Phonesalesmen make me crazy. They make me want to strap them to my kitchen table and dissect them alive with knitting needles.
About a year ago, I had a fit of niceness and donated some money to an organization that works against infant death syndrome, and thus placed myself firmly on their List Of Suckers.
So now they call me almost every day. It usually happens when the phone is turned off or when I can’t hear it ring, but then I can see that they’ve called, and that’s just as irritating as if I’d actually had to talk to them.
I’ve registered my number against marketing, so now all I need to do, is to tell them to leave me the hell alone, or I’ll strangle them with the telephone cord. Easies said than done…
The last time I actually spoke to one of them, he was talking so much and so fast that I couldn’t get a damn word in edgewise. Then he committed the ultimate transgression. Without any warning, the word slithered out of the telephone and into my ear.
“Ma’am”
That’s right, the little shit ma’am-ed me. I’m not a ma’am, dammit. I’m barely a lady.
I hung up. I had to. People don’t respond well to murder threats. Not even the ones who aren’t really intelligent enough to understand the concept of murder.
But they’ll call back. They always do.
About a year ago, I had a fit of niceness and donated some money to an organization that works against infant death syndrome, and thus placed myself firmly on their List Of Suckers.
So now they call me almost every day. It usually happens when the phone is turned off or when I can’t hear it ring, but then I can see that they’ve called, and that’s just as irritating as if I’d actually had to talk to them.
I’ve registered my number against marketing, so now all I need to do, is to tell them to leave me the hell alone, or I’ll strangle them with the telephone cord. Easies said than done…
The last time I actually spoke to one of them, he was talking so much and so fast that I couldn’t get a damn word in edgewise. Then he committed the ultimate transgression. Without any warning, the word slithered out of the telephone and into my ear.
“Ma’am”
That’s right, the little shit ma’am-ed me. I’m not a ma’am, dammit. I’m barely a lady.
I hung up. I had to. People don’t respond well to murder threats. Not even the ones who aren’t really intelligent enough to understand the concept of murder.
But they’ll call back. They always do.
Pic by Jgh Photo for www.Flickr.com
10 comments:
I live in the South. Everyone is ma'am here. Even some of the Sir's.
Well, maybe they have different rules in the South. But I don't want anyone calling me ma'am unless he's a cowboy, and I don't think he was. Therefore, he must die.
Not a maam' barely a lady...
Sounds like a Lifetime Original movie. ;)
Steve~
I'd have to be played by someone smoking hot, of course:D
Could Natalie Portman play you in the Lifetime movie? (of course, her career might have to slide a bit before she starts contracting with Lifetime...)
Oh, Choochoo, you and your tribulations! ;)
kill them, slowly!!!
Jocelyn - but she'd get to play me
Tim - I know *dramatic handgesture*
Toasty - and painfully.
You'll qualify as a ma'am when you hit 30. Until then, shoot the bastards.
hey, nobody's ma'am-ing me until I'm fourty. So there.
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