I was looking back over some pictures this evening, and unfortunately found myself in some of them. One thing I noticed, other than the fact that I look even fatter on camera, is that I can’t smile. I look at the pictures, and I see where I’m trying to smile, but it’s just not working out. I seem to have broken my smile somewhere along the road, and you can make of that what you will.
I’m not feeling too bitter tonight, just tired. Tired of so many things, and I can’t think of what to change first, or how to change the rest of it. But I’m sure I’ll probably need some dynamite and about fifty pounds of Skittles. If you can’t solve a problem with dynamite and Skittles, it can’t be fixed, if you ask me.
I met Jerry Jeff Walker today. He’s a famous singer, in case you’re wondering, but not that famous. He’s also just another asshole customer, in case you’re wondering. He didn’t have his receipt, and he wasn’t too cooperative while I tried to look it up in the computer. “My name is Jerry Jeff Walker,” he told me again.
“Yep,” I told him. “Did you pay with a credit card?”
Lies. I knew he was lying, and I’m pretty sure he knew I knew. But why? Maybe he didn’t want me to have his credit card number? No, because he gave me his credit card fifteen minutes later, after we had already done the exchange. Because he’s another dipshit customer who is out to make my life more difficult? That sounds about right. I thought about copying down his phone number and posting it on the internet, but I guess that would be unethical and illegal. Too bad, really, because I bet this guy needs more friends.
In fact, maybe that’s what the matter is with all of my customers—they just need more friends. Maybe I should just start randomly posting all kinds of personal information, and we can all just call them up all the time—late at night, of course, because that’s when you really need a friend—and give them a little moral support: “Is this Burt Emmerson?”
“Um…yes. Who is this?”
“Well, hey, I heard you were being an asshole today when you were buying your TV, and I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to be like that.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Hey, don’t worry your pretty little head about that. Listen, it’s okay that your parents don’t love you at all, okay?”
“My parents love me!”
“No they don’t, Burt. Trust me on this one. Your parents don’t love you, your children wish you would have a heart attack, and your wife is cheating on you. But it’s okay, Burt—there’s no reason to be mean to customer service people, because you have a friend in me. Good night, Burt.”
Is it wrong that I damn near get sexually aroused by the thought of harassing customers in the middle of the night like that? Like the jerk that calls fifty times a day, wondering about when his TV is going to be delivered, I would call him up: “Hey, is this Gerald? Hey, this is just a customer service call. Did they get your TV delivered all right?”
“What? It’s two in the morning!”
“I know. I just wanted to make sure you got your TV okay, because I realized that it was very important to you, you know? Like, how when I was trying to do my job today, you called every three minutes to let me know that they hadn’t delivered your television yet.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Bye, Gerald, and you have a good-”
Redial. “Hey, Gerald, you never did tell me if you got your TV.”
“Yes, I got my TV! Now leave me alone.”
“No need to yell like a punk-ass crybaby, Gerald, I was just checking in.” *CLICK* Redial. “Gerald, it’s me again. How’s the picture on that thing? Good?”
*CLICK* Redial. “And did you have cable or satellite or what, because with a TV like that, you should really consider-” *CLICK* Redial. All night, man, until poor old Gerald is a babbling mass of rage with veins bursting all throughout his rotten brain.
Of course, Gerald and Burt aren’t real people. Jerry Jeff Walker, is, apparently, but I’ve never been too sure about any country singers. But there really are people out there like these dill-holes, and someday they will pay. Right? I mean, they have to pay. Because if they can get away with behavior like that without cosmic consequences, then what’s the point of being a good person?
In my experience, Karma is an evil bitch. Like, alls I do is write mean stuff on this website, and I get stuck in customer service for years. Imagine what would happen to me if I did something really bad, man. I asked my princess if I was getting up in the middle of the night and burning down orphanages or something, because I feel like I’ve served my time, but it just won’t end. I won’t go so far as to say that the world hates me, but it for sure acts like it just caught me with my hand down its daughter’s pants, you know? I don’t know if that counts as hate, but I’m for sure being punished.
I’ve got good things going on, too, don’t get me wrong. I’ve got lots of things to be happy about. But this isn’t that kind of post.
The kind of post this is is me sitting around thinking about how awful I could be to customers. I’ll sit around thinking up all kinds of evil things, and then I start wondering, when the bald guy with the bad breath and the ugly daughter walks up and starts yelling at me, do you think he remembers that I have access to all of his customer information? Do you think it occurs to him that I know his name, his social security number, his address? I know how much he makes a month, I know his phone number (home, office, and cell), I know his wife’s name, I know driving directions to his house, and I know that he’s purchased a shit-pile of electronic equipment over the last year, as well as which credit card he used, and the number on that card. What kind of damage could you do with information like that, you think?
My princess is always telling me that I’m not allowed to do anything that will get me thrown in jail, though, so I haven’t ever acted on any of the sick thoughts I have while the fat guy’s screaming about whatever it is he’s screaming about.
But any of you out there that don’t have a princess, you could do it. I’m just saying, that’s all.