Friday, June 5, 2009

Beercans? No, in cop speak, we call those "drunk tracks".

For a couple of years, I worked for a certain company, in the licensing department. When people called in and needed to know how to be licensed to sell certain lines of 'insurance' in certain states, I was the girl that gave them what they needed, made sure their fly was zipped, hair combed, and sent them on their way, licensed to do whatever fuckery they so desired.

Most people were pleasant. Then there was Mr. King. He hated any kind of rules, anything that cost money, or training, or time. If he couldn't have it immediately, with no hassle, he would bitch and moan for at least thirty minutes. Men don't pee sitting down, and they damn sure shouldn't whine.

The call usually started with him saying "I really don't have much time to waste, but I need blah blah blah." Then, he would tell me how great he was. This usually took about twenty minutes. Then, he would argue with every piece of information I put in front of him.
Reading him the rules and regulations (because he refused to read them) was like having a fucking debate. He had just enough intelligence to make him a pain in my fucking ass.

Anyway, a few weeks after not hearing from that fucktard, one of my friends in the scanning department came over to give me the mail. We usually laughed about some of the stupid shit people sent in (one crazy from Hawaii regularly sent in V-8 labels, and pictures of her dog). In this mornings mail was a letter from Mr. King. I opened it up, and guess what fell out? His credit card. For fuck's sake.

I got out an envelope so I could mail it back to him. I knew that mailing his credit card back to him would have consequences. 1. He'd blame our company for his mistake. He'd insist that we somehow Sam Fishered that fucking card out of his wallet, instead of owning up to his mistake like a man. 2. He would call. He'd probably want to talk to me, since I usually handled him. 3. I would have to listen to his voice, which made me want to eat glue and jab sharp things in my ear.

While she was standing there, I got up, still holding his credit card, and walked to the bathroom.
She followed me, laughing, thinking I was going to flush the fucker down the toilet.

I walked in, chose a stall, and then came out. She looked at me, suspicious. "Where's the card?"

I smiled at her, pointed at my butt, and took off walking. I walked around for about an hour like that. Then, I mailed it to him.

It was an act of pure charity on my part. That was the closest he would get to a ladies no-no parts, for free.

6 comments:

otherworldlyone said...

With your devilish ideas and my bosoms of steele, we could rule the world. Or at least OK for a period of 8 days.

I hope when you put the card down there you swiped it good. You know those reader strips are absolute bitches.

Tennyson ee Hemingway said...

You are like...the genius of genii. And, I hate to say it, but I pee sitting down. And no, I'm not going to go into it.

Brian said...

Without ever having met this douche, I can tell that you are absolutely, 100% right about one thing: He would TOTALLY have blamed you for his ridiculous mistake. His kind always do.

Mr. Condescending said...

lol your devilishly clever sal

Sally-Sal said...

OWO:
I swiped it. Declined, declined, approved!

Can't wait til you get here, gangsta!

Tennys:
Thanks! I think.

Brian:
You've dealt with this breed before.

Mr. C:
Aw, thanks.

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