As my dear readers know, this current state of affairs has promoted creativity in many a business in order for them to continue as a force in their respective industries. This includes the telemarketing business.
I made a solemn vow to extend kindness to telemarketers harassing disturbing annoying calling me at home. It makes life more satisfying for both of us. And so it was when I answered the telephone and heard this:
Telemarketer: Hello Ms. Garson. I’m calling you on behalf of Acme Lung Association, and I’m not going to ask you for any money.
Immediately, I was intrigued, yet highly suspicious. My vast experience with telemarketers who are, as my dear readers know, mostly composed of stupers (short once more, for astoundingly stupid persons) proved that there perpetually existed dangling strings on the other end of the line, eager to be tied. Strings they desperately attempted to attach to me. They wanted something all right, but what? Blood? My highly prized collection of nutritional supplements?
Telemarketer: You want to support those dying from lung cancer, right?
How could I argue with this query?
Telemarketer: Here’s all we ask:
A number of scenarios rapidly raced through my mind; a volunteer job of some type? Displaying a bumper sticker on my car, reading Down with smoking?
Telemarketer: We are going to send you some letters which ask for donations to our organization. All you have to do is put them in envelopes, which you will provide; add postage, which you will also provide, and send the letters along to ten of your neighbors who live on your street.
Perfect, I thought! A surefire way to alienate neighbors, star as the ongoing subject of dirty looks and get banned from attending this year’s community barbecue, which last year was held at the home of a local mad scientist.
Me: No, thank you.
Telemarketer: Thank you and have a great day!
They called. I quietly listened. They hung up. And peace reigned for both of us. How easy was that?
Think first, last and all of the time.
Keli
My mother, typically mild-mannered and pleasant by nature, gets along with most people. This includes stupers (short, yet again, for bewilderingly stupid persons). It takes a few dump truckloads of stupidity before she gets riled up.
My sister and her husband had experienced some marital difficulties; obviously, a painful, sensitive topic for all. Yet Hilda, a relative stranger, felt it within her rights to dive right in, open mouth first, just to indulge in idle gossip and satisfy her curiosity.
“Because I don’t want one!” I would firmly announce while stamping my foot for emphasis, putting an end to his needling once and for all.
I entered and decided to avoid his line to make life easier on both of us, but then I realized all the young male tellers looked and dressed strikingly similar. I’d only seen my tormentor twice and I’m not the most visual person. Which one to avoid?
The seventeen-year-old, high school senior spoke with a heavy French accent that did nothing to diminish her poise and confidence. She spoke before a large group of assorted professionals. Her presentation at the podium detailed school life in her rural village in France. Her name was Nicole, and she was not a stuper (short, once again, for a prominently stupid person). Nicole attended an American public high school for her senior year, as an exchange student.
Meanwhile, my local public high school has declared a holiday this coming Monday. Why? For a special teachers’ meeting. You know. The one they have once a month or so. Where they walk around campus in circles, patting themselves on the back. Back patting is a heavily indulged-in stuper activity.
Have you ever engaged in conversation with someone and realized midway or even early on, that you’ve revealed more information than you wanted and consequently, longed for a really reliable getaway car? That was me this past weekend.
I’m standing at the putting green with what appears to be a fatherly type. We exchange greetings. Then I notice the name on his hat. I say,
Do you talk to yourself? Is talking to yourself a characteristic of stupidity? It all depends on how and where you do the talking.
I once engaged in a heated exchange with myself about a stuper (short for a distinctly stupid person) when a man suddenly appeared a few feet away from me, raptly listening to my solo conversation. In my defense, I was out walking in dense fog (the kind where, if I dropped my cell phone, I’d have to get down on all fours and bravely feel around for it).
Before Son #2, who is still in high school, could take an art appreciation class at the local community college, he needed to pass an English examination, as did all students not enrolled in the college. Unfortunately, the professor of this class did not need to take such an exam, and it showed. Here’s an assignment Professor Wheezledorf passed out:
Professor Wheezledorf is no foreigner; English is his first language, and he appears to have reached the ripe old age of forty which should translate into having acquired at least enough knowledge to snugly fit into a kidney shaped swimming pool that was all the rage in the San Fernando Valley in the seventies when I was a wee tot. If you, dear readers, can provide me with a legitimate excuse for his chronic misspelling, do tell, as I’m always on the lookout to gain better understanding.