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This Is Your Courtesy Wake-Up Call… Now Gimme Some Money!

Well, hey there, kittens.

(Yeah, I don’t know what that’s all about. ‘Kittens’. I thought I’d try it out, but it’s just a teensy bit effeminate, eh? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, particularly — it’s just not the tone I was shooting for.

Of course, saying something is ‘just a teensy bit’ of anything doesn’t exactly put you into mongo macho territory, either. So I’m just digging a bigger goddamned hole. To say nothing of what overanalyzing the structure of your greeting sentences says about a person.

Yeah. I think I’m gonna cut out of these parentheses right here, where I might sound a ‘teensy bit effeminate’ and borderline neurotic, but I haven’t yet dipped into mouth-foaming, poo-flinging lunacy. ‘Cause at this rate, it’s only a matter of time.)

Okay. So where the hell was I?

Oh, right. Nowhere yet. Spectacular.

Frankly, I don’t really have a topic lined up tonight. It was a pretty slow weekend, and while there is an enormous amount of bullshit swirling around the workplace these days, I really can’t tell you about any of it. I may well lose my job due to a number of reasons, folks — many of which involve public nudity, or salad tongs, or both — but having a boss read this blog and fire my verbose ass is not on the list. Homey don’t hit the unemployment line that way.

But that cuts down a bit on the topics available to us. Which is fine, for the moment. Even this bit of fluff is doing it’s job — namely, replacing that last piece of work from Saturday. I mean, honestly — how many people have stopped by here since then? Several? Dozens? Two? And now their first impression was ‘nutsack’ plastered all over the page. That’s not cool. Nobody should be remembered for their nutsack. Or even, as in this case, their ‘nutsack’. I don’t know where the hell that came from.

(Hoo boy. ‘Decorative nutsack accessories’. What the hell was I smoking this weekend, anyway?)

Still, as long as we’re here, we should probably talk about something, right? No reason to turn this into a completely content-free blatherfest, like one of those presidential debates. Oooh, snap, yo.

(And if you’re just tuning in, that’s about as political as I get. The only ‘spin’ you’re gonna find around here is most likely gonna be preceded by a ‘sit and ‘, and probably followed by an ‘assbag’, or maybe a ‘douchemonger’. Or some other ridiculous word meant to be pointed at a telemarketer, or a cluetarded Masshole driver, or damned Yankees fan. Or for that matter, a politician. I’d put them in approximately the same circle of Hell as the others there. Or maybe one circle over, where they wouldn’t be able to bother anyone else. That’s about right.)

Hey, there we go. That little mini-rant reminded me of something I can tell you about.

(And I hear you out there — ‘Please let it be ‘douchemonger’. Oh please let it be douchemonger!‘

Sorry to disappoint you, sports fans. That’s not it. Try to choke down your disappointment.)

Actually, it’s about telemarketers. They — or one of the coal-hearted bastards, at least — have become my alarm clock. Every day — every damned day — the phone rings between nine and nine-fifteen in the morning. Without fail. Rain, shine, or white puffy clouds; it doesn’t matter. By a quarter after nine, the phone is chirping. Telebitching bastards, anyway.

Now, before I bitch any further, let’s first try to contain our boiling-over envy that I’m actually still in bed at a quarter after nine most mornings. Admittedly, it’s a luxury, and one that I’m happy to have. I like to think that the world finds a way to balance out the karma from such a sweet deal by heaping bubbling piles of bullshit onto my plate when I finally do get to work in the morning. And then handing me a fork. And a straw. In the long run, it’s probably not really worth not having to see the wrong side of eight am for weeks at a time, but you know, it’s the only damned perk I get, so I’m milking the mother fucker. Call me petty.

But enough about the job I’m not supposed to be bitching about in public. Let’s get back to that Satan-spawn trying to sell me something at ungodly (to me) hours of the day.

Now, I have to admit, I don’t know who it is that keeps calling. And for all I know, it’s several different people, taking turns. Maybe they’re even calling for good and noble causes — maybe they want me to feed the children on Monday, and save the whales on Tuesday… it could be the fraternal order of police on hump day, and the Defenseless Baby Seal League on Thursday. I don’t care. I don’t give a somersaulting damn if it’s Mother ‘Wrinkly Nips’ Theresa hitting me up for help, or Heather ‘Much Less Wrinkly Nips’ Graham phoning to schedule a hot tub nooner. You want to talk to me, you do it after ten in the fricking morning, like a sensible damned person. Until then, I’m sleeping. Them babies gonna have to feed themselves, and the baby seals had better learn to duck ‘n’ weave when people come around with clubs. And Heather… well, she can leave a message. Her, I’ll get back to. Wouldn’t want to be rude, after all.

Meanwhile, back in my real life, devoid of steamy starlet shenanigans or hot tub sex of any kind, there’s still the matter of these cluetards who keep calling and waking me up every fricking day. It’s been going on for weeks now, and I’m still trying to decide what to do about it.

So far, I’m essentially ignoring it — I haven’t actually answered the phone when it rings, so I’m no better off than the first day it happened. There are a few reasons for my inertia, but mainly I know that if I ever tried to shake myself awake, leap across the bed in my jammies, and grab the phone off the nightstand, I’d take a header off the mattress and deflate a fucking lung. I’m an old, creaky, white, gangly guy, folks. I don’t have anything approaching coordination until about two in the afternoon, and even then, I’m lucky if I can walk and chew gum without spraining a cheek muscle. And there are four to choose from at that point — I don’t like my odds.

I suppose what I really should do is set my alarm — my actual, real alarm clock — for eight thirty or so, shoot some coffee into my eyeball or something, so I’m awake enough to deal with the shithead on the other end of the phone, wait for the call, and put a stop to the madness once and for all. And I’d do that — I really would — except I just fricking know that the day I go to all of that trouble, and screw up my sleep schedule and work myself into a poopy-mooded furor, that would be the one goddamned day that the teleweenies forget to call. And there I’d be, awake and twitchy, with no outlet for my rage, and I’d be forced to tie Snausages to my dog’s collar and taunt her while she tries to get at them. And that’s just mean. Nobody wants that.

(Well, okay — I do, sometimes, just a little. Like when she pees on the damned carpet, or drags trash all over the floor. But still, I don’t think I could do that to her.

Bags on her feet — maybe. Strap a traffic cone to her head and walk her around the neighborhood? I might. Shave ‘Who you callin’ a bitch?‘ into the fur on her side? Um… well, now that I’ve thought of it, yeah; I think I pretty much have to do that now. But put food near her that she can’t get to? She’d rather be run through a wood chipper. I just couldn’t stand it.)

So, I guess I’ll continue living in ignorant non-bliss. I’ll keep sleeping as late as I can, and these dildos will keep calling, and I’ll never find out who exactly it is that needs their underwear pulled over their heads and tied in a bow around their neck. And I’ll keep waking up cranky, and even less likely to ever want to answer the damned phone again. See what these bitches are doing to me? Crap! I’ve got veins getting all throbby just thinking about it. And not the good ones, either. Not the Heather-Graham-in-a-hot-tub kind at all. Bitches!