We Won’t Even Mention My Filthy Goat

I’m visiting my parents. This can mean only one thing- Telemarketers! I adore the people who make it their job to interrupt my dinner from across the world. The nature of their employment means they have to talk to me, which is kind of like having a captive audience.

Normally when people from India call offering to clean my ducts. I’ll answer with “No ducks. Do you clean chickens? And I won’t even tell you how filthy my goat is.”

My parents enjoy that line. Tragically for some reason the people on the phone do not. Last night the phone rang at eight thirty PM. My mother had already retired to bed and I was about to myself. “Who would be calling this late?” I thought.

When I picked up the handset suddenly there was bustling noise in the background and a man with a thick accent added himself to the call.

“Hello, do you need your ducts cleaned?” he asked.

The problem with noise is that in an effort to become louder, my normally high voice becomes higher. I go from sounding like I’m twelve to random people asking me whether I like Barbie and Dunkaroos.

I do like Dunkaroos but that's besides the point. ( Photo Credit : rccblog.com)

I do like Dunkaroos but that’s besides the point. ( Photo Credit : rccblog.com)

“Yes I do in fact” I answered approximately an octave and a half higher than my normal tone. I have no idea whether my parents require duct maintenance however it sounded like there was a party on the other end of the phone and I wanted in.

“That’s wonderful ma’am, my name is” a garbled connection and the noise swallowed up his name. “Can we talk about your ducts?”

I asked his name twice more. Each time it was swallowed by the party in background. I was transferred to his manager when I asked him to spell it so I could hear.

The manager came on the line, full of excitement for my ducts. I inquired about where their office was located. The manager answered that they were in a suburb of the metropolis close to my parents. Based on the time of night, the stock quality to his answers and the party that continued to rage in the background, I doubted this.

“Really? Do you know a good place to eat there?” I asked hoping to catch the man up.

“Why do you want to date me?” Was his retort. Very fast. Very funny. No matter where he was located, the manager was clearly quicker on his feet than his junior employee.

“I’m sure you’re very nice but no, I spent New Years Eve in that city a couple of years back and I want to know where the locals eat.”

It was at that point that the man realized he was not getting a sale out of me and I was bid adieu.

I’ve been informed to use the stock “chickens” line next time.