by Mark Patterson
Stop eating my life in 30 second portions. At 68, I have precious little of it left-and none, ZERO, (in math terms the “empty set) has been given, signed over, or bequeathed to you. My time is mine. Every grain in the hourglass.
My phone is not an invitation to override my chosen pursuits and endeavors. You have no moral or ethical right to jangle into my tuneful refuge (mellow 60’s supermarket sounds: A Summer Place; The Girl From Ipanema..etc) and commandeer my car’s sound system for your tireless pursuit of my debit info. I no sooner make the world go away than you wad it up and fling it at me bouncing with preternatural aim off 400 foot towers that, like bored, voyeuristic gods, can always find me-and never don’t want to.
Do not intrude on a family meal, or the savoring of a cold Dr Pepper (I’m addicted to diet cherry) I’ve spent $3.11 on to reward myself for a hard workout. More importantly, don’t attempt to bust in on that exercise session. I’m trying to defy actuarial tables that put my 290 lbs. in the prep room at Arner’s eight years ago. But a bad faith sales pitch more stilted than a Japanese monster movie is somehow worthier of my focus?
Do not interrupt, lest I lose my place and forget, the words I’m rehearsing for (yet another) life-coaching pep-talk to a son still desperately searching for his place in this world. What gives you that right?
Since my I phone (Do better Apple. My old Samsung was superior.) never leaves me, neither do you. You disguise yourself and crouch in there, emerging at the least convenient times, like all those redundant jump scares in the “Conjuring” series. But you’re even less legit (if that’s possible) than the Warrens and less welcome than the demons in those films.
Spam callers hide in your caller ID under spoofed names like Emery Hopkins, John Schotchel, and Susan Engle, their greedy overtures supposedly emanating from familiar places, always within the 304 area-code. I never knew there were so many towns in WV. Or that so many residents of those quaint boroughs sound like newcomers to The king’s English. ///Sometimes, they come at you as (drumroll, please) “The United States.” And who am I, we’re no doubt supposed to think, to ignore a call from A-M-E-R-I-C-A? Who knew that “Uncle Sam” hawked extended car warranties as a side hustle?
Whatever the front, they pulsate in my pocket, fatally attracted and needy, bleating as foreplay right in front of my family and friends.
Americans received 52 billion spam calls last year. Assuming each intrusion spans just 10 seconds, a conservative estimate not factoring in the gullible folks who actually take the bait (which plenty do, considering the $24 billion in business that relentless dialing stirred up last year), that works out to more than 250 entire lifetimes seized away. Over four years, that’s 1,000 full sorties on the planet that cannot be spent adoring the grandkids, enriching the mind, devoting time to the homeless, or seeking a cure for cancer. How dare they. ///But hey, relentless telemarketers need to make a living too, right? So with that in mind, let me offer them some helpful tips:
Do NOT introduce yourself by name. We are not friends. I don’t know you, nor do I want to. Forced and immediate familiarity is a red flag. I’ve known some persons for decades who remain stuck in the nodding acquaintance stage. So, do you REALLY think you can cozy up in 4 sweeps of the second-hand? Just by offering your first name?
Do not ask “how I am doing today.” That comes across as, er, ah, just a bit insincere. And is. In support of my point: I once responded to that obligatory question from some spam caller identifying himself as Brad (who sounded as much like a “Brad” as I do a Swiss yodeler) by proclaiming that, regretfully, my entire family had that very day gone to heaven in a house fire. “Brad’s” reaction was to inquire (I swear, without missing a beat) If I was enrolled in Medicare (Parts A and B, of course).
State your purpose. Immediately. Your verbal boogaloo and obfuscation insult my intelligence. I know you’re trying to sell me something for somebody. So hit me with it directly, and I might just hear you out. Doubtful, for sure, but slimy evasiveness kills any chance of that. (Getting back to #1) Since you are not, nor ever will be, Chad, Amanda, or “Dorian” (One thickly accented guy actually came at me with that moniker, no kidding.) to me, break character and use your real name. I might respect that.
Be a professional. Your job might be outsourced, but that doesn’t mean your marks should hear five squalling brats-or Judge Judy-in the background.
Come to think of it, STOP CALLING ME.
Gotta cut this short. Somebody from Thurmond WV (population of 5) is ringing my number. For the 12th time today.
Sent from Outlook
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Sent from Outlook
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