I can not escape the fucking crazies.
I staggered out of bed this morning when my phone started ringing, made it across the house, and answered while still half-asleep. Anyone who's seen this from me knows it never ends well.
"'Lo?"
"Hi," said the person on the other end. "I need the number for the Western PA Humane Society."
Like I said, I wasn't awake. "What?"
"The number for the Western PA Humane Society."
Ever helpful, I started staggering back across the house towards the computer. "Who's this again?"
"Western PA Humane Society."
You, dear alert reader, may have guessed at this point that something wasn't quite right. Me? I was still half-asleep. I'd called the humane society a few times regarding Kabuki's epic camping trip about a week ago, and somehow it made sense for them to call me back, asking for their own number.
Sort of.
". . . Humane society?"
"Yeah," she said. "I've got two cockatiels and I need to give them up. Think you could take them?"
The mental story I'd concocted to explain this shifted a little: The humane society was now calling me to offer animals. But I was still confused as hell.
"I . . . Huh? I don't think I could, the bunnies--the bunnies are evil, you see, and they . . . they've got claws like, and teeth, and--"
Yes, I quote Monty Python while semi-conscious.
At about this time, I plopped into the computer chair. It's funny how sitting down in front of my computer clears my head--or at least makes me question whatever lolgical whirlpool I've trapped myself in. Why would the humane society call me to try and give me animals? (I know I'm a sucker for them, but seriously.) And why would they not know the number for themselves/a sister facility?
"Once more," I said. "Who are you?"
"Debbie."
"From?"
"Springdale."
"And you want . . ."
"The number for the humane society."
This was the point where I started to actually wake up, and I realized a) this person's bleeding nuts, and b) I wouldn't get in trouble for being rude to them.
"So you called me for their number."
"Well, yeah, but I couldn't--"
"But you don't know me."
"Well, yeah, but I couldn't--"
"So you want me to be your own personal yellow pages?"
"But I couldn't find the number!"
"And you couldn't use 411?"
"I didn't try--"
"THEN HOW ABOUT YOU TRY THAT INSTEAD OF CALLING ME?" And I hung up.
I have half a mind to call her back while she's asleep--you know, at about three or four in the morning--but I feel the proper response to epic annoyance is not to perpetuate the epic annoyance. Maybe. So I brought it here.
Dear Debbie,
You are the laziest, stupidest excuse for a human being I've run into this year. You don't deserve pets and I hope to hell you don't have children. I'd tell you to get a phone book, but I doubt you can spell well enough to read it. Apparently it's too much for you to make sense when you dial random Pittsburgh-area-code numbers, asking for favors from strangers.
No love,
a very cranky, sleep-deprived Random
(I can not make this shit up. I don't have the energy.)
"'Lo?"
"Hi," said the person on the other end. "I need the number for the Western PA Humane Society."
Like I said, I wasn't awake. "What?"
"The number for the Western PA Humane Society."
Ever helpful, I started staggering back across the house towards the computer. "Who's this again?"
"Western PA Humane Society."
You, dear alert reader, may have guessed at this point that something wasn't quite right. Me? I was still half-asleep. I'd called the humane society a few times regarding Kabuki's epic camping trip about a week ago, and somehow it made sense for them to call me back, asking for their own number.
Sort of.
". . . Humane society?"
"Yeah," she said. "I've got two cockatiels and I need to give them up. Think you could take them?"
The mental story I'd concocted to explain this shifted a little: The humane society was now calling me to offer animals. But I was still confused as hell.
"I . . . Huh? I don't think I could, the bunnies--the bunnies are evil, you see, and they . . . they've got claws like, and teeth, and--"
Yes, I quote Monty Python while semi-conscious.
At about this time, I plopped into the computer chair. It's funny how sitting down in front of my computer clears my head--or at least makes me question whatever lolgical whirlpool I've trapped myself in. Why would the humane society call me to try and give me animals? (I know I'm a sucker for them, but seriously.) And why would they not know the number for themselves/a sister facility?
"Once more," I said. "Who are you?"
"Debbie."
"From?"
"Springdale."
"And you want . . ."
"The number for the humane society."
This was the point where I started to actually wake up, and I realized a) this person's bleeding nuts, and b) I wouldn't get in trouble for being rude to them.
"So you called me for their number."
"Well, yeah, but I couldn't--"
"But you don't know me."
"Well, yeah, but I couldn't--"
"So you want me to be your own personal yellow pages?"
"But I couldn't find the number!"
"And you couldn't use 411?"
"I didn't try--"
"THEN HOW ABOUT YOU TRY THAT INSTEAD OF CALLING ME?" And I hung up.
I have half a mind to call her back while she's asleep--you know, at about three or four in the morning--but I feel the proper response to epic annoyance is not to perpetuate the epic annoyance. Maybe. So I brought it here.
Dear Debbie,
You are the laziest, stupidest excuse for a human being I've run into this year. You don't deserve pets and I hope to hell you don't have children. I'd tell you to get a phone book, but I doubt you can spell well enough to read it. Apparently it's too much for you to make sense when you dial random Pittsburgh-area-code numbers, asking for favors from strangers.
No love,
a very cranky, sleep-deprived Random
(I can not make this shit up. I don't have the energy.)