the phone stops ringing. Charlie loses again.

And there’s never a message, or anything useful like that — just once, I’d like to hear:

‘Hi, this is Joe, from your local cluetard office. We’re calling people in your neighborhood before 10am on a Sunday, because we’d like to incite some sort of riot or other in your area. What can we tell you — it’s a slow news day. Anyhoo, call us back at 555-5555; we’d love to chat about what a great idea this is! Ciao!‘

See, at least that would be honest. And I could track the number to a building somewhere, and go drop a flaming bag of poodle shit on their porch. Or better yet, a Hefty full of water buffalo turds. You gotta think big when you’re dealing with this level of assheadedness, you know.

Anyway, here’s the thing — through some combination of miracles, insomnia, and zodiacal alignmentation, today I’m awake. And it’s nine o’clock. So when the cheesebags call today, I’m going to be ready. Here’s the conversation I’m planning on having:

Me: Hello?

Them: Hi, this is <name I never want to hear again>; how are you today, sir?

Me: Oh, I’m just peachy. Where are you calling from, by the way?

Them: Well, sir, I’m with <company that deserves a big fat collective corporate wedgie>, and I’m calling today with a very special offer on our <asinine product or service that no one this side of a lobotomized gorilla would ever condiser paying money for> — it’s our best seller! Let me just tell you about —

Me: Hold on, there, Porky. What was the name of the company again?

Them: That’s <some acronym of ‘soggy Baggie of Satan spawn’, most likely>, sir, and we’re very excited to offer you —

Me: Yeah, zip it, Sparky. Does this company do anything else — other than offer <‘ice trays for Eskimos’, or ‘dildos for daschunds’, or whatever>, and call people while they’re sleeping?

Them: Um… well, no, sir. We’ve just got the one thing.

Me: Fine. So this’ll be simple: I’m never — never, ever — buying that thing. I don’t care what it is, what it does, or how much it doesn’t cost. It could change my life, wash my car, and pleasure me sideways — I don’t care. You called me before ten; you’re done.

Them: But… but, the offer. I’ve still got nine more paragraphs to read to you about it!

Me: Bup-bup-bup. Done. No sale. Ever. Don’t make me get Grinchy on your ass. Move along.

Them: But my commission is —

Me: Shoulda thought of that after ten o’clock. Have a nice, meaningless life peddling for <‘Jackasses, Unlimited’… ooh, no, no — ‘Cluetards ‘R Us’>; tell your bosses I’ll see them in hell, minion. *click*

Man, that’s gonna feel good. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as putting an assbag in their place, is there? I may go have a couple of beers, just to make sure I’m all lubed up and ready for this one. I’ll let you know how it goes.

*** Update: 9:56am — The phone rang at 9:30. Like clockwork. I picked up, all ready to be belligerent and frontin’ and shit.

It was the Fraternal Order of Police.

I donated twenty dollars. You don’t fuck around with the cops, man.

And not only did I not lay down the over-the-phone pimpslap, but now that they actually extracted money from me, they’ll be calling me for the next nineteen pledge drives. At nine thirty in the morning, every three months, or whenever the local cops need their badges polished again. Dammit.

This blows, man. Can I just go without a phone, so I can get some fricking sleep? Sheesh.