Curmudgeon walked into the General Store last weekend to hold court before Mr. and Mrs. Storekeep, the Breadman, the Postman, and a new young lady sorting through the greeting card rack in preparation for Easter, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day, not to mention the general run of friendship and sympathy cards.
“Just like the phone commands attention by ringing—or buzzing or whatever they are wont to do these days, I wish to describe one morning at my house—” he stopped as he pulled a wad of notes from his jacket pocket then continued, “when the damn thing rang at 8:45, a time when many self-respecting folks are still making their morning absolutions—” the look on the Card Girl was priceless as we later suspected that she thought absolutions probably referred to wayward practices best spoken about on early afternoon TV interview programs, “and my day was ruined.”
“What happened and who was on the phone,” they appeared to ask in unison.
“Robocall,” said Curmudgeon with a mean edge to his voice.
“First off, this lady said, without stopping: ‘Good morning and how safe are you today? We are offering you the chance of a lifetime to have a genuine police-sponsored alarm ready to do off either day or night and protect you and your loved ones from most of the dangers facing residents of many small cities and towns all across America.
‘And I wish to advise you, sir or madam, that your name was carefully chosen as representing the kind of American who not only yearns for the good old days, but yearns surrounded by an aura of security as only Day-Glo Alarms can represent.’
“There was a pause,” said Curmudgeon, and she then continued to offer three choices: ‘Press one if you want to take part—at no cost to you—in the chance of a lifetime; press two if you would like to speak directly to an agent; and press three if you would like your name removed from our select list of qualified citizens.”
“What did you do?” asked the folks in the store.
“Well, first I already knew that if you press either two or three, they know it’s a live circuit and on the computer a star goes next to that number and the interruptions will continue whether it means Mike Huckabee asking for your opinion on the Presidency or it’s a special offer for a new can opener, or where to go to pray when the next meteor flies overhead, so I put the phone mouthpiece—or whatever you call it—on the table and let the woman’s voice rant on until everything stops and then you get that piercing woman’s cry of ‘If you want to make a call, please hang up and try again!’ and I hung up.”
“So?” asked the crew.
“I called the Better Business Bureau and using that old trick of not answering the auto-voice on the other end, so eventually, thinking you are either stupid or haven’t got a touch-tone phone, somebody real usually signs on.”
“So?”
“Well, to make a long story a bit shorter, they couldn’t help me because the call came from Houston, Texas—that’s where the Day-Glo Alarm Company resides. So I had to call the BBB of Houston, describe what happened, then go to my computer and email them a filled-out form telling them in writing what I just told them on the phone and lodge a complaint with Houston’s BBB.
With waiting between connections this took all-tolled about a half-hour.”
“Signs of the times,” said the girl still sorting cards.
“In future,” said Curmudgeon, “just set the phone-whatever down and let them rant on until that shrieking voice comes on. You’ll all feel better for it.”
