MCI, AT&T, and Publisher’s Clearinghouse have your number. They all have great deals for you that will change your life, enabling you to spearhead a successful Puerto Rican lunar manned space program, have sexual relations with the media superstar of your choice, and assume supreme command of NATO forces in Montana. These great offers are, however, only being made to the select few customers who are carbon-based and humanoid. Imagine your delight, Mr./Mrs. Horribly Mangled Name Pronunciation Attempt, to know you were chosen for this honor.
Before I go on, let me tell you that I (me, the guy writing this smug sarcastic article) used to be one of the legion robots known as telemarketers. During this horribly bleak period in my life, I actually filled out a change of address card notifying my post office I was moving from the sewer to the gutter.
Telemarketing was horrible. My boss was the uglier, more disgusting brother of Jaba the Hut. Ed the Hut, we called him. Ed weighed about 3,500 pounds, wore suspenders which suspended the waist of his trousers at about chin level, and smoked cigars that laughed at nerve gas.
“Job security is a wonderful thing,” Ed would say. “Hey Ryals, how many gallons of cyanide-laced prune extract have you sold tonight?”
“500,000.”
“Ha! How long do you think I would stay in business if the rest of you bums were as pathetic as Ryals here? Not long enough for your paychecks to clear the bank. That’s how long.”
It was interesting that Ed would say that, as no paycheck ever issued by Ed’s company, Fly By Night Enterprises Where No Paycheck Ever Clears Inc., ever cleared any bank.
Still Ed would say, “Job security is a wonderful thing.” And I believed him because, at the time, it was my only hope against having to cancel my change of address request because I had to move back down to the sewer. So I worked harder.
“Hi!,” I would say, in a tone of voice similar to a game show host on crystal meth. “How would you like a FREE (I would stress the word ‘free’) bottle of cyanide-laced prune extract?” At this point, one of three things would happen:
A. They would hang up.
B. They would condemn me and all of my descendants to suffer in the outer rings of hell for all eternity and repeatedly use the F word and hang up.
C. They would explain that they are eating dinner and they’re terribly sorry and don’t mean to be rude, but their tuna casserole is getting cold, but it’s been lovely chatting with me, and hang up.
In approximately one out of every 10,000 calls, I would get to my next line, “With the purchase of an M-1 tank…” At this point, one of three things would happen:
A. They would hang up.
B. They would condemn me and all of my descendants to suffer in the outer rings of hell for all eternity and repeatedly use the F word and hang up.
C. Well, you get the idea.
The telemarketer does not understand the concept of “no.” As a condition of employment by Ed, I underwent laser surgery to have this concept removed from all my memory centers. Here is an example of a typical phone conversation with me:
“Would you like a gallon of cyanide-laced prune extract?”
“No.”
“Would you prefer beige or avocado?”
“No.”
“Will you be paying with Visa or Mastercard?”
“No.”
“Would you like an additional gallon for a cherished loved one?”
“No.”
“And how many additional gallons would you like?”
This evening, as you’re sitting down to dinner and you get a call from a crystal meth-crazed game show host who says “Hi!”, think twice before you hang up. It just might be a cheerful IRS tax auditor.