A conversation from earlier this morning. I’m on the phone with a customer who thinks “customer” means “free-for-all to try and get in my panties” who has let me know that I don’t have to treat him like a “regular” customer because he is “special”. I can be “myself” with him.

Great. It’s going to be one of those days.

Customer: “Okay, so I will be in D.C. on Sunday…”
Me: “How lovely for you. Unfortunately we are closed on Sundays so you can’t stop by the office to pick up those products you ordered.”
Customer: “I was thinking that on my way home I could stop off to see a good friend. Namely…you.”
Me: “Um, sir, did you fail local geography?! Oh wait. you’re from Jersey. I can’t hold it against you, I suppose. Or, I can and will and you can’t do anything about it.”
Customer: “What do you mean? That wasn’t nice either. I’m the customer! I’m always right! You can’t make fun of me!”
Me: “Darling, no matter how badly you want to marry me, I will never stop making fun of New Jersey. It is in my blood! And it’s my full-time hobby. Whenever I have to fill out those stupid things to be introduced into new community events, etc. I put under the hobbies section ‘Mocker Of New Jersey’ or ‘Personal Representative Of Death To All New Jersians’.”

I pause and laugh at the term “Jersian” and silently applaud my clever word skills.

Customer: “Okay, enough!”
Me: (brashly soldering on) “I even have a little speech prepared regarding what I think New Jersey is good for. Oh please, don’t tell me you have fond feelings that run deep in your heart for New Jersey, the fair Garden State! Your one true love?
Customer: (in a very injured tone) “I now live in Philly. Doesn’t that count for something?!”
Me: (thoughtfully) “Not really. You see, my hate for New Jersey runs deep. It is just as much a part of me as my perfect breasts!”
Customer: (laughing nervously) “You are silly, and yes, you do have those.”

I have him right where I want him now.

Me: “I mean, seriously, how the hell can you claim that as your home state when the state dance is the square dance?!”
Customer: “ENOUGH!”
Me: “And when you have a STATE DINOSAUR!”

(They have a state dinosaur. Look it the fuck up.)

Customer: (groans) “Let’s talk more about your breasts!”
Me: “No, this is more fun.”
Customer: “Send me a good morning Monday picture of yourself!”
Me: “Delaware has wisely chosen to avoid mockery and not have a state dinosaur. We have better things to do than elect extinct creatures are representatives of ourselves. I mean, can you imagine chartering that bill?!”
Customer: “Uhhh…”
Me: “‘Hello, New Jersians. I clearly have too much time on my hands, in between my busy schedule of killing people, overly gelling my hair and being obnoxious, so I thought I’d introduce a bill so we can proudly talk about our state dinosaur over dinner.’ Now, doesn’t that sound lovely? And don’t you respect me more as a public servant and leader?!”

Customer: (through tightly clenched teeth) “That is nice.”
Me: “I think if I ever run for office, that will be my first bill for sure. A NATIONAL dinosaur. So, in foreign policy we can remind people just how badass we are. WE HAVE A NATIONAL DINOSAUR and they DON’T. So they should be quaking in their very boots. Fuck nuclear power! We’ve got dinosaurs!”
Customer: “I just wanted a nice Monday morning chat with my favorite customer service representative and maybe even a picture?”
Me: “How does a picture of a dinosaur sound?”

A few weeks ago, a small, spoiled and overly-groomed creature came tripping into the dealership.

Tripping.

Apparently, the week before her parents had bought her a vehicle worth far more than the median income in the area. What was this momentous occasion? Why, graduating from high school of course! Way too go, sweetie! Maintaining that C- average! Passing high school! Such a accomplishment! And you’re not even knocked up!

As I passed her talking to one of our salespeople, I overheard her say:

“Yes! I’m getting ready to go to college and I want to study business!”

As she says this, she tosses her hair and laughs an annoying sort of bray, like a donkey on crack. And even though she is inside, she is hardly using her inside voice, littering all her sentences with exclamation points. Like! She just won! The lottery! And is giving! Her! Class! Campaign! SPEECH!

“Oh. What do I want to do?! I want to be a pharma… pharma… pharmaceutical rep!” (She bravely pushes herself through a five syllable word!) “Mhm! Yes! They do make lots of money!” And with that, she manages to bray, exclaim and shimmy her boobs in this odd sort of victory dance.

I was just happy she made it through an entire sentence without crying.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. I wanted to walk over to her and say “Honey. Could you do me a favor and say barbiturate? That’s right B-A-R-B-I-T-U-R-A-T-E.”

I have a special place of loathing in my heart for women who want to get into this particular line of business not realizing how much work sales is; women (see: girls) who think they can show some skin and be great at sales. Thus leaving the women who are actually in sales-related jobs to fight the stereotypes and sexual harassment suits. I kind of want to hunt them all down and rip out their ovaries.

But, I digress.

So, I was in my manager’s office telling him this story and we were laughing at it, quite hard I might add. At this moment the salesperson chose to bring her in the office and introduce her to the manager. The manager strikes up friendly conversation with her, asking the same questions and getting the same answers. Then he says “Oh! So when you’re a pharmaceutical rep, you can bring us barbiturates!”

He kept trying to goad her into saying “barbiturates” by asking a few different questions, several different ways. I stood there, trying so very desperately not to laugh, but occasionally, I would let up this sort of strangled choking noise, while repressing the tears of mirth that were rising to my eyes.

Collegiate Barbie is getting more confused by the minute. The laughter, the big words, they are all too much for her. With a very puzzled look on her face she askes:

“Bar–whats?”

I couldn’t resist any longer, so I jumped in and said helpfully “Nothing, dear. Just a fancy word for a bar. You know, jello-shots and beer! The places wherein you find any amount of alcohol reason enough to take your shirt off!”

A look of dawning passed over her face and she started prattling on “…so this one time at band camp…”

When I was eight years old I was rightfully told I was well versed in the art of bullshit. I can, with little effort, sound intelligent on almost any subject.

With the exception of airplanes and science fiction movies.

As time has passed, I have realized the value of such a gift. I have honed my craft and polished my arrows of verbal destruction. This has not been in vain.

A customer walked into my office and seated himself in front of my desk. He didn’t knock. Didn’t ask if he could sit. He just planted himself front and center for maximum harassing purposes.

He was a middle aged librarian type. Tweed jacket, leather elbow patches, gold rimmed glasses, crisp in his words. Vaguely interesting fellow, however, highly pretentious. In short, a Grade-A bag of douche.

Sitting behind my desk on my counter is an iron cast statue. I bought it off the sale rack of Ikea. It is pretty, fits nicely with my decor and garners the occasional compliment and conversation.

However, with this customer (see: douche) it wasn’t going to simply start a conversation; it was going to provide deep and meaningful conversation for his entire duration of the visit in my office. It was going to provide him with the fodder he needed to show just how wise and worldly he was.

He started off with a barrage of questions regarding it:

Name of statue?
Name of artist?
Significance?
Era?
Did it have that balance of a circumference big enough to feel good in his ass and yet small enough not to bruise?

He started guessing a few of the answers, trying to draw me out and figure out just how uneducated I was. Like he was some kind of expert who went around educating people as to their inferior knowledge of five dollar statues from Swedish furnishing companies.

A little background: He informs me he’s an art professor at the local college. I tried to put on my caring face, but it was wearing thin.

At first, I cringed. Another two hours with some yuppie who found their significance in life by harassing customer service professionals about their office decorations. Then, it dawned on me, he wants answers?! HE’LL GET ANSWERS! Once the bullshit started to spew, it couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. See if you can spot the bullshit in what I told him. It’ll be like a “Where’s Waldo” or something:

“This statue, entitled “Life”, is a beautifully simple portrayal of the childlike desire to embrace the moments we have and dance. It was crafted by a African child named Muesaka Zwibi whose warrior king father was killed by warring rebels. Muesaka was brought to London where he is currently studying at the Royal College of Art. He hopes to be a generational influence for peace and a advocate for the simplistic beauty and joy that art can bring to the classroom. His collection will be debuted fall of 2007.”

He left. Quiet and commentless. If only airplanes and science fiction were that easy.

The sign I posted in the public bathroom after one afternoon of seeing one crumpled bit of bath tissue too many on the floor:

To Those Who Use This Bathroom,

We live in a rather advanced day and age of medicine.

Realistic prosthetics have been developed. Every day they are coming closer to a cure for cancer. We no longer have rampant debilitating diseases like…oh, I don’t know, polio? Small pox, the black plague and other sickness that brought certain death have not reared their ugly heads in years.

Do you know why this is possible? Anybody? Bueller?

Because people learned HYGIENE!

Not just the basic washing of hands and soap usage, but the THROWING YOUR PAPER TOWELS INTO THE TRASHCAN!

Think about it: Do you REALLY want to pick up someones germy paper towel with little creepy-crawly things and only God-knows-what on it? NO! And no one wants to pick up yours. So, we have a simple little request:

AIM. And if you miss, pick it up.

The trashcan is waist high, two inches from where you are standing now. If you miss and are incapable of trying again and AGAIN until you get it, you should really think about what the words “PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING” mean and if they’re applicable to YOU.

If you find all this insulting, just clean up after yourself and you will save yourself from being the person I’m writing this sign for.

Thank you,
Mgmt.