Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Man ISO Infectious 24-hour Disease

I'm looking to contract an infectious disease that lasts for 24 hours, maybe 36, that has relatively minor symptoms.  Itching, eye-boogers, or maybe the trots.  I don't mind pooping, it lets me know the plumbing is still working.  This disease could also produce hallucinations or random and unpredictable erections.  Pain is acceptable only if doctors prescribe good drugs to go with it.  No frothing at the crotch, vomiting or tooth-loss, please.  A nice, puss-dripping rash might work as long as it clears up eventually.  Nobody wants scars all over their body.   

See, here's the problem--I need a good excuse not to go to work tomorrow.  If I call in and tell them the real reasons I'm playing hookey, I might get into trouble.  But if I have an infectious disease, I have a legitimate excuse and I can share with my friends so they can avoid work, too.

Why go through all of this?  Have you looked up at the sky in the past few nights?

Working in customer service during a full moon is like riding a steam locomotive through hell.  You see all kinds of crazy fuckers fly past you as they run around on demented missions concocted by hormonal bursts.  Lunacy in its most literal terms. 

Some people can handle their full moons.  Maybe they recognize the moon's influence and they adjust themselves accordingly.  Or maybe they just are not influenced at all.  Some folks are like that.  But for others, it is like a new form of PMS, complete with reality shifts and temporal paradoxes.  And those of us in customer service are stuck in the maelstrom as if Dr. Who just emptied the septic system of the TARDIS onto our plane of existence.  It's poo, but it's temporally distorted poo, and it's everywhere. 

I work in a call center.  The details are boring, but it's a place where people call in about certain promotions.  I'm not Customer Service, I'm not tech support, I'm not billing.  If you call me, I'm going to get you into a new promotion.  That's it. 

You would think this point would be clear to folks.  But during full moons, nothing is clear, and if you scream crazy shit into a phone loud enough The Magic will happen. Last night I spoke with some real winners. 

I shouldn't say that.  I'm sure that on any other day of the month these waterheads would simply be a minor annoyance.  As I slide down the bannister of life, just another sliver in my ass.  It's not like I have total contempt for humanity--there's a couple of people I like. 

But no, the folks I dealt with last night were a breed unto themselves.  It was as if each of them watched their favorite sports team lose a close game because the ref got a handjob by a cheerleader from the opposing team.  One woman, from Tom's River, New Jersey, was so furious that I was going to save her $80 a month she blew up and forced her cuckolded husband to hang up the phone.  I normally don't feel sorry for cuckolds but in this case, I couldn't imagine how horrific it was to live with such a monster, a mush-mouthed New Jersey stereotype so aggravated by a handjob that all logic became invalid. 

Full moons make people snap.  How this poor, spineless bastard in Toms River avoided bashing his wife's head in with a frying pan I'll never know.  The urge was there--it had to be.  I was over 1000 miles away and I wanted to...well, it doesn't matter what I wanted to do.  If I felt something, he must have, too.  

For legal reason I'm not allowed to record the calls myself and post them online.  I've tried to figure out a way around this and I simply cannot afford the equipment to make this possible.  But if I could, I promise you the craziest calls are always during a full moon.  And for somebody like me it's like being a grizzly bear tied to a tree with toilet paper--the only reason I'm not verbally flaying your skin off is because I choose not to. 

However, sometimes a few things slip out.  Like the time during another full moon years ago when a man called me a psychopath because of the way his bill had climbed.  I asked him if he knew my psychiatrist.  Or the Indian lady who gave me a long-winded lecture about prices and then asked how people pay for their cable.  I said, "Oh, you" 

But no, full moons are not fun to work during if you are dealing with the public.  And this particular full moon has been horrid.  The Full Pink Moon.  I think it is called that from all the blood-tainted flood waters this time of year. 

Last night a drunken old lady called me a "pompous ass."  It's a fair cop.  And I'm guessing that when you're in Washington, drunk off your ass and pissed off about being alone in a condo, I would sound like a pompous ass.  I wanted to correct her and say, "no ma'am, I'm an asshole.  Ask my mom."  She said she was going to call our competition.  I was going to suggest she sober up a bit first so the agent could understand her better, but I had to refrain because I can't get caught snapping at a customer.  (Again.  *ahem*)  

The Pink Moon will be at its fullest tomorrow, which means I have to avoid going into work, because I just can't subject myself to more of this insanity.  I know insanity and this is it.  And the company I work for has these stupid rules about sobriety on the job and how I can't do shots in my cubicle.  It's my goddamned cubicle!  I should be able to do shots if I want!  Vodka helps me resist the evil bastards that find their way onto my phone.

So, I need a disease.  You don't even have to kiss me to give it to me.  We'll work something out.   


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