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No, No, Skippy — I Have Some Questions for You

I’m working on a new strategy for dealing with telemarketers.

My current strategy is just to never answer the damned phone, so I won’t have to deal with them at all. And that works, I suppose, but it’s not terribly convenient, assuming I ever do want to talk to someone, or win one of those random-call sweepstakes jobbies.

Plus, avoiding telemarketers altogether is pretty boring, frankly. I’d much rather find some way to waste their time and piss them off when they call. It’s only fair, after all. So, I’m working on a new strategy. So far, I’ve come up with a couple of options.

First, I’m thinking of asking any marketing-type boobs who call the house to answer a little questionnaire about their profession. How much they make, how long they’ve been in the business, why the fuck they’re calling me at eight thirty in the damned morning — those sorts of things. Part of me is genuinely interested, I guess — maybe it’s the siren call of the seedy underbelly of humanity. Cold-calling cocksuckers like those are strangely intriguing to me, in much the same way a grisly murder or train wreck might be for other folks. I wanna know what makes them tick, and how the hell they sleep at night, and whether they’re just as miserable and slimy away from their job.

Mostly, though, I just want to waste their damned time, making them answer uncomfortable questions in a conversation they don’t really want to have. I think it’d be fun to go toe-to-toe, quid pro quo, with some of these assbags — ‘Why, yes, of course you can try to squeeze money out of me… but only if I can hold you up for an hour asking whether you were abused as a child. It’ll be a kick. Come on — let’s boogie.‘

Of course, I spend the vast majority of my life without the kind of time or energy that sort of nonsense would take. It looks good on paper and all, but I don’t know if I have the patience for it. Maybe I’ll just change the message on the answering machine to ask all the questions, so I can still have the fun without all that pesky effort. It might get a little confusing for my parents when they call, but that’s a small price to pay for easy entertainment. Plus, they already think I’m a douchebag. I doubt they’d even bother to act surprised.

I came up with a less elaborate plan, though. It also might be a tad off-putting for any non-telemarketing rascals that call, but it’s a lot easier. This version involves asking trivia questions, right off the bat. So, instead of picking up the phone and saying, ‘Hello!‘ or ‘Good morning!‘ or ‘Tasty Tongues Strippers — what can our girls lick for you today?‘, I’d open the conversation with something like:

‘So… what do I do for a living?‘

Or maybe:

‘Where did I live before I moved to Boston?‘

Or how about:

‘Where on my body, within a radius of six inches, do I have a mole that looks vaguely like the silhouette of Anna Nicole Smith with a handlebar moustache?‘

See, the way I figure it, anybody that I’d ever want to talk to would know the answer to at least two of those questions. And preferably all three, if they’ve got the stomach for it. And can picture Anna Nicole with facial hair.

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, I think someone calling to talk to me should do their homework first. They should have just a bit of familiarity with the subject before dialing the digits, you know what I mean? So, I don’t think a little pop quiz is out of line in the least. If they can’t give me the name of my dog, or the weight on my driver’s license, or which porn star I’d be most likely to name my firstborn child after… well, then, I don’t see how the conversation could possibly be of any use to me. So, fuck ’em — if they can’t come up with the good, I’ll cut ’em off. They had their chance.

Again, it might raise the eyebrows of the parents — and the in-laws — to be asked the number of misdemeanors I’ve been arrested for, or how many tennis balls I can fit into my mouth at once, or how many people would lend me money, if I really, really begged them to.

(And just as a hint, in case any of you ever want to call me, the answer to all three of those questions is the same. I’ll leave it to you to figure out what number fits all three. Show all work, please.)

So, anyway, that’s my latest harebrained, halfbaked plan. I’m sure it’s not really a good idea to screw around with people who already have my phone number and probably know my credit history, but it seems like it might be fun. And feel free to try this nonsense for yourself, in the comfort of your own receiver. Maybe if enough of us annoy the piss out these people every time they ring us up, they’ll finally get the hint and stop calling. Anything’s possible, right?

One of Us Is Very Confused

Every once in a while, I scan through the subject lines of the emails in my spam folder, rather than just dumping them. Just now, as I was cleaning out the crap that had oozed in today, I saw this:

New Jack Rabbit Vibrator!

Now, setting aside for the moment that I frankly don’t have much use for a vibrator of any kind — unless I can use it to unclog my toilet, maybe, or floss my toes — I have a teensy question for whoever sent me the email: “Don’t you mean ‘jack hammer‘?”

See, maybe it’s just me, but when I think of ‘jack rabbits’ — or even ‘jackrabbits’, as I’d normally put it — I think ‘fast‘. And from what I understand, from anecdotal research and a series of very interesting interviews down in the red light district, blazing speed is not what most people are looking for in a vibrator. When a lady reaches for her wiggly little friend, she’s not typically interested in a ‘quickie‘; any old boozed-up sailor could fill that bill. No, endurance counts in this area. And that’s just not something jackrabbits are known for, as for as I know. Big feet. Floppy ears. And lightning speed. Again, probably not the first characteristics you’d want from the thing you’re thinking of sticking in your hoohah. I’m just saying.

But I can see, I suppose, where ‘jack hammer’ — or ‘jackhammer’, more appropriately — might whet the interest of certain folks in the market for a ‘marital aid’. Frankly, it sounds a bit scary to me — those mothers can break up concrete, fer chrissakes — but that might appeal to some consumers. Hell, some people like to be tied up and whipped, too. How the hell could I predict what’ll lube up someone’s chassis?

Anyway, I didn’t get a chance to actually read the email — I had already hit the ‘Delete’ button when I noticed it, so it spiralled down the drain before I could open it. But I thought I should post this note, to let the author know:

‘You’ll sell more vibrators by referencing scary heavy machinery than by invoking the image of a small, furry rodent.‘

Of course, that’s just my opinion. And I’ve sold exactly as many vibrators in my day as Mother Theresa has, so feel free to take my advice with a grain of salt. But I’m pretty sure that’s how the world operates. You’ll let me know how you’re doing with that ‘jack rabbit’ thing, though, won’t you?