| 30 in 30: #18 Make-Up or Outgoing Message. |
[Sunday, June 19th, 2005 at 11:33pm] |
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mood |
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 hairy |
] |
PEOPLE OF AMERICA: MAKE YOUR OUTGOING MESSAGE MORE INTERESTING!
That "Hello? Hello?" fake out thing doesn't work anymore. It was cool in 2003 when you heard someone else do it first, now it just pisses all of your friends off. Also, your Granny had a stroke from confusion when she called and got the machine. You're a bastard. I hope you're happy with your lackluster wit.
More white families need to do "The Rap Outgoing Message." When it's done well, it's masterful. When it's done poorly, it's hilarious.
Hicks: when recording your outgoing message, press "record" and fucking start talking. 10 seconds of dead air before you start the message is retarded.
Stop. Reading. Me. Scripture. In. Your. Outgoing. Message. I know this is the day that the Lord has made. I thank him every morning when I wake up to find that I haven't SMOTHERED MY MOTHER TO DEATH IN HER SLEEP. However, when we don't get your machine, you people are pretty rad. You can keep that shit up.
I'd think that the obvious outgoing message for America to have -- even though it's waaaaay fucking dated -- would be "Spiderwebs" by No Doubt. BUT NONE OF YOU ARE DOING THAT. WE BROUGHT BACK THE 80'S. BRING BACK THAT OUTGOING MESSAGE AND MAKE SURE IT REPLACES SOME OTHER HORRIBLE, PIECE OF SHIT OUTGOING MESSAGE TREND.
AND ABOVE ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL ELSE: for all of you FUCKED UP MOMS WHO SAY THE NAME OF EVERYONE IN YOUR FAMILY and then say, "WE'RE NOT HERE" I wish some PEDO on your kids! Okay, maybe not that, but come on! Do you need to say that your two year old Drayden or Riley or Mackenzie or Abigail -- or WHATEVER FUCKED UP "UNIQUE" NAME YOU CHOSE FOR YOUR CHILD -- isn't home?! NO. STOP IT. IT CREEPS ME THE FUCK OUT. DIDN'T YOUR MOM TEACH YOU TO SAY, "WE'RE NOT AVAILABLE" or to JUST FUCKING SAY THE NUMBER THE CALLER HAS REACHED?
Yeah, I'm a telemarketer and I deserve anything coming to me over the line as a way to atone for my endless interrupting of lives... but that is my rant... and my plea to this nation.
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| 30 in 30: #16 Make-Up or telemarketingXcore |
[Sunday, June 19th, 2005 at 9:10pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 less garlic-y aftertaste |
] |
I was short hours last week, so Monday I got a write-up telling me to make up the hours this week or next week I get suspended, basically meaning I can't work. I planned on making up the hours on Tuesday -- didn't. Then it was Thursday -- I was way too tired. So, Saturday morning I arrive at work 30 minutes early to ensure I get a spot on the sales floor, 'cause it's not my shift.
It was a rainy morning. I was tired as hell, and when combined with the post-show buzz it's like the multiplier effect. I was a zombie. I walk around and I give a shit about nothing. Not my hair, not my wrinkly clothing, not being sociable... though I did care about the flecks of paper speckling my shirt from the bottom cut of the Folio I found in our grown-up version of cubbyholes at work. Motherfucking lint shit, sticking mercilessly to my dark cotton shirt. It kept me distracted from my unpainted toenails paired with flip-flops. I felt like I was floating and weighted all at once: sorta with a dull ache, but numb, but not. I'd look around and wonder if I'd always be here or if I might be lucky enough to slip permanently into that other world, the one I left last night. I kept feeling at the lump I have on my head; I got it the night before when the rad drummer of the rookie band playing beamed me in the head with a drumstick he threw into the crowd at the end of the show.
My fucktard supervisor (the only person I don't like at work) wasn't there Friday and wasn't there that morning. I ate a Lunchable that I got out of a machine in the break room and decided later I'd go to Bath and Body works and take advantage of a sale they were having. (I'm having buyers remorse right now, for seriously.) It was a good day.
Last week was a weird workweek. Okay, follow me:
Me: Stacey Kate?
relativeXofXcustomerXX: She's not here.
Me: Okay, you have a good day!
relativeXofXcustomerXX: Your mom. [click] That was a beautiful thing. And there's more:
Me: Karen Dorman?
CustomersKid09: She's not here.
Me: Okay, you have a good day!
CustomersKid09: I love you. [click] Dude, I'm so fucking looking forward to working days during the summer! There will be so many unsupervised teenagers home to pick up the phone and sass me I might have laughgasms on a daily basis.
Two depressing ones:
[The customer has refused the sale on the basis that she has no money... because it's all going towards treatment of her cancer. What am I, a fuck? I don't even try to sale her; I just try to sound positive.]
Me: I completely understand, of course. Well, I wish you a smooth and fast recovery! We'll keep you in mind for the future! Please remember, [I do the required end-of-call tagline].
Lady: [Begins crying] I'm sorry I can't help. [click] and,
AnswrngMchne: "Congratulations! You've reached rock bottom!" Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooddddddddddddddddddddddd.
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| 30 in 30: #14 or Mosh-/Death- pit. |
[Tuesday, June 14th, 2005 at 11:57pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 distressed |
] |
I hate moshing. To be more specific, I hate thrashers and crowd surfers. Being in the pit with everyone is fun. Being in the pit getting thrown around like a rag doll with everyone else while 5 idiots ruin music I paid 20 dollars to listen to makes me wanna get arrested for attempted murder.
I'm tall. My head sticks up above everyone else's. So, when a body comes rolling over the crowd or comes down after being launched several feet into the air, my head is the FIRST thing that gets hit. IT HURTS. Plus, I wear glasses, so I'm fucking terrified the whole time I'm in the pit that I'll have a bent thing worth 300 dollars in my hands after the show, while I'm wandering blindly back to the car.
Okay, so, just avoid the pit at shows, right? Well, to complicate things, I just can't get into concerts as much unless I'm in the front. With my favorite local band being one that has a slew of fucktarded moshing listeners (unlike me, I'm just a fucktarded listener), I find myself in a predicament. I have so much love for the band, but there's only so much pushing I can take before the show simply becomes un-enjoyable. I'll be at the last local show this band will play for a while on Friday and I know I'll be in the front, but I'm dreading it already because I'll be doing that annoying thing where I'm trying to keep balance and not get crushed to death when I'm trying to rock out to sweet tunes! There is a positive side, though: the place they're playing only spawns thrashers as opposed to crowd surfers, as there's not enough ceiling height. (I knew I loved that place for another reasons than the PA and soundguy.)
The only thing I can do now is just get there early so I'll be against the stage, which makes all the pushing a little easier to deal with. That way I won't get pissed and spend the whole time wishing I could figure out a way to elbow a motherfucker in the face without getting in trouble.
Until a couple months ago, I hadn't been to a concert where there might've been moshing for 5 years. A few days before that show, I asked one of the people in the band I was going to see, "so, is there going to be moshing?" He says, "unfortunately, yes," and goes on about how much he hates it. Ha, how naïve I was, asking a question like that. Now I know... at any show where fast-paced, even remotely hard, "non-intellectual" (yes, that's mocking) rock music is played, there will be moshing. No exceptions, because there will always be more than five guys in the place. I hate it.
When I'm in the pit, getting pushed around, singing along, being thirsty, wishing I hadn't used so much gel in my hair because it's sweating off down onto my face, and rocking the fuck out... my mind will drift at some point, hoping that the band would say, "STOP THE FUCKING THRASHING!" and get the people who kept on kicked out, so the majority of us could focus on enjoying their music and nothing else. They never do. I'll have to ask 'em why sometime.
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| 30 in 30: #9 or Air Conditioning. |
[Thursday, June 9th, 2005 at 6:59pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 pissed off |
] |
In the span of my blogging career, there are a few kinds of recurring entries, but only two important kinds: those about Purex and those about my motherfucking AC breaking.
Some things:
- The Devil does best in the heat of Hell, because Mama is in full-bloom right now. Oh my Jesus, the ever-loving hell. Nothing makes her crazier than heat or spending money. If you guys wanna buy tickets to the show, I'm charging 5 bucks.
- When I turn my computer on, the fan goes insane. It's so hot in here (hurr) I'm scared it's gonna have a meltdown. It's whirring so loudly. How hot does it have to be to have a meltdown? I can't stay on the computer long enough to look around online to find out!
- It's colder outside than inside, so all of the windows get opened. Problem is, that means all of the clothing has to stay on, lest we be indecent. I think we're about to single-handedly lower the going price for the homes on sale in this neighborhood by a couple thousand.
- "Are you going to make the spaghetti?" she yells to me from the living room.
"Heeeelllll no!"
I reconsider. "I just don't wanna turn the oven on to do the garlic bread. Can we eat spaghetti later on in the weekend too, so we can have the bread?"
"I don't care."
"Okay."
"When?"
"What?"
"The question is, 'when are you going to do it.'"
"Oh, when this entry is done."
"Whaaaat?"
"When this entry is done."
"Whaaaat?!"
"When your face [pause] dies!"
She didn't hear me.
How much does it cost to get a new one of these? I cry.
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| 30 in 30: #8 or Washed. |
[Wednesday, June 8th, 2005 at 11:53pm] |
"What time is it?"
"Like, eleven-thirty."
"Ahh, okay. I have to get online and do something. Don't worry, I can stay on the phone."
I walked into my room after work today -- the room wreaked. Yeah, the Chucks. I wore socks last night, too... there's no helping it. I picked them up and threw them in the washer. There was no way Fabreeze was fixing that shit.
A few minutes ago I remembered I'd washed them. Of course, my brain starts thinking on all things Chucks, linking things. Bam, I remembered 30 in 30, day 8, yet to be done. I forget about it every single day, even when I've jotted down ideas at work.
I opened the washer... more wreak. Unbelieveable. So, I'm washing them for a second time right now.
Totally clean Chucks, pure white showlaces... completely horrendous wreak.
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| 30 in 30: #6 or Chucks. |
[Monday, June 6th, 2005 at 11:56pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 sad |
] |
I didn't remember that I forgot about day 5 because I had a great idea... that I forgot about until this morning. I was going to talk about my Chucks. Yes, those famed shoes: Converse, All Star, Chuck Taylor's. My low-top black Chucks couldn't be more typical if I tried, but I adore them. Adore. Adoration.
I went to find my typical footwear for work and couldn't find them -- few-year-old, rubber and nylon, over-the-top-of-the-foot-style sandals that require no effort to put on. No laces. (There is no time to tie shoes when you get ready for the word in ten minutes, fool!) I remember that they were in the washer with my other pair of similar sandals -- my pimp slides (they are literally called this by the manufacturer, gifted to me many Ex's ago -- another story). I pulled them out of the washing machine, the washing machine that I forgot to turn on after I put them in there because, for a moment, I was trying to decide whether or not to wash my Chucks and I got distracted. There is a reason for needing to wash my Chucks and a reason why I had to about doing so, in spite of their ailment.
There is no reason any self-respecting woman, no matter what kind of vile whore she be, to fly half-way across the country and smell the horror that were my Chucks after I removed them around 5:30 PM on May 20th. After I took my shoes off in the bathroom and washed my feet, miserable from the situation and blisters, I walked into the adjoining hotel room to report to my new friends the wretched stink, simply because I was so shocked a female could create something so foul by simple body chemistry. Turns out, developing this kind of reek took quite some time, but I didn't think of that as one of the girls offered up a pair of her socks to help my footsies when I had to put my shoes back on. Miss Fine walked into the bathroom. I think she said something like, "WHUT is that SMELL?" and went to get her Curve. "It's my Chucks... I just don't know." The aromas of satanic reek and Curve (for men!) together are not a sense memory of my trip, gladly.
After the first concert I attended in my Chucks, I did wash them. Even after I started playing shows I washed them, too. After the show I went to last September... I didn't again. So I sweated my soul out and back in over a full pre-hurricane day and played roughly 40 shows, with no socks. This is the hard rock foundation of putridity -- it could not be attained otherwise. But, I am left wondering why there was never this kind of reek before then. It's not the sort of thing you miss. (Yeah, this is pretty unhygienic and maybe I shouldn't be so honest for my own sake, you fuckers!)
Really, there was no reason for me not washing them aside from the fact that dirty Chucks are Chucks and clean Chucks are just shoes. Well, okay, at first there was no reason, and then it got down to plain glory. I mean, some of THE coolest moments I'll ever experience in my life have been experienced in these Chucks. Will washing them wash all of that glory off of them? Maybe so! No doubt it will make them clean again. No! Never!
I thought about having an everyday life pair of Chucks and then a pair of show Chucks, but that wouldn't make sense. I'd never wanna tie my shoes enough for that $30 extra pair to be worth it. So, it's looking like these will be with me until they expire. I have shoes I still wear that are older than my dog, so hopefully they'll have a long life.
I think my first approach will be anti-bacterial Fabreeze and a small investment into some low-ankle, black socks that won't show when I wear the kicks. If that doesn't work... I will wash the shoes. It's not like I have a serious superstition about my Chucks. At least I hope I don't.
Maybe I should just get a new pair of Chucks for every year of this craziness I participate in. Perhaps make a tradition? Try to fill another pair with life-changing radness? I just don't know if I could put this pair in a box in the closet, though.
Okay, I do have problem. Okay. Okay.
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| 30 in 30: #2 or Sage Wisdom. |
[Thursday, June 2nd, 2005 at 1:40pm] |
- I sell my CDs at shows for one dollar. It's the perfect amount. It's cheap enough to proclaim I have low self-esteem and to not prohibit people from buying, however, it is just prohibitive enough to keep people who just don't fucking care from taking one like they would if it was free. I am brilliant and I always, always, ALWAYS recoup cost of production.
- I've learned a few things out and about town flyering:
1) I don't have the guts to put flyers on windshields.
2) Flyers are basically ineffective unless you have a picture of someone hot on them.
3) If you try to hand flyers to people in a crowd, it's hopeless; so many will not take them from your hand. Instead, try this technique I have mastered: a) drop a shitload of flyers on the ground in front of a group;
b) step forward, hand one in the group a flyer;
c) walk away as EVERYONE ELSE WHO SAW YOU DO THIS PICKS UP A FLYER OFF THE GROUND TO CLOSELY INSPECT IT.
- More on flyers... When handing out flyers, I walk up to people to introduce myself (only to be a babbling, losery fool) so effortlessly that Karma is going to bring 'round someone to suck my flyering cock one of these days (i.e., I'll be out flyering and will happen to hand a flyer to someone who happens to be looking for some losery acoustic guitar playing chick to help out in a big way).
- People fucking love the song "Karate." If you are in a band, I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU COVER THIS SONG, because people will treat you like a rockstar when you get off stage after getting that many people to say "motherfucker." This is especially good for those of us who will nevar bay ay rawkstur.
- I only really need a guitar and capo. If I forget something, the venue or the musicians playing will have a something shitty I can make do with. No one ever has a capo, though. Dude, I love my capo. <3
- "No, you can't get on my guest list. Miss K. Fine is it. Wait, you wanna do merch for me? Okay, you're covered, plus one." (I wish I were this cool, dude. SO BAD. OMG.)
- You cannot do this alone. If you're good enough to do this on your own you won't have to.
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| 30 in 30: #1 or Why? |
[Wednesday, June 1st, 2005 at 5:43pm] |
I walked out of my building today and saw a mass of lizard by the postbox. Not even plural, people; it looked like a two-headed lizard, one lizard piled on top of another. I stepped forward to nudge it with my toe to see if it was indeed a two-headed, two-tailed, eight-legged freak lizard...
Alas, two scurried away.
I walked away. I was like, "Dude, what if that was a two-headed lizard?! Ahh, it doesn't matter. I didn't have my camera on me anyway, I wouldn't have been able to blog about it."
It was then I knew I still had the heart of a blogger. And so today when I checked my friends page, which I've done for... for so long I don't think I ever won't... and saw that it was 30 in 30 time... I thought, "I didn't do it when my entire soul was in megablogging, so I might as well do it now."
There is no way in hell that I'll finish, but whatever.
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[Sunday, May 15th, 2005 at 11:54pm] |
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This next decade is gonna be crazy.
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| "JIZZ 'Alexis' McJIZZington" No More. |
[Tuesday, January 18th, 2005 at 11:13pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 contemplative |
] |
When exactly did I stop saying "jizz" as much as I once did? I don't know when this happened. I know most of the people who will read this were glad when the word tapered out of my vocabulary. I'm betting it was discussed amongst you: one of you realized the word wasn't popping onto your screen -- bbbrrring! -- ad nauseam and brought your light bulb to the others in our group. None of you mentioned to me that you noticed for fear the word would come creeping back in. ...And now it's gone.
I'm not really JIZZ "Alexis" McJIZZington anymore. Chris, I need a new "name" for LiveJournal.
I'm also taking that lesbian pudding quote out of my userinfo. What the hell was I thinking wasting an awesome "dream" like that on Te, anyway? Shoulda told it to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) shamroq or something.
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| Phone Post: Shriek of Delight |
[Sunday, October 3rd, 2004 at 10:05pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 jubilant |
] |
 | VoicePost 
154K 0:44
| “Hi LiveJournalers, this is Alexis... and as you hear me say on most of my phone post entries, "of course it's me! It's my fuckin' journal! AH HAAA!" Okay, anyway. I am phone posting because Chris Fittz has... I, iiiyuuh... ya know, asked me to demostrate my uuhh, my shriek of, oh what, what, what words did I use exactly? Shriek of... delight? I think that was it. Okay, anyway. A shriek of delight, Chris Fittz, would sound something like this:
[shriek of delight that sounds like I might actually be getting attacked by something]
Like that.”
Transcribed by: deluxed |
Don't get it? Don't worry! View this thread to be in on the joke just like Chris and Alexis!
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| When Hurricanes Attack! 4: Jeanne |
[Sunday, September 26th, 2004 at 9:21am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 gloomy |
] |
Another hurricane, as all of you fucking know, is about to give it to Jacksonville up the ass. Jeanne hit land on Southern Florida, grew a huge fucking cock, and is now merrily fucking away with her new appendage. Luckily, Jacksonville has had the past 12 hours since Jeanne made landfall to track down a whole lotta KY so we're hoping with the experience she's gaining now we'll get a more tender kind of loving...
HOWEVER:
The power will go out, again (and this time maybe for even longer than 2 1/2 days), I will be hot, sticky, cranky, greasy, I will have to work on Monday -- dispite hell coming down around my ears -- if the power is on in their building, I will lose tasty foods to spoilage, I will have to worry about tornados even more this time because we will be in the northeast corner of the storm... I will continue weeping and hoping nothing breaks my window letting shitloads of water destroy my things.
My local music contemporaries have tried to console themselves by throwing "'Cane Parties." Recently an Argentinean remarked to my best good friend Kara, "You have parties for hurricanes?" I asked myself the same question as I was invited to these parties, refusing because there was no way I was going to be in a car Sunday night when hell -- that the organization I work for doesn't care about -- is coming down around the body part I previously mentioned when I used this phrase earlier in the entry.
You know what? "'Cane Party," to me, sounds like a BDSM party where bamboo is used to thwack fucked-up white people's bare bodies.
I feel guilty for whining and complaining, which only makes me feel more whiney. (Dude, Word says that "whinier" is the correct word to use there.) I should shut up and be grateful that my area of Florida hasn't experienced three direct hits from hurricanes within the last 60 days, I should be grateful that the only thing that a hurricane has done to my house is help my ceiling get even more fucked up, I should be grateful that I was only without power for 2 1/2 days instead of a week like (way too fucking) many. But... I don't want to be.
I want to COMPLAIN about the fact that this will further delay the finishing of 3987289892 entries I've wanted to post forever now, I want to COMPLAIN about the fact that I'll lose power and be hot, I want to COMPLAIN about the fact that I'll have to work if the fucking power is on 5 minutes from my house but not on at MINE (which multiplies the pissed-offedness because power being on so close to your house when you're going into third day without power is like watching-puppies-drown helpless feeling) and I want to complain about another fact, ABOVE AND BEYOND ALL OTHER THINGS, that THE FUCKING HURRICANE SEASON IS NOT OVER UNTIL THE END OF NOVEMBER AND THAT THIS COULD HAPPEN OVER AND OVER AGAIN MANY MORE TIMES E)(*#@(u-2893uy09iu3hnr[opkjnd[oKIN{)@(#$UY)(@!U#P)OIHNDPO:KHLAKHAHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Phew. Thanks, grrlfriend, it felt good to vent.
I really, really, really hope this is the last one and that Jacksonville comes out the other end of Jeanne better than it did Frances. Get together and have Hoping Parties for us, folks, and use canes if you like, sure.
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| "...Hotter than all porn." |
[Thursday, September 23rd, 2004 at 2:18am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 WHOAXCORE |
] |
This picture is hotter than all porn.
Redmike: Electoral Vote Predictor 2004: Kerry 269 Bush 253
Me: HE WENT UP?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!!
Redmike: http://www.electoral-vote.com/
Redmike: yes'm.
Me: I'm the one who gave you that site, you must remember.
Redmike: Bah.
Me: And I've had it for so long it is SAD that you're all.
Me: ...linking me.
Redmike: LJ's tanukisuit had shown it to me long ago.
Redmike: whatever!
Redmike: shame on you.
Me: Yeah, because she got it from Te, I bet.
Redmike: SHAME on you.
Redmike: TE got it from me.
Redmike: I gave it to you.
Me: Nope.
Me: Te and I exchanged.
Redmike: shut ut!
Me: drsga2knrp093u4t-098u40iy5jreoighn'[50ryp9juypoijmpotmhjhj
y
Redmike: I want to believe what I want.
Me: ;QGJNLO8RWTP0984TP0IHGTE;LKLNBMPEFTG09Q32UROIJHELKGNHG[0982QGT;OIWHRELGKJNGFR
Me: Left Communist
Redmike: Deluxembourg
Me: Wait, why did I just insert your SN?
Me: That was so weird.
Me: regjb24oytugdthergtberiufd
ANYWYAYA
Me: dfhuwqep98fhrekjng
Me: BLUE
Me: FLORIDA
Me: IN BLUE.
Me: SWEET GOD.
Redmike: hsdgklgdslkhgsd078g90d7sjhdsA'KXDF79
Me: WEAK KERRY!
Me: FIRST TIME EVER!
Me: OH MY GOD!
Me: FREAK!
Me: POURT
Redmike: Same as Minnesota.
Redmike: </w00t>
Me: SWEET BLUE, WRAP YOURSELF AROUND ME!
Me: LIKE CASMERE!
Me: LIKE PROPER SPELLING!
Me: LIKE SOFT, RAD SHIT!
Me: OH
Me: MY
Me: GOD
Redmike: Calm down.
Redmike: Bush is going to take Florida.
Me: NO!
Redmike: Right now you've got what I call the "Hurricane Experience Factor"
Me: DEMOCRATS OUTNUMBER REPUBLICANS 2 TO 1 HERE!
Redmike: These Florida hillbillies blame the Tornados on Bush.
Me: YES.
Me: GOOD.
Me: LIKE HEATHER AND I HOPED FOR.
Redmike: Hurricanes, I mean
Me: FUCK OFF, STUPID RED.
Redmike: But now they'll forget about the hurricanes
Me: BLUE!!!!!!!!!!
Redmike: RED!
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| Ampersand Cannonball. |
[Saturday, September 18th, 2004 at 1:41am] |
|
This is something I've always seen and now I'm going to tell all of you about it.
The ampersand in the Verdana font looks A LOT like someone doing a cannonball. You know, the thing you do where you run, jump, grab your legs, and the make a huge splash into the pool. Lemme show you:
Circled in red you can see what I visualize as the head and body, in blue the arms of the little stick man holding his bent legs at the shins, and in orange the legs, the top of that section of the ampersand being the knees.
Do you guys see it now? Isn't that fucking weird that I've always thought it looked like a dude doing a cannonball?
Man, my "short 'n' sweet" entries are totally rad and revolutionary. They make people see things in a whole new way. Literally. Alexis -- deluxed -- changing your Worldview, one entry at a time.
[Edit, motherfuckers:]
So you people have no imagination. Well, I went on Google and found an image to help me out. The kid's name is Alex, everybody. Give a warm welcome to Alex!
Two letters short of being completely rad.
The colors for the parts are the same as in the first diagram, but I made the thickness of the lines smaller so your blind asses could see the rad cannonball Alex is doing better.
This better help. You better be singing "Amazing Grace" to me in the comments soon. "...Once blind, but now I see."
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| Faux Sweepstakes, Apparently. |
[Wednesday, September 15th, 2004 at 10:25pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 uncomfortable |
] |
My new job is in Telemarketing. Selling magazine subscriptions to partially benefit charity, no less (many of you know of the major telemarketing organization I speak of). At least I'm not making cold calls; if I were I think my blood pressure would simultaneously rise with the drop of my ability to feel like a competent, employable young white female.
I'm thinking many posts about customers will come from this job. On my first full day on the sales floor the lead dialer brought me the strangest encounter anyone working around me had heard of. The charity of this person's choice was Mothers Against Drunk Driving, which had a hefty sum of money donated to it last year by the organization I work for. When I read my sales script, part of what I'm to do is insert the amount of money the organization raised (for whatever charity the person chose) to show them the past benefit of purchasing a subscription or to, ya know, make them want to fucking buy again so the organization I work for makes a shitload of money. When I mentioned the amount to the woman she misunderstood what I said completely. In easy-to-read AIM format!, it went something like this:
[She answers. I give a complete disclosure of who I am and whom I'm calling with. I ask her how she's doing, she responds, and -- as I do with every customer I call -- tell her "I'll be brief, okay?"]
Me: "… Well, I'm calling to personally thank you for helping the Mothers Against Drunk Driving when you were kind enough to take out ________ magazine. Do you remember that?"
Woman: Yes.
Me: Well, because of people like you we were able to generate four million, four-hundred thirty-eight thousand, nine-hundred eighty-one dollars for the Mothers Against Drunk Driving last year! Isn't that amazing?!
Woman: [Begins freaking out] What? I won? I won?
Me: [I get confused because she was a bit hard to understand.]What, ma'am?
Woman: I won that money?! [She continues freaking out and not really being understandable.]
Me: [With much, much, MUCH more confusion] What? No, ma'am, that's the amount we were able to generate for the Mother's Against Drunk Driving from people buying subscriptions! Oh, gosh...
Woman: [Beginning to sound pretty desperate] I didn't win?
Me: No, ma'am. I'm calling from [organization] and the Mothers Against Drunk Driving about magazine subscriptions. [Now I completely understand what's happening.] Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry.
Woman: [She begins sort of sobbing] What? You call me and harass me and tell me I won this money and I didn't?!
Me: [With fear and sympathy] No, ma'am. I never said you won money! You just misunderstood me! I'm so sorry!
Woman: [Still sobbing] Uacch, I've just been entering a lot of sweepstakes and I thought I won. I need money. I need money. Do I have to give you money? Do I have to give you money to get it?
Me: [With sympathy and assertiveness, 'cause I don't want to fucking get fired] No, ma'am. We're not giving away any money. Like I said, I'm from [organization] and it's just the amount people like you helped us raise for the Mother's Against Drunk Driving when you bought a magazine subscription. I'm calling about magazine subscriptions.
Woman: [Understanding more] I just thought I won. I need it so bad.
Me: Yes, ma'am. I'm so, so, so sorry for this misunderstanding. I understand what you mean completely. I'm so sorry. I'll let you go, okay? I hope you feel much better.
Woman: Okay. I just got so excited. I need to sit down.
Me: I'm so sorry! I really do hope you feel better. Please try to have a good day, ma'am. Thank you.
Woman: Okay.
Me: Thank you, bye bye.
DEAR GOD. Man, I hope more stuff like this can happen without me getting fired, because that will make for some pretty sweet entries.
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| Phone Post |
[Friday, August 27th, 2004 at 4:34am] |
| VoicePost
1036K 5:00
| (no transcription available) |
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| Phone Post: Lady in Red, Motherfuckers. |
[Tuesday, June 8th, 2004 at 4:37am] |
| [ |
mood |
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giggly |
] |
| VoicePost
589K 3:09
| “Hello LiveJournalers, it's Alexis. Uunnnaaagghhphhhhh, of course it's fuckin' me, I mean, it's on my fuckin' journal. Okay, anyway. Uhm, I was just talking online with Chris Fittz, and he just got back from his grueling adventure in a Louisiana greenhouse, which, if you know any fuckin' thing in the world, you know that, because that was a rad entry. Anyway, I was talking to him and quiet a few others, actually, about what a very cheesy ballad would be and uhm, 'cause I just got finished quoting some lyrics to Incomple, a song that was stuck in my head, called "Sometimes When We Touch", you might've heard of it, it's pretty fuckin' bad. Anyway, so... so Chris Fittz suggested "Lady in Red" as a really cheesy fuckin' song, and I was like, "Ooohhhhhhman, that's a pretty bad song!" so I look it up online and I started playing it on my guitar, and it was so fucking funny that I decided that I was going to post it for you guys, since it's early in the morning and I will undoubtedly regret this and possibly delete it, so... okay. Wish me luck muthafuckas! This is gonna be fuckin' RAD, to the MAXTREME, muthafuckas! You better listen up! Okayanyway... "Lady in Red" everybody!
Never seen you lookin' so lovely as you did tonight.
Never seen you shine so bright.
Fuck. I fucked up the chords. Anyway.
I've never seen so many men askin' if you wanted to dance,
lookin' for a little romance, given half a chance.
I have never seen that dress you're wearin'
or the highlights in your hair that catch your eyes.
I have been blind.
Lady in red is dancing with me, [wheezing laughter] cheek to cheek.
[More embarrassing, wheezing laughter. Sounding like an old man.]
How fuckin' bad is that fuckin' song, guys?! Oohhhhhh my Gaaahhaaahhd! Ohhhhhkay. Well, I sense this concludes this phone post. [coughing] [laughter] Enjoy listening to it. [laughter] Bye.”
Transcribed by: deluxed |
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