Fun with telemarketers
Wish I'd thought of this.
(Not entirely safe for work.)
No posts for two months. That should prove: 1). I am adhering to the plea agreement, and 2). The new firewall at work effectively blocks any Blogspot site.
Not that I feel there is anything wrong with this. A successful company really can’t have its employees spending half of the day porn surfing, now can it?
Anyway, I was told this by an indignant Über Manager from the Mother-ship (Corporate HQ). He went on to inform me that my computer had been used to access a porn site during business hours.
Well it had, but it was a simple mistake. You see, I was looking for Allied Electronics’ web site and accidentally transposed a couple of letters. Next thing I was at “Huge-Titties.com”. It could have happened to anyone.
“But you were there for four hours!” Sniffed the corporate Nabob.
“Well, yeah. I didn’t notice at first. First there was the unfortunate misspelling of ‘Circuit Broad’, which seemed to fixate the silly machine on electrical dominatricies. I thought the computer had a virus. Then I searched for ‘Industrial Transformer’ and was shown something no one should ever have to see. ‘Robots, well something in disguise’. Definitely not the sort of thing one would feel comfortable attaching wires to. It was then that I realized that I was at the wrong website.”
The return sniff was less assured. It was time to go on the offensive. “Besides, it’s not like I spent the entire week viewing ‘Mary-Kate and Ashley’ porn like Irish Bob!”
It’s true. They make me Bilious. For years they’ve been these sweet kids and the minute the turned street legal transformed themselves into tarted up ho-wannabes. For God’s sake they look like two Kowloon prostitutes* that have spent the afternoon mud wrestling on Tammy Faye Baker’s face. Not sexy at all, especially when your mental image of them is as little kids. Irish Bob should be arrested.
Now, don't get me wrong about Tammy Faye Baker. I’m not knocking her. She represents over 40% of the US strategic cosmetics reserve. If we are ever forced to go to war with France, she alone will insure that all those Goth kids are happily supplied with all the cosmetics they need.
Well, less unhappy then. Happy that they can express their crushing despondency through the medium of pancake base and eyeliner.
* I was once propositioned by two Kowloon prostitutes. I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so they both looked about twelve. “No way!” I said. “You’re both way too young. Now your older sister
“That’s Cheng, our Pimp. He’s not our sister!” They replied, laughing hysterically.
“Really?” I squinted at him. “My mistake. From a distance it looks like he’s got a nice pair of Allied Electronics, you know.”
They Booted My Car!
Bastards! This isn’t the same type of car boot that you ultraviolent Brits are so fond of stuffing dead bodies into, this is a car immobilizer. And just because I had a few dozen unpaid parking tickets!
Bastards! Arse-fiddling bum-monkeys! Vile Meter-Nazi Scum!
In retrospect, I guess those home-made diplomatic plates were not such a good idea. But $450 to get the damn boot off? That’s highway robbery!
After all, I can buy a plasma cutter for less.
Sadly, the manufacturers of the car immobilizer have thought of this too and I couldn’t very well go home with a $450 ticket and a brand new plasma cutter.
Hmmm. I took a good look at the car boot rod that went through the tyre. Turns out it wasn’t a rod that went through at all...just a hook that grabbed the inside of the rim. By prying the top plate back and holding it open with my big toe, I was just able to get the cutting torch inside the car. I could cut off the lug bolts! I’ld pop the booted wheel off, borrow one lug bolt from each other wheel, pop on the spare, then drive off, leaving the booted wheel for the perplexed and none-too-bright Meter-Nazi.
Egad, I’m brilliant!
Now, you’ld think that the sight of a fat man alternately cackling and cursing (when the sparks burned my toe) whilst cutting off a car boot with a plasma torch would garner some attention, and normally you’ld be right. But this is central Pennsyltucky and we are used to such sights.
I completed the rest of the tasks and hopped into the car only to find to my horror that the Meter-Nazis had disabled the ignition!
And changed the colour of my upholstery!
And left a bunch of tacky beanie babies in the rear window!
Erm, that’s right, I drove the truck today.
Sorry, Judith Wheaton, whomever you are.
A disappointing weekend
The last few days have been tough on the old Doc’s psyche. While slaving away at work, I read a post somewhere and a brilliant response was germinated deep within my brain, itching and squirming its way to the surface. Alas, someone mentioned going to the local and the thought left me, not to return until three in the following morning.
I pad to the computer giggling.
“What on Earth are you doing?” I am asked.
“I’ve just thought of a brilliant comment!” I answer. “You see, someone had posted a story about a Lancaster pilot that had jumped without a parachute from 20,000 feet and survived. He bounced off a tree, through a roof and landed on a bed only recently vacated by a nun. The writer concluded that it would have been ironic had he died of dysentery before liberation.”
You all know the look, gents. It is a steely, expressionless stare that just oozes menace.
“I am going to point out that it would have been more ironic had he died of dropsy!”
The look is adjusted to include a rapid blink. I am losing her.
“Um, you see, he fell without a parachute… and erm, ‘dropsy’?”
I return to bed, my bon mot lost to humanity. I could weep.
But tomorrow is a new day, and the rising sun shall herald a tailgate. I shall be surrounded by people that appreciate my genius and free booze.
Now, for you Brits out there, a tailgate is the ultimate opportunity for male one-upmanship. The grille, menu and beverage selection must be more impressive than the next male’s. This must be some sort of mating display left over from Australopithicine times, but it doesn't seem to work for modern humans. At least not for this one.
No matter. I have been trapped in a place where good Scotch and bacon are hard to come by. Yes, they do have other extremely tasty foods. Hummus, for example, is a quite lovely paste of olive oil and minerals that I am told are mined in the Dead Sea region. It’s grand, but after a few weeks, one misses one’s comfort foods. My menu shall revolve around bacon and 15 year old Dalwhinny.
I acquire the services of a graduate student (they are the only group that can legally be paid less than an illegal alien) and put him to work wrapping quail breasts and attaching a skewer. Then it’s off to meet Flash and his fiancé at the tailgate.
“What do you have?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Oh, a chateaubriand, and some passable clarets.” Flash responds blandly. “You?”
“I’ve got quail breasts!” I announce proudly.
“Well, then.” He replies, feigning professional interest while examining my chest. “Did you come by these genetically, or is this due to a procedure?”
I hate medical doctors.
“Well played, Sir.” I reply through clenched teeth and a very taut grin. I vow revenge, but neither the opportunity, nor adequate sobriety present themselves.
Customs and Passport Control, Washington, Dulles. I shall strangle our travel agent. He has allowed exactly one hour to clear customs, dash across the airport and catch my flight. The next flight leaves five hours later; making it forty hours since my last shower, and already fellow travelers are already giving me wide berth.
“Where’ve you been?” asks the supremely bored passport wrangler.
“What part of Asia?” He asks somewhat more attentively. “The scary, explosive part, or the less scary ‘Kung-fu’ bit? “
I admit the former and his eyes narrow. “What’s the first thing you are going to do in the States?” he asks.
“Get me some beer and a bacon cheeseburger.” I reply. He smiles. That is the correct answer. He stamps my passport. The cavity search has been averted and fifty minutes remain before my connecting flight takes off. If I can clear customs in 30 minutes, I can still catch my flight.
A word about US customs. To clear customs in the States, one must fill out a form that asks searching questions like: “Are you smuggling narcotics into the country?”, “What about Atomic weaponry?” and “Do you have any Asian hookers in your carry on?” (Well, duuuuuh!)
As long as one checks all the “no” boxes, one breezes right through. Despite this, they catch smugglers regularly.
I blame our school system.
In fact, I am still blaming our school system an hour and a half later. Someone, it seems, has checked a “Yes” box and the line has ground to a halt. I wish a painful, hours-long cavity search by a large wristed gibbon upon you, Mr. “Yes-Box” Checker.
Eventually, I clear customs and recheck my bag with a surly civil servant who scowls darkly; scolding us for our slowness. Apparently, we are supposed to sprint past the machine gun wielding guards so that he wouldn’t be 30 seconds late to his coffee break. I inform him that I shall encourage any fellow fliers that I judge superfluous to my criminal needs to do so on my next trip.
He doesn't think I am funny either.