I spout that I'm a laid back muso. That I'm too apathetic to get worked up, to get pissed off at anything. That I'm reasonable.
All that turns to bullshit, absolute and utter bullshit! when I get a phone call like the one I had this morning.
Indian Call Centre Fuckwit: Hello, I like to speak to ahhh.. Mrs. Ning?
Vic: [Thinking here we go, this is the fiftieth fucking time. ie The time bomb is already ticking for this person] Look. Mrs. Ning owns this place, but we rent. Through an agent. How come the name keeps on popping up on your call list?
ICCF: Oh is the owner there, please?
Vic: [Tick, tick, tick...] No, you don't get it, we've never met the owner. And this phone number is in my name. MY name. How come you lot seem to think that this number belongs to Mrs. Ning?
ICCF: Oh it must be the name at the address.
SNAP. I've done this before. If I wasn't so fucking livid it would be a great sport. But the trap has shut on this guy. It's on.
Vic: No way buddy. This is MY number. MINE. I brought it with me from the last address. How the hell can you tell me my number is in somebody else's name? Where the hell do you lot get your lists from because this is the fiftieth fucking time this has happened.
ICCF: Since the phone is in your name, what I am calling today is about -
Persistent PRICK.
Vic: No way buddy. I don't want whatever it is. I want to know where you get your numbers from?
ICCF: They are from our research department. Your number has been selected randomly -
Now I'm doing laps of the loungeroom, in long strides with the phone attatched to my ear. Voice raised, waves of that particular just fuck right off vibe that I produce emanating from me.
Vic: Look, I don't want to buy your product. Just leave me alone. Don't ever call again and tell your FUCKING RESEARCH DEPARTMENT that this is MY FUCKING NUMBER and that I DON'T WANT YOUR SHIT.
Click.
So now I'm pissed off. Stuff this guy. I own this number. I've had it since I first got a phone in my name. How the fuck can they get someone else's name in that. Piss off. Don't give my number away. I don't own the house but I own the number. Owned it before I even laid eyes on the house.
I'm alone in my house at the moment. So I've got the phone book out and I'm looking for numbers to call to figure out how the owner of the house I rent has been granted honorary ownership of my phone number - and I'm yelling at nobody. Just to yell. I'm absolutely livid.
There is a fucking "Australian Breastfeeding Association"?
Where is the fucking number for "Some Cunt Has Taken My Phone Number?" There should be a fucking help line for this!
And how the fuck can you justify taking a whole fucking page to say all your complaints numbers are exactly the fucking same???
I want old mate ICCF to ring back so I can have another go, I'm so worked up.
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4 comments:
Over in Pomland, there's a BT website you can sign up to for free which blocks all of those crap telesales calls.
If there's not one in Australia, go and kill a member of the government every day until they put one in place.
Grrrrr.
My old home phone number was formerly the number of a limo service. "Moonlight Limo" sounded like a cheap call-girl service to me. My answering machine message at one point said, "This is no longer a limo service, but I'll give you a ride." I had to change it after my mom called.
I hate those people.Don't they get it when you say FUCK OFF.
Hey Darlin', had to find ur blog - knew u had one on here somewhere! Err... so i shouldn't admitt this... but the reason i looked for it was to say happy birthday... i have since remembered an invention called the phone... shows how much i've been on the 'net of late. You on the other hand are probably trying to forget the phone by the sounds of things... Anyway, i reckon if you've got a couple of minutes to spare telemarketers can be GREAT fun. Start by asking what they're wearing. Unfortunately we don't always have a minute to spare and telemarketers have a talent for calling at the most inopportune momments... but remember to try it when u do!
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