Customer Service

Here's another blast from the past: I used to work at a Barnes & Noble. Wait, there's more to this story.

One day, while working at one of the INFORMATION STATIONS, the telephone rang. One of my coworkers—let's call him Brian—was working with me at the station, and I dared him to answer the phone and pretend that we were Papa Gino's (a pizza chain) rather than Barnes & Noble, and he did!

"Thank you for calling Papa Gino's. This is Brian. May I take your order?" The woman who had called sounded very confused. "This isn't Barnes & Noble?" Brian stayed in character throughout the entire exchange. Unfortunately, the caller never ordered a pizza.

I was so impressed with Brian's acting abilities that a few days later I dared him to do it again. Entertain me, Brian! As we were on our break, in the break room of all places, he answered the phone, again as a Papa Gino's employee, and began a long conversation with someone looking for particular book. Brian would actually try to sell pizzas to the customers, which just added to the confusion. And this time, as he made his daring sales pitch, I pretended to be an irate customer, "I said I wanted ham, goddamn it! Give me ham! Ham!" After which, I knocked over a metal folding chair onto its side.

A few days later, again during our break, I again dared him to answer the phone and pretend that we were Meineke Discount Mufflers. (I know they have since changed their name to Meineke Car Care Center, so eat me.) "Meineke Discount Mufflers, this is Brian speaking, how may I help you?" In order to assist in the illusion, I made silly noises one would hear in a mechanic's garage, e.g., vroom! fweeemvvv! fweeemvvv! clink-clank! As Brian continued with his phone conversation—I never understood why people just didn't hang up—I yelled, "OH MY GOD! MY TIE IS CAUGHT IN THE FAN BELT! AHHH!" Brian quickly ended his conversation with, "Oops. Got to go," and hung up the phone.

Autobots!

Figure 1: Optimus Prime

Remember the cartoon Turbo Teen? I barely do, but I just watched a clip of the show's opening credits on YouTube.

Figure 2: El Teen de Turbo

If you're not familiar, Turbo Teen is the story of a teen, full of turbo, who transforms into a 1980s Pontiac Firebird-like car when his body temperature increases. His hands turn into the front tires, his mouth the grill, et al., but no, I don't know what his penis becomes. The driveshaft? I suppose, if he's packing.

Figure 3: Puberty

Anyway, the Turbo Teen roams throughout the countryside, fighting crime and helping people with their personal problems.

Of course, the Turbo Teen's gimmick leads me to ask what if his entire family were full of the turbo? I picture his mother as a middle-aged menopausal woman who transforms into a 1993 Ford Taurus and then roams throughout suburbia, helping people with their personal problems. I picture his grandfather as an elderly man who transforms into a dented 1974 Cadillac Seville and then roams throughout suburbia at 23 miles an hour with his left directional on...complaining about minorities, trying to get to the bingo hall.

But back to the intended subject: I saw The Transformers—the movie—this past weekend. The movie was bad. Why? I can think of numerous reasons, but one of my primary complaints, besides every thing else, concerns an issue plaguing most of today's action-packed kinescopes: scenes filled with GCI animation and spastic jump-cut editing set at an astronomical pace that makes any action flick from 1980s look like My Dinner with Andre (in terms of pacing...and storytelling, of course). What do I mean? The Transformers themselves, more than meets the eye, were created using CGI animation—I hope that doesn't come as a shock to you—and whenever the Autobots (good guys) and Decepticons (bad guys) would get into a scuffle, I couldn't tell what the hell was occurring on the silver screen right in front of me. It was as if someone took the film, removed every other frame, and played it back at twice the normal speed. I had the same issue with the last installment of the Spiderman. I mean, really, what the fuck? I will bet you—yes you—that in ten years' time movies will simply be recordings of strobe lights. Wait a minute! Maybe I will do that! I could probably receive a major-studio distribution deal. To seal that deal, I'll tell them in advance that my film is a shot-for-shot remake of Teen Wolf II.

Figure 4: A "hair-raising" movie

Grammar

I work with an inordinate number of people who don't know the differences between the usages of "don't" and "doesn't" and that, my comrades, makes me bullshit. What the fuck? It’s as if the contraction "doesn't" DOESN'T—ha—exist. BOO-YAH!

The Yacht Club is Spotless

On ABC's All My Children, Sean Montgomery—nephew of the exceptionally tan District Attorney Jack Montgomery, who himself is currently involved with an annoyingly never-ending pseudo divorce storyline with the bobble-headed Erica Kane—is currently performing community service as a part of his punishment for possession of narcotics at the Pine Valley High prom! I shit thee not! Sean had quaaludes on his person, because All My Children is always up to date with the latest trends and events. Catch this dialog excerpt for example:

PINE VALLEY POLICE OFFICER ROGER SNITTINGHAM

Reach for the sky, hippie!

SEAN MONTGOMERY

Hey! Watch the threads! My old lady coughed
up a lot of bread for these groovy duds!

PINE VALLEY POLICE OFFICER ROGER SNITTINGHAM

Shut up, mop top. Hey, what’s this in your pocket, pinko?

To date, Sean has had several scenes in which he's picking up trash all hours day and night in rather odd locations, like the local yacht club. Now, if Erica Kane were performing community service (which she would receive as a sentence for multiple convictions of murder in the first degree), she of course would do so while wearing a slinky cocktail dress, because she owns thousands, and with a surrounding bevy of fawning male admirers, because who can resist Erica...Erica...Erica. By the way, Susan Lucci, who plays Erica Kane, is approximately 4' 2", yet her head is the same size as that of a 6' 10" Swede. Her neck must be ready to snap. Supporting her huge head with her tiny neck must be like balancing a dump truck on a toothpick.

But I digress. How was Sean even able to attend the prom? He'd skipped every single day of school either to dick-tease the whiny Colby Chandler, or to have shower sex with the "sultry" Ava Benton, identical half-sister of Lily Montgomery. Yes, All My Children recycled an idea from The Patty Duke Show, only Ava, rather than being Scottish, is stupid.

Come to think of it, I think everyone in Pine Valley is related to everyone else in some way or another. Someone's going to end up as his or her own grandparent soon enough. Yuck.

Lily, by the way, is supposed to be virginal innocence and Ava a sweaty bag of ho, sort of an attempt at yin and yang, or something. How so? For example, Ava is also currently schtupping Jonathan Lavery, Lily’s ex-husband and brother of the ultimate douche bag (his wrestling name) Ryan Lavery. What wrong with that? Besides being Lily’s ex-husband, more than 30 years of age, and a serial murderer, Jonathan is currently sporting a just-not-quite-there, Paul Snider-like moustache that your average creepy gym teacher wears.

"Ungh! You’re the BEST sandwich."

The chef in the cafeteria at work is on vacation this week, and the catering company he works for has sent a substitute. So, in honor of his absence, allow me to tell you a little about our fearless chef.

Now, the chef is kind of crazy. For example, he may tell someone ordering lunch that she can have anything she wants, but the next unfortunate person in line may get a verbal bitch slapping. I’ve seen it many times. There’s no rhyme or reason to his behavior.

In addition, while making your, let’s say, sandwich, he may start a dialogue with himself on how your sandwich is the greatest sandwich he’s ever seen. “Look at this! Oh boy, now this is a sandwich! I buy the best cuts of meat. It may cost a little more, but it’s worth it! They ought to build a wall around Mexico!” Remember, this is the chef talking to the sandwich, not to you. In fact, he’s so involved with this conversation that he often loses all awareness of everything around him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he one day started humping a sandwich.

“Ungh! You’re the BEST sandwich. Yeah. I’m going to make you suck it! Ted Kennedy better watch his step! Look at all that mayonnaise!”

Guten Tag, My Bitches!

Once, a long time ago, but in this galaxy, I knew this girl. Wait, the story gets better. In this same galaxy, I wrote an e-mail, and included this girl on the "To:" list. This same e-mail included a salutation that went something...like...this, "My bitches!" This e-mail went out to all sorts of friends of mine, male and female. This girl responded with a sternly worded e-mail explicitly informing me that she was, in fact, "a lady." I laughed. I then informed her, via e-mail, it was fortunate that she had majored in marketing because she was astonishingly uncreative. "I’m a lady." (Who the fuck says that in this day and age? Well, I do, but only when it's convenient.) Then in a wave of utmost maturity, I put on a pair of my cleanest panties and blocked her screen name/e-mail address. Thanks, AOL!