Sunday, March 29, 2009

The Setback of Modern Civilization


(This is for my (black) friend Courtney "C.J." Jones, who laughs at black jokes not because they're funny, but because white people have actually taken the effort to hate a race enough to waste their time making up crude jokes. The same C.J. that I had lunch with at Convergy's the entire time I worked there and would ask "lame white-guy" questions to. And the very same C.J. that, after work, put his gold grille back in his mouth and went home to talk about the "crackers at work" then told us about the "fellas at home.")
(And the same C.J. that car-jacked my friend Bill with a water pistol after Bill said we were going to "Start Punk'd-ing each other." C.J. - "You been Punk'd motha f--ka!!")


I can't call myself a racist, by any definition of the word.
I can, however, say that we ALL have our prejudices.

Though today, an African-American male called me, "boy."

For those of you who are missing it, I'll try to explain.

Blacks and whites...
Wait, scratch that.
Caucasians and African-Americans (read: whites and blacks) have always had this little rivalry.
~Note: This does not apply to every black or white person, just a small group that make the rest of us look bad.~

When an African-American person pulls the slavery card and is demanding reparations for his people whom the white man made into slaves, here's a thought:
1. When the white man pulled up to Africa and saw the native peoples we thought, "I wonder if they're friendly." And we asked them, "Do you have any slaves?"
Our reply was a quick and hasty one when the native (black) people ran into the woods and began capturing opposing tribesmen (and women) and rushing them to us.
(This does not excuse white people from buying slaves, or the poor treatment, or the duration of said treatment, it only states we bought black people FROM black people.)
2. I did not personally own a slave. No living member of my family owned a slave. I'm willing to bet you can't find not one single solitary living person that ever even f'ing SEEN a slave! I didn't even grow up with a maid, or butler. We had a paperboy that we had to share with all the neighbors, and he was white.
While I agree, the treatment of said slaves was extremely very poor, and THEY (or the next of kin) did deserve reparations for all of the mistreatment, I think that day is done.

I don't hear about reparations for the Jews, and they don't ask.
Yet every once in a while, someone will tell me the white man is keeping them down.
The white man is keeping them locked up for "some bullshit."
They only shot four (4) people in the head on a drug deal gone bad, but it's MY fault they got sent to jail.

Now we're starting to get to the point.
I can be called everything under the sun, and I'm not supposed to care.
None of it is derogatory.
But a black man can call another black man "nigga" or "boy" and it's ok.
If I call anyone but my son, "boy" it's a class action lawsuit.

Yet today, an African-American male called me "boy."
I replied "Congratulations, you've just set "your people" back at least 1oo years."

Martin Luther King was looking for reparations for slavery, he was just trying to be recognized as an equal.
Civil rights.
And ladies and gentleman if you want to talk about slavery, look closely at MLK's name tag.
It says DOCTOR (Dr.) before it says Martin Luther King.
I, personally, can get credit for enslaving all of Africa, and imprisoning every gang banger behind bars, but it's nary the man who takes the time to think Dr. King got himself educated, President Obama is an educated man.
While you were "bangin" for some dope, or some "hos" or a little beer, some people are getting an education.
Some of "your people" are becoming CEO's of companies, movie stars, musicians, VERY wealthy businessmen, athletes, doctors, president.

I work side by side with a black man every day.
He does the exact same job I do, and gets paid the exact same amount.
And while the racist white trash might call him "the N word" (A variation of the Spanish/Portuguese noun negro, a descendant of the Latin adjective niger, meaning "black") the black people he encounters call him much worse and ridicule him for getting an education and making something of himself.

It's really ridiculous.


Back to the point.
A black man called me boy.
A name/phrase that is degrading and derogatory to black people, and he used it against me, like I've ever said it in my life.
The only time I call someone boy is in addressing them in sentence. (i.e. Boy, I could really use a drink after the day I've had.)
I have never, in the history of inhaling life giving air into my very lungs said to anyone (EVER) "Get out that mop and get to cleaning, BOY."

And I really don't appreciate ANY-F'ING-BODY treating me like I was the Grand F'ing Pooba of the entire Rebel F'ing Army.

I sincerely apologize to each and every African-American person because those of you who are bettering yourself (as all of human-kind should be doing) will almost always be drug down by the people who don't care.
(Then again, whites will always be drug down by NASCAR and "wife-beater" shirts.)
(And serial killers.)
(And domestic abuse.)
(And the French.)

Just kidding France!

On the plus side... there's always THIS GUY!


Don't let 'em getcha... down.
V.V.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

I'll Do Better or The Magic of Words

I know it's been a minute or two, but the truth is, I've been working on my parents house.
They went on vacation for a week and I've been fixing up the place while they're gone.
Walls and floors and such.

I've been thinking it's time to move on.
Maybe I need a new job.
Maybe a night with some tail would relieve my stress.
Sweden, I'm talking to YOU here!
Or Germany. (I see you Berlin.)
London, you too.
I'm not picky, I'm just overly sure of what I want. (Picky.)

Anyway, I was thinking of switching jobs, maybe a nice desk job, or even one where a little more physical labor is required.
I've been where I am for a minute and it's getting to me a little bit.
So I thought about a change of scenery.

But right when I'm ready to put in my resignation, the boss tells me what he "really" thinks about me.
From what I've heard I'm not that great an employee.
Of course, I know better, as do most people, but good luck convincing some people of that.

Anyway, I figure I'll finish out the week, take my weekend, and see how I feel on Monday.
Maybe by then I'll have the decision of whether I'll change what I'm doing or not.

I know, you were hoping for something better than me bitching about work, and usually I deliver just that, but this is something that's been on my noodle for a while now, and it's finally taking enough of my attention that I couldn't deny it it's own time in the spotlight.

Keep an eye out, folks.
I hope they don't get me!
V.V.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Assistance is Futile



There are times at work when someone from your sector doesn't make an appearance.
And sometimes a few people don't.
This is a case of the latter.
When people from you're sector don't come to work, they send people from other sectors.
Sometimes this is fine, a few people are trained on everything.
But on rare occasions (and by rare I mean almost all the time) the person they send knows nothing about the job, and can barely find their way to the boiler room to get to my sector.
This presents a problem for the other people.
Instead of working hard, I now have to work my ass off.
And when the new guy gets sent to my sector, and I have to train him on how to do the job, as well as actually get my job done too, it's a bit harder day.

Now it gets interesting.
The new guy hits my sector, ("E" Sector) I've already ask about him, the response isn't good.
A friend of a friend, the Good-Ol-Boy system hard at work again!
So not only do I have to get my job done, and train him, but I also have to see that this ass clown doesn't put the whoopee cushion in the wrong chair all night.
This trick only works with proper set-up and I've got to make sure he doesn't eat the fake dog turds.

Prime example of someone Rev talks about.
The guy you expect to make a poop army, play Risk with himself, and devour the losing team as punishment for their insolence and war crimes.

Lemme tell ya here folks (and folkettes) if you're dropping off your child at the babysitters house, and before you leave you hear your little darling tell the sitter "I told you you'd hurt yourself." are you really gonna have that night out?

E Sector is the most difficult one on the whole compound.
It's busy, it smells funny, and you have to keep a look out, making sure the machines don't revolt. (They're revolting enough already.)

I guess I'm just an old fuddy-duddy when it comes to people F-ing up my work station.


Hire the handicapped! They're fun to watch.
Don't let 'em getcha.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Like Giant Radioactive Rubber Pants!

A special select chosen few people from each camp are chosen for the Emergency Squad. (E-Squad)
The E-Squad goes to other camps and searches for stuff.
I don't know what they search for.
I know they've found some amazing things.

Actually, I do know what they search for, but I'm not telling.
They search for all the stuff that normal people search for, but they figure with enough of them doing it, they'll find what a single team (of two) will miss.

Anyway, it's not about them as a team, or the job that they do.
It's actually about the select few of them, and not just the E-Squad guys, but there are a lot on it, that have entirely too much testosterone.
That amazing little thing that runs through their veins and makes them scream and yell and go berserker over every little thing that goes wrong (or right) in their day to day.
It powers through them like G.I. Joe in the Barbie section at Toys-R-Us on a three day pass.
Or like, oh I don't know, like giant radioactive rubber pants.
"The pants command ME!"

On a side note, that phrase comes from Invader Zim.
In it's entirety being "But... invader's blood marches through my veins, like giant RADIOACTIVE RUBBER PANTS! The pants command me. Do not ignore my veins!"

Nonetheless, I'm sure most of you know at least one person like this.
Some of you know many more.
They're basically harmless, unless they're not, and then they aren't.

But what I can't figure out is what makes these select few so overzealous about every little thing.
My soup is boiling over. OH, NO!!
My son dresses like a girl. OH, NO!!
I'm only an hour early for work instead of an hour and five minutes. AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
I have to actually get off my lazy ass and do a little work for a change. Where's the poison?!!? I'M TOO YOUNG TO WORK!!

So, captive audience...
You sat through knowing what people are doing at the other end of the phone.
You dared to take the Folic Acid challenge. (At least, I hope you did.)
Now, I'm asking for all the input you can muster...
How do these people live more than 3o years without their heart exploding??

I really want to know.
To get so worked up, or such little, tiny, petty, bologna, how do they deal with life and not have a massive coronary by their 12th birthday.
If you're one of these people, or know one quite well, let me in on the secret.

Calm down out there, friends.
Don't let THEM getcha.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

The Wagon

I'm not going to say I was on the wagon for anything, but I did NOT drink for about a week.
I finished off my $10 gallon of vodka and decided (by way of being broke) not to buy anything more.
I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed for a few days.
It was ok, but by the time Thursday rolled around I was ready for a cold one.
I had one...
Actually, I had two.
Long Island Iced Tea.
My favorite.
Tonight though, I had a martini.
Well, I would have had one, but I ordered it so dry by the time it got to me it had blown away.
Anyway, in leau of St. Patrick's Day I wore my "I'm A Drinker, Not A Fighter" shirt and went out dancing.
Since I have not two left feet but a whole millipedes worth of them, I didn't dance much.
I did sing some karaoke, though.
The point is, um... well, I don't really know.
The wagon is a dark and dreary place to be.
It's lonely at the top, but you eat better.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't drink and drive, you might spill some.

And if you see me out, take me home.
I shouldn't be driving on my own.
Sober or not.

Checked my StatCounter today and saw I'm bringing in some stuff from Park Hills, MO., KC, MO., Plano, TX., Somewhere in Michigan, London, England, and somewhere in Sweden.
I just want you to know, if you're from Sweden, I'm single, and I'm looking for a girl to talk to me in language I'll never understand.


I've got nothing else.
But I figured had to say something.
Diareah of the mouth I guess.
Rev would know what Professor Plum would call it.
I could look it up, even watch Clue to find out, but not tonight.
Tonight I think I'll just sleep.

Maybe tomorrow I'll get it all fixed.
But, alas, tonight I'm off like a prom dress.
My most humble apologies to all the prom dresses reading this.

Don't let 'em getcha.
(Like someone got me!)

Friday, March 13, 2009

For Those of You Following Along

Unless you don't pay attention, you should know by now that I'm friends with Rev.
As you may also know, he was a mister grumpy pants a few days ago.
I used to be the same way.
I know, I know.
You're all in shock and awe.
But, alas, it's true.
I went to the doc and was given something to help the problem, which it did.
It also gave me energy, and made me sleepy (yes, at the same time) and had other odd effects as well.
Then someone turned me on to Folic Acid.

The way it was spun to me is the lack of serotonin is not the only cause but one of the causes of depression.
Lack of sunlight.
People who work evenings or nights and don't see much of the sun, or people who live in foggy or usually rainy/cloudy places suffer from a loss of serotonin, thus, being very unhappy. (And you thought you hated rainy days because you couldn't get anything done.)

Anyway, Folic Acid contains some of the things that are found in everyday items (food) that, I'm willing to bet, most of us don't get enough of.
I, for one, haven't eaten a single thing today.
I usually don't get hungry until I smell food.
But I also smoke (which keeps my mind off of it) and take folic acid (which also boosts metabolism) so maybe that's why.

Back to my original story... (Sometimes I get sidetracked... sometimes.)

I got turned on to folic acid as a more natural way to boost my serotonin without a Rx and with less side effects.
The person who told me about it gave me a weeks worth to try and if I saw improvement, I could buy my own.
I did the same for Rev.
A weeks worth for him (and the little lady) to try.
I can't say it worked immediately, like the Rx drugs did, but about day 3, everyone saw improvement.

I challenge you ALL (that's right, you three in the very back) to got to your local Wal-Mart (boy, are they gonna be pissed about this one) and buy a bottle of folic acid.
Try it for a week, and if you feel improved (as we all should) give a friend or family member a weeks worth to try.

Note: NO. I do not have stock in folic acid, or any company herein.

Also, for those of you (2) who already know, and the new cat that doesn't, the links are where it's at.
Check out the folic acid link and see what else it helps with, then come back and try to give me a legitimate reason NOT to try the Purina Challenge.


Stay healthy out there,
And don't let 'em getcha.
V.V.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Fun With Others

I've got plenty to gripe about, but Rev's blog tomorrow it'll probably get covered.
He could talk about the pissing contest with Medical, or a fat ass nurse that causes problem, or the ditsy dame that started the whole thing, but maybe he's got something else in store.

I've decided, instead, to talk about stuff that makes the day go by, and things to think about the next time you call.

I worked for an outsourcing company, one of the finest...
For credentials check the Urban Dictionary.
Anyway, it was a call center for, uh... well hell, I'm not opposed to name dropping...
I was outsourced to Cingular Wireless.
Six call centers in the country, and about 2oo people per center.
There was (roughly) a 1 in 12oo chance of talking to me.
Of course, there were a good 12 of us (or more) so it was a 1 in 100 shot of getting someone like me.
(This is where it gets interesting.)

Note: Calls MAY be recorded for quality assurance. (Team Leaders record 2 calls per agent per week and a monitoring company records roughly 2 calls per agent per month. 1o calls recorded per month per agent. Estimated 2o calls per day, or 1oo calls per month.) 1/1o of calls are recorded. Plenty of time to have fun.

I only worked there a year but in the year that I was there, we pulled some pretty colorful stuff.
Of course, if you were on the phone it might not have been so funny.

You may have heard this, if calling: (note: this is acceptable) "Thank you for calling Cingular Wireless, where the rate plans rock and the minutes roll over. My name is XXX, and who am I speaking with?"

However, you may have gotten a hold of me.
"Thank you for calling Swingular Walrus, home of the rollover midgets. My name is Mike Hunt, how can I be of assistance to you today?"
Not every call, but some.
This started with the "meow" bit from Super Troopers but progressed to something much worse.
You may have also heard the phrase (and this came outta the gal's mouths too!) "Sir/Ma'am can I place you on hold for just one ("hot" was added at times) second? My computer just went down on me."
And sometimes it may have sounded like your entire call was fielded by a celebrity.
Johnny Carson was fun, but you needed a friend to be Ed McMahon.

TagTeam: Happens when 2 people are on the same phone and at undetermined intervals tap each other for the hand off.
This usually happens in the middle of a sentence.
Also when your partner isn't paying attention. (KC was bad for this.)
MH: Okay ma'am, thanks so much for holding. We're just gonna go over what we talked about, make sure we've got everything right okay?
CUST: Okay.
MH: Great. Now the plan that we're gonna go ahead and set you up with *tap* is the...
KC: Uh, 7oo minute plan.
CUST: I thought we talked about the 45o minute plan?
KC: That's right, we did. *MUTE* Asshole! *UNMUTE* I glanced at the clock and got confused.
Of course, it didn't always go down like this.
There were plenty of calls that a TagTeam was successfully executed and no one was the wiser.
Sales were made and people had fun.
(Note: Both participants tapped back and forth throughout the call.)

Switch Hit: Is like TagTeam in the fact that customers talk to 2 different agents. The difference being the agents do not keep switching back, once switched, the call is finished.

The point of both of these is to neither confirm nor deny the switch, no matter how obvious.

Call to Talk: Was usually a good time. The customer calls for whatever reason (i.e. service, sales, questions, billing) and we get to know a little about the and chat like old pals for about 45 minutes to an hour.
This is great if you were taking to many calls and need to slow down the flow for better conversion.
Usually you made a customer pretty happy too.
Especially if you actually helped them in the process.

Of course, some things we did for fun that you couldn't hear, and would never know.

Putting: We all had cubicles and the top caps came off in nice 3 foot pieces.
Roll a wad of paper for a long enough time and it gets pretty round.
Flatten the lip of a coffee cup and square a side.
Stick+ball+hole=putting practice.
I don't even play golf and I invented this one!

Flirting With Accounts Reviewable (AR): On occasion, when a person called, they might have a deposit to set up service.
$5oo or $75o was always a no-go.
$15o was sometimes something we could work with.
Get a $15o and call AR to speak with, in my hopes, a female.
Find out where she's from (usually Plano, Texas) and tell her she's beautiful.
Tell her you'd love to take her out and you'll be there in 14 hours to pick her up.
Tell you're going to e-mail her a dozen roses.
Or that you've got 12 of something else to give her...
Warm the right heart and that deposit disappears.
This was helpful in many ways.
I make a gal feel good about herself, I get a sale, and YOU get a phone.

Many agents also played on the Internet, sent text messages, and made cell phone calls.
All 3 were unauthorized, but so were hang-ups, and those happened quite a bit too.

MUTE: This is the greatest key ever to grace an agents phone.
I really don't need to say why.
It's usage was already demonstrated.


Once again, none of this was used to make customers feel bad, or unwanted, or even to show how absolutely stupid we sometimes were, it was all in good fun.
And much fun was had by all.

Have fun,
Don't let 'em getcha.

The Wonder of Parents

I was thinking, which I do from time to time, actually, more accurately, I was reviewing some events of the day.
When I got to work I discovered some co-workers had left a few things on the floor.
The truck was unloaded, but not everything was shelved... so to speak.
While the Manager and I discussed the issue, I made mention that, "I'd rather 'em just get the Fuck out. When I get here I'll take over. There's no need for them to be here and in my way!"

I told you that story to tell you this story.
It really is a wonder what your parents told you, and the silly b.s. you believed.
Remember, guys and gals, when you were youngsters out in dad's car with your very best guy or gal, curfew at 11oo.
They told you that curfew was to make sure you were home safe, and put in place as a disciplinary measure.
If you're on time you can go out next week, if not you can go out when you're 40.
That was their story.
How does this relate to the first story, you ask.
Time limits.
You have this amount of time to get done and get out.
That's what the folks were trying to tell you!
They knew what you were doing in the back seat of dad's Buick.
But if you're not on the field by 11oo, the coach isn't gonna put you in tonight and it's time to switch fields.


Dad and mom knew, they did the same thing.
They also knew if you couldn't get the job done in the allotted amount of time, it wasn't going to get done tonight.
Try again tomorrow, or leave it for the next shift.


Personally, I'd rather get my job, and my very best gal, done in a timely fashion.
Not leaving either one for anyone else to take care of.
If I can't get the shelves stocked before I leave I should start sooner.
If I can't get-r-done on time, I didn't get her warmed up soon enough.
But with dad's Buick, as well as some jobs, and the game of life...
(I hate to cliche) there is no overtime.

Get your job done or don't.
But when I arrive on the scene with a dozen roses and MY dad's Chevrolet, step aside son, I'm finishing your girl.

Once again, can you believe we actually thought they cared about what time the car got home!?



Hey pal,
Don't let 'em getcha. ; )

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Disclaimer

Ok, I've made myself publicly known on two different blogs.
One in passing (Thanks Rev, my daily read) and one in argument. (Sorry Guy, the phrase "the voice of poverty induced despair" caught me wrong.)
Anyway, since I'm making proverbial waves in the pool (which need more chlorine, I might add) I figured I should start by defending myself before I get called out on a "Section 8."
While I admit I am slightly, if not more, bipolar, and seem a little on the unstable side, my hypocrisy only goes so far.

For whatever reason, I'm in the mood to write a bit so I thought I should start with something productive to CMA. (cover my arse)
Of course, productive is such a loose term.

Here's something that's on my mind though.
They're call reproductive glands.
Why aren't they just called productive glands.
What's produced to be REproduced.
For that matter, what was wrong with the first production?
If Hollywood remade "The Producers" would they call it "The Reproducers."
I mean, it just seems really stupid.
If I made a move like "The Exorcist" and called it "Possessed" could I make the sequel "Repossessed" or would I have to do something different?

Seriously here folks, the humor is in the links.
If you're not clicking, then you're only missing out.

I actually had something different, but I forgot it so, I gave it a Seinfeld (what, no link?) and called it good enough for government work.

Until next time, don't let 'em getcha.