Nothing is a bigger red flag for stupidity than a lot number. When someone calls in, their address immediately pops up, and anytime I see a lot number on that address, it means that dumbass lives in a trailer park. This is a stupidity guarantee. You really think Einstein’s great grandson is drinking moonshine at a trailer park? Fuck no, this is like a fraternity for stupid people. It’s bad enough having rednecks spread out all across the US, so I can only imagine the horrors of being in such a densely populated area. I can sum up my pals that live in trailer parks by quoting a broad who called in having tech problems with her computer. She explained to me, “I had to move the computer because I was redecorating my trailer.” How the hell do you redecorate a trailer? I’ll tell you how, you bulldoze the fucker to the ground.
In comes a call, and I see a lot number on the address. Obviously my stupidity meter is redlining, which of course, is normal for a day at Telescreen Inc. Yes ladies and gentleman, we have a winner. This guy’s accent is so fucking thick I can barely understand him. Trust me, I’m great at deciphering accents. I can translate Jive, Irate Indian, and Dirty Redneck. The Southern accent should be smooth like molasses? The Southern accent should be replaced by normal English, and the speaker should be ashamed of themselves. Listen Doublewide Dipshit, you live in Louisiana, please don’t be proud of that accent. I’ll give the guy credit, he wasn’t an angry asshole, which is the norm for my trailer park pals. I guess I can kind of understand; I’d be pissed off too if I was a redneck piece of shit.
A few minutes into our troubleshooting, I realize this guy isn’t a run-of-the-mill stupid redneck. This guy could easily qualify as being legally retarded. No, there was nothing “special” about this guy, he is a retard. He shouldn’t be allowed to drive a car, let alone keep four guns in his gun rack. He shouldn’t be allowed to leave his house, let alone go to the liquor store a buy Busch Light. He shouldn’t be allowed to talk on the phone, let alone call my unfortunate ass.
That is why I decided to bite the bullet and help Doublewide Dipshit. I put down the Scrabble game on my phone, cracked my knuckles, and got to work. We spent a solid 30 minutes fixing some ridiculously simple problem on his TV. I could then assure the general population that this retard would remain in his house watching TV. You’re welcome world.