Anyone named Dick Cox is going to be trouble. My guess is that he spent most of his childhood getting teased for his ridiculous name. Once he got a bit older, he decided to turn the tables and live up to his name.
Dick’s account showed up on my screen and I immediately burst out laughing. How can you keep a straight face when you encounter someone named Dick Cox, Harry Baals, or Mike Hawk? I gathered myself enough to listen to the woman on the line requesting a service change of sorts. The problem was, I couldn’t understand a fucking thing she was saying because of the commotion in the background. I could make out about five different voices in the background and it sounded like one hell of a party. I couldn’t really decipher what was going on, I just heard lots of women laughing and yelling. I came to a firm conclusion: Dick Cox must be a pimp.
I’m all about respecting our elders. They had to get up to change channels on the TV. They had to open a phone book to find where the fuck they were going. They had to live through two different George Bush presidencies. That’s all some pretty wild shit, so old people get some love. I just don’t like when old people feel like they are entitled. Have you ever been in a grocery store midday? Get the fuck out of the way because Grandpa Joe is driving the Little Rascal through the prune aisle. If you try to get by them they give you the look that says, “I’m old, go fuck yourself.” I would highly recommend giving them the look back that says, “Well I’m young, so enjoy those prunes, asshole.”
An agent transfers a call over to me because some asswhipe is threatening to sue. No one ever sues Telescreen, they just think that if they threaten to sue they’ll get someone who cares. Unfortunately for them, I get on the line, and if you haven’t guessed already, I don’t give two shits about anyone calling in.
You know when shitty parents shove their kids in front of a TV and call it parenting? Like they always say, “TV is the best babysitter.” Apparently, this rule isn’t just for kids. Once a parent hits the 80 year mark, the kids are going to topsy turvy that shit and plop them in front of the fucking TV. This is how I encountered Grandma Mabel.
This poor old lady calls me and can’t figure out a god damn thing on her TV. Well of course she can’t figure out a fucking thing, she’s clueless and elderly. All old people, I mean all old people, succumb to helplessness before they even call me. I know they can’t fucking see, which is why they probably shouldn’t drive. I know they can’t fucking walk, which is why they probably shouldn’t travel. I know they can’t fucking think, which is why they probably shouldn’t gamble. Yet when they’re at home, the TV is no excuse for cluelessness. All they have to do is press the power button, change some channels, then turn it off. Congratulations, now go take that afternoon nap.
I can immediately sense Grandma Mabel’s loneliness over the phone. My company with her was so welcomed that I began to actually think she was having a great fucking time. Every step we completed in our troubleshooting was greeted by shouts of glee. Every space of dead air was filled with chit chat about her overtly Republican beliefs and her love of The View. No, I didn’t make that up. It was Grandma Mabel’s activity of the week, like when the old folks home makes the big trip to Applebees.