We had a very slow day at work today. Only three of the people that work for me even showed up anyway; a couple were out seeing clients, one took a personal day, one was genuinely sick and one is a big old pussy faker. It was no biggie, though - I think the phone rang, like, four times. At noon, I let our eight-months pregnant receptionist go home a early. Give the big, swollen grape of a woman a half-day - let her go take a nap or something. What can I say? I fucking embody the spirit of goodwill. Plus, I get a huge kick out of answering the phones. I never did that - had a receptionist's job for a "living" - and it seems like a hell of a lot of fun compared to what I do.
So anyway, I'm giving a programming computer a good rogering when the phone rings. I answer, in my best digital voice (I can sound uncannily like the lady the phone company hires to say, "The number you have reached - Seven Oh Four Five Four One Six Nine Six Three - has been temporarily disconnected,"). There's a wheeze at the other end of the line.
"Is this....uh...Ahm. I'd like to place an order?"
Well, at this point, I already know that it's a wrong number. Not many people call me to place an order over the phone - one of our products costs upwards of five million euros, generally a one-to-two year sales cycle of gentle and delicate ego massaging, wining, dining, and general clusterfuckage. Not many folks just call up and say hey! I'll take one. But, I also know that my company has an eight-hundred number that is one digit off from a movie-rental catalogue place, a television manufacturer, and a law firm. We get lots of wrong numbers. But I'm nice, let the old wheezebag get his talk on. After all, what the fuck else have I got to do? I switch accents.
"Yes, sir - how can I help you?", says my clipped, tired, suddenly-British voice.
"Yeeees, sweetheart. I'd like to order your Winter Adult Catalogue, as well as the European version - that's product number oh-oh-three-six-one - of Black Butts, as well as the new Cumsucking Sluts, Volume Three, please."
Now, even I, glasshoppah, have a threshhold, over which any pretense of professionalism is so much rubble. I threw back my head and laughed so hard that I got a little pee on my maxi pad, right in his ear. I couldn't help myself.
"Betty!" I hollered at full volume, "got a wheezy old coot on the phone wants to order Cumsickle Sluts, Volume Three!"
"No, no, darlin, you've got it wrong," intoned the asthmatic porn aficionado on the other end of the line. "That's Cumsucking Sluts, Volume Three."
"BWAHAHAHAHAHA!" I roar. Pulling myself into control, and flicking away a tear, I replied, in my best University of Alabama Tri-Delt accent, "Oh, sir, you've misunderstood me. I wasn't placing your order - you have the wrong number, you've reached the Atlanta offices of King and Sanders - I was just sharing the hilarity of the situation with my assistant!"
He hung up. I think he was mad. What can I say? It was a slooow day, and I'm not made of wood, here.
Posted by Queenie at November 12, 2004 09:34 PM