Sunday, May 07, 2006
"Thank you for calling, how may I zzzzzz..." (or "Run for your lives! It's a 'PWAPCMBSICADLFNMBTMWAAARTAPHBCU'!")
(I orginally wrote this on January 25th, 2002.)
Hello, my name is James. Let me tell you something.
I used to have thick, lustrous hair - short and wild in front, long and mullet-like in the rear - and I used to wear it in a stylish fashion. Of course, that style was best described as "Greasy-Rodent-Burrowing-Into-My-Brain-Stem" - but hey, it was the early nineties, and I had been in an all-male high school during the latter part of the eighties, so what did I know? Compared to some of the carnival fugitives in that place, I was absolutely on the stud-osity level of Corey Haim (or possibly Feldman). I'm also pleased to report that I have never once dyed it green (more on this later).
In addition, I used to weigh about 160 lbs. (or for those of you foreign readers, 442.4 kilopascals (or 12,840,566,747,000 lira)), and I also at one time was able to instantly recall, at some purely limbic, neural-circuit level, insanely complex combinations of button-presses required for the super-secret final finishing moves in ultra-violent combat video games like "Visceral Mangler Combat" or "Bloodlusting Death-Bludgeoners 3". (Hint: In the game "Pugilistic Psycho-Penguins", at the end of the QVC Warehouse level, stand next to the crate of Joan and Melissa Rivers jewel-encrusted Faberge eggs, and in rapid succession, press Up, Down, Left, Right, A, B, Up, Up, C and D, X, Y, Z and Down, Left and Right, Close Doors (><), Equals sign (=), and Power. This will unlock the window, and you will perform the Double Defenstration maneuver, currently banned in most Islamic countries. Try to aim for the taxicab roof, and during the crash you will hear the cab's horn play "The Yellow Rose of Texas"!)
So, as you might expect, time passed. When I inevitably lost the majority of my mane, gained forty pounds, and lost the ability to hit the high notes in Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now", I thought I had hit absolute rock bottom. I was so terribly, naively wrong. I have become - brace yourself - a "Customer Service Representative".
(Pauses for collective gasping and swooning)
That's right, it's true. I’m now a “Customer Service Representative” (hereafter referred to as a CSR, since I don't want to keep typing it over and over). I answer phones for a major financial corporation, just like the numerous defendants frequently seen on such popular daytime game shows as Judge Judy, Judge Mills Lane, Judge Reinhold, Court TV, The People's Court, The People's Eyebrow, The Price Is Right, Let's Make A Plea-Bargain, and C.O.P.S. As you've no doubt witnessed, all of the people on these shows are insane, and a scary percentage of them have job titles like "Customer Servicing Agent" (CSA) or "Customer Care Specialist" (CCS), as if that somehow sounds better than "Person Who Answers Phone Calls Made By Screaming Irate Customers All Day Long For Not Much Better Than Minimum Wage And As A Result The Aforementioned 'Person' Has Become Completely Unhinged" (PWAPCMBSICADLFNMBTMWAAARTAPHBCU). How else can you explain the case of a female "Customer Quality Representative" (CQR) who sued her sister for $3,500 of Pain and Suffering as a result of a bad haircut she was forced to wear to her high school prom seven years ago? (Apparently, the sister used the wrong bottle of chemicals, and the plaintiff's locks were dyed a kind of green, resulting in a humiliating break-up with a boy she obviously would have married otherwise and who is now a successful surgeon with a nice house, nice car, and a nice stock portfolio. Also she developed mange.)
I admit, I used to cast the first stone at these people, but after I went through my fifteenth broken TV screen, I figured this was far too expensive (not to mention messy) and I resorted to standard name-calling and blasphemous condemnation. But one day I wondered: How dare I criticize those I don't understand? Of course the grass looks greener on my side of the white picket fence, but unless I was willing to bite the bullet and put my nose to the grindstone while walking a mile in their shoes, how else could I sleep easy at night in this winter of my discontent? So, in the name of good sportsmanship and fair play, liberty and equality, and justice for all, I took a position as a CSR. In my short time working there, I have turned over a new leaf and left no stone unturned to snoop high and low and discover beyond a shadow of a doubt the only thing more irritating than the overuse of colorful metaphors and folksy phrases – and that is the overuse of acronyms (or, as I like to call it, T.O.O.A.).
My employer, a “TSC” (or Telephone Service Center) flagrantly engages in such acronym-onius practices as “PID” (Proper Identification), “PQ” (Personal Quality), “CFS” (Customer Focused Sales), “OJT” (On-The-Job Training) and “CMS” (Call Management Solutions). There are other, more ominous abbreviations lurking around the place, too, such as “SPSH”, “RCP”, “TKS”, “BYOB” and “M.O.T.H.R.A.” (I can only hope that I one day have the security clearance to discover what these stand for. I’m a little scared that if I go snooping around, the RCMP may have to send me to the E.R., ASAP!) All of the procedures and passwords and acronyms and secrecy at the TSC often make me feel like I’m working at a government military installation, or at N.A.S.A. This brings me (finally) back to my original point, which was space aliens.
No, seriously, I wasn’t discussing actual space aliens, but rather the non-human nature of the many employees I work in close proximity to each day. After having been a TSC CSR for a few months, I can safely state that I was absolutely correct in my earlier assessment and criticisms – most of my co-workers are insane. Many of them display a frightening lack of societal norms and possess questionable fashion sense. Also they are often unhygienic. So while my previous “Corey”-ness may have passed, I am reasonably confident that, compared to the gypsy sideshow freaks I see drooling onto their foam microphone mouthpieces each day, I’m still at least a John Cusack (or maybe Oliver Platt).
So what does the future hold for me now? Apart from my plan to be running the TSC within five years, I am also orchestrating a highly public and lucrative lawsuit for personal Pain and Suffering as well as personal Fat and Lethargy, due to the repetitive stress injury of clicking my left mouse button a couple of times each day, and the highly taxing chore of sitting in a comfortable reclining chair for eight sleepy hours a day. Watch for me on Judge Judy – I’ll be the pear-shaped litigant with a gauze-wrapped claw of a hand that looks like it’s straight out of Boris Karloff’s wardrobe. I’ll try to remember to shower that day, so you don’t feel the need to hurl a rock through your television screen.
Thank you for calling, and have a nice day!
Hello, my name is James. Let me tell you something.
I used to have thick, lustrous hair - short and wild in front, long and mullet-like in the rear - and I used to wear it in a stylish fashion. Of course, that style was best described as "Greasy-Rodent-Burrowing-Into-My-Brain-Stem" - but hey, it was the early nineties, and I had been in an all-male high school during the latter part of the eighties, so what did I know? Compared to some of the carnival fugitives in that place, I was absolutely on the stud-osity level of Corey Haim (or possibly Feldman). I'm also pleased to report that I have never once dyed it green (more on this later).
In addition, I used to weigh about 160 lbs. (or for those of you foreign readers, 442.4 kilopascals (or 12,840,566,747,000 lira)), and I also at one time was able to instantly recall, at some purely limbic, neural-circuit level, insanely complex combinations of button-presses required for the super-secret final finishing moves in ultra-violent combat video games like "Visceral Mangler Combat" or "Bloodlusting Death-Bludgeoners 3". (Hint: In the game "Pugilistic Psycho-Penguins", at the end of the QVC Warehouse level, stand next to the crate of Joan and Melissa Rivers jewel-encrusted Faberge eggs, and in rapid succession, press Up, Down, Left, Right, A, B, Up, Up, C and D, X, Y, Z and Down, Left and Right, Close Doors (><), Equals sign (=), and Power. This will unlock the window, and you will perform the Double Defenstration maneuver, currently banned in most Islamic countries. Try to aim for the taxicab roof, and during the crash you will hear the cab's horn play "The Yellow Rose of Texas"!)
So, as you might expect, time passed. When I inevitably lost the majority of my mane, gained forty pounds, and lost the ability to hit the high notes in Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now", I thought I had hit absolute rock bottom. I was so terribly, naively wrong. I have become - brace yourself - a "Customer Service Representative".
(Pauses for collective gasping and swooning)
That's right, it's true. I’m now a “Customer Service Representative” (hereafter referred to as a CSR, since I don't want to keep typing it over and over). I answer phones for a major financial corporation, just like the numerous defendants frequently seen on such popular daytime game shows as Judge Judy, Judge Mills Lane, Judge Reinhold, Court TV, The People's Court, The People's Eyebrow, The Price Is Right, Let's Make A Plea-Bargain, and C.O.P.S. As you've no doubt witnessed, all of the people on these shows are insane, and a scary percentage of them have job titles like "Customer Servicing Agent" (CSA) or "Customer Care Specialist" (CCS), as if that somehow sounds better than "Person Who Answers Phone Calls Made By Screaming Irate Customers All Day Long For Not Much Better Than Minimum Wage And As A Result The Aforementioned 'Person' Has Become Completely Unhinged" (PWAPCMBSICADLFNMBTMWAAARTAPHBCU). How else can you explain the case of a female "Customer Quality Representative" (CQR) who sued her sister for $3,500 of Pain and Suffering as a result of a bad haircut she was forced to wear to her high school prom seven years ago? (Apparently, the sister used the wrong bottle of chemicals, and the plaintiff's locks were dyed a kind of green, resulting in a humiliating break-up with a boy she obviously would have married otherwise and who is now a successful surgeon with a nice house, nice car, and a nice stock portfolio. Also she developed mange.)
I admit, I used to cast the first stone at these people, but after I went through my fifteenth broken TV screen, I figured this was far too expensive (not to mention messy) and I resorted to standard name-calling and blasphemous condemnation. But one day I wondered: How dare I criticize those I don't understand? Of course the grass looks greener on my side of the white picket fence, but unless I was willing to bite the bullet and put my nose to the grindstone while walking a mile in their shoes, how else could I sleep easy at night in this winter of my discontent? So, in the name of good sportsmanship and fair play, liberty and equality, and justice for all, I took a position as a CSR. In my short time working there, I have turned over a new leaf and left no stone unturned to snoop high and low and discover beyond a shadow of a doubt the only thing more irritating than the overuse of colorful metaphors and folksy phrases – and that is the overuse of acronyms (or, as I like to call it, T.O.O.A.).
My employer, a “TSC” (or Telephone Service Center) flagrantly engages in such acronym-onius practices as “PID” (Proper Identification), “PQ” (Personal Quality), “CFS” (Customer Focused Sales), “OJT” (On-The-Job Training) and “CMS” (Call Management Solutions). There are other, more ominous abbreviations lurking around the place, too, such as “SPSH”, “RCP”, “TKS”, “BYOB” and “M.O.T.H.R.A.” (I can only hope that I one day have the security clearance to discover what these stand for. I’m a little scared that if I go snooping around, the RCMP may have to send me to the E.R., ASAP!) All of the procedures and passwords and acronyms and secrecy at the TSC often make me feel like I’m working at a government military installation, or at N.A.S.A. This brings me (finally) back to my original point, which was space aliens.
No, seriously, I wasn’t discussing actual space aliens, but rather the non-human nature of the many employees I work in close proximity to each day. After having been a TSC CSR for a few months, I can safely state that I was absolutely correct in my earlier assessment and criticisms – most of my co-workers are insane. Many of them display a frightening lack of societal norms and possess questionable fashion sense. Also they are often unhygienic. So while my previous “Corey”-ness may have passed, I am reasonably confident that, compared to the gypsy sideshow freaks I see drooling onto their foam microphone mouthpieces each day, I’m still at least a John Cusack (or maybe Oliver Platt).
So what does the future hold for me now? Apart from my plan to be running the TSC within five years, I am also orchestrating a highly public and lucrative lawsuit for personal Pain and Suffering as well as personal Fat and Lethargy, due to the repetitive stress injury of clicking my left mouse button a couple of times each day, and the highly taxing chore of sitting in a comfortable reclining chair for eight sleepy hours a day. Watch for me on Judge Judy – I’ll be the pear-shaped litigant with a gauze-wrapped claw of a hand that looks like it’s straight out of Boris Karloff’s wardrobe. I’ll try to remember to shower that day, so you don’t feel the need to hurl a rock through your television screen.
Thank you for calling, and have a nice day!
