Musings From Mossberg #16

Whaddya say, pal?  You in?

If you’re like me, and you’re not, which you should give thanks for, you’re enjoying a long weekend, done cleaning up, survived the prog relatives you’re forced to tolerate because, well nobody really knows the because. You just do.  You are kicking back, relaxed, catching a game on TV perhaps, or reading a good book.  You know. Living your life as best you can under a myriad of given circumstances. Some good, some not so good, but all in all, you’re feeling fairly satisfied in spite of the way the world has turned. But then? A nagging feeling sets in. Something’s missing. You can’t put your finger on it, but there’s an empty space in your daily routine that you can’t place. What in the hell could it be?  Then it dawns on you. The phone isn’t ringing every five minutes.  It’s strange now that you think about it. The phone ringing frequently has gone silent.  Hmmmmmmm. I think I know what it is and bear with me while I tell you.

If there is any group of people that desperately need to have a blowtorch stuck in their eye sockets while they’re being skinned with floor sanders after being clubbed repeatedly with used Wilson Golf clubs in their genitals, it’s fucking telemarketers.  Ah! See?  You agree!  Nowhere on the planet exists a more loathsome set of ignorant gibbon dicks with lips. They represent those among us who cannot get nor keep a regular job, they are total losers with zero chance to ever rise above a puddle of runny pig shit called their lives, so they take the second least popular job in the nation and exist to annoy the fuck out of you at every waking hour of every fucking day in the vain hopes you will listen to the patently absurd bullshit they read off a screen prompt.  People who clean septic tanks get more respect and conversely they are paid to pump shit out of your house while the nerve grating telemarketing fucks get paid to pump shit into your house. One is necessary. The other belongs in the septic truck. I wish I could reach through the phone and rip their esophagus out and stuff it in their worthless yaps just to shut them the fuck up.

In the telemarketing industry, if you can call it that, which I won’t because it lends an air of legitimacy to people who are almost but not quite as bad as members of Congress, which by the way, are virtual telemarketers themselves because while they shove shit in your face that you don’t want, only congress can force you to accept it. Anyway, in keeping with my policy of fairness, the telemarketing industry will be known as the bullshit marketers, or BM. the BM are paid by the call.  They have a giant list of numbers that they call to make their pittance, because the more calls they make, the more quarters go in their jar.  That’s why you get a call, you pick it up, and nobody’s there.  They’ve already hung up and are furiously dialing the next number. They repeat this all fucking day.  So you stop what you’re doing, go answer the phone and click! Dial tone. Your day was interrupted so ass fuck can make twenty five cents, if that!  You’re thinking to yourself, is there some device I can get that when that shit happens, the baboon dick on the other end’s headset explodes spraying skull fragments and brain matter all over their hapless co-workers?  Sadly, the technology doesn’t exist yet and that’s probably a good thing for them, because the phone banks would look like a slaughterhouse floor in an Iowa meat packing plant in about ten seconds.

Then, yes, there’s a then, then there’s the miserable cotton brained fuck faces that call but stay on the line but immediately start speed reading their script to you as fast as humanly possible and they’re already at it before you can say hello. They’re still talking when you hang up. They’re still talking now! They never shut up! Those are especially irritating because they get five seconds of your day and get paid for it!  I’ll wager that if their chairs were set up to shoot 2500 volts of electricity through them every time they pissed someone off, oh forget it. There are still people who would do it. Let’s try 1500 amps instead. When their asses start looking like Aunt Edna’s pot roast she left in the oven because she got passed out drunk on box wine and lay slumped on the sofa for nine hours maybe then it would work. But I doubt it.  Those people are a special kind of masochistic stupid. They hear you yelling “fuck you, you asshole!” and somehow it enhances their BM experience.  Maybe kicking in the door of the boiler room where they sit and hosing it down with a flame thrower would be more satisfactory.  It would to me! But I digress……..

Then there are that special level of sphincter licking, shit eating, gigantic dicks with boils that actually try to engage you in conversation. They ask for you by name. They sound very pleasant or excited and can’t wait to fuck up your day with utter useless nonsense.

“Hello!  Is Rob there? Is this Rob?  Hi! Vic Ferrari here with an offer you can’t refuse! If you act now, you can save yourself a ton of money by winning a cruise for two to exotic Namibia! Isn’t that wonderful? Yes, you have been selected for a chance to win in a drawing for a chance to get a number that will be drawn to get you to the top of the pile in a machine that guarantees you can apply for a prize that is reserved in your name in another state!  All you have to do is give us your bank number, social security number, your ATM code, your computer passwords and you will be given a chance to be considered for a lucky drawing for a piece of juicy fruit gum!  Whaddya say, pal?  You in? Huh? Are ya? Huh?”  If you’ve lasted that long you’re either a dope or very, very bored.  There are thousands of Vics out there. All begging to be curb stomped and kneecapped and thrown in a dump truck full of zoo diarrhea.  Yet they persist. And they all need to be set on fire and put out with telephone poles.

The most annoying of all are the new bot calls. They are designed to see if you will pick up the phone with “unknown caller” in the phone screen. That’s all they do. Just see if you’ll pick up.  That information is fed to a mainframe computer and your number is then sold to telemarketers who will then call you endlessly as they chalk up your slamming the phone down towards next month’s rent. They don’t care!  But the scam calls are almost passé. They have to spend too much time on the phone to scam you, plus the internet has replaced them quite handily as anyone with a spam box can attest.  Then there are the fucking irritating fucking calls from politicians.  Those are amongst the worst. Vote for me!  Ok fine!  You called once to say vote for me!  Why in the election fraud fuck do you have to keep calling me six times a day with a fucking puke inducing recorded message that I have no interest in hearing. Go back you your focus group and poison them all. I’m not voting for you. I’m not giving your campaign any money. I’m not doing a fucking thing except voting for the best candidate. That’s not you grifter boy.  Go fuck yourself with a dried out discarded Christmas tree.  I’m sick of you. I’m sick of calls. We all are. Kill yourself.

So, do what I do for fun. Since they already have my number, and I don’t have anything better to do, is keep them on the line as long as possible. For every minute you engage them, they can’t make the six calls they’re used to.  They lose money!  You get to laugh!  If they think they have a sucker who will actually sign up for or buy their shit, they get greedy. You ask tons of easy questions. Flatter them. You can drag a call out for ten minutes easy. That’s over sixty calls they miss. That’s their income. When they think you’re ready, just say this sounds so great, just let me ask my spouse, please. I’m so excited!  Hold on.  Then put the phone down and go about your day. Sometimes they wait for five minutes before they realize they’re the ones who just got scammed.  It’s fun!  The plus side is your number gets put on a don’t bother list so others won’t get fucked over and the number of calls significantly diminishes!  Telemarketers are the hyenas of the electronic age. I used to rail when they’d bother me. Now? I look forward to ruining THEIR day instead.

Moss out!