"Damn you, Cosmos"

So, today I have had a work-at-home day after a week that's been somewhat gruelling, albeit in a good way. It was nice to laze around to some extent. All my clients were women, older ones. I finally figured out why something was bothering me from earlier in the week, and life generally had that "Easy like a Sunday Mornin'" Motown rainy day feel to it.

Except for the fucking telemarketers.

What the hell is this? Do they have beacons pinging in the night? Morse code tapping out that says "B-o-t-h-e-r S-t-e-f-f?" I swear, I'm a nickel and five away from changing my number to 1-800-H-A-S-S-L-E-D.

There's been a carpet cleaning agency, two surveys, and a visit downstairs by Census Canada, plus a "Donate, please?" call from Big Brothers. In six hours. Naturally, the phone never rang during the two-hour tutoring window with a client, so that means five calls in four hours, really.

All that aside, though? I try to be polite to the poor fuckers who have the misfortune to call me, since I'm a dead-end every single time.

"Uh-huh, and I appreciate that, but I'm not interested."
"Sorry, I'll participate in your survey if you pay me for my time, but.."
"Um, due to tragic cosmic circumstance, I have been fiscally wounded and no longer have the funds to be a humanitarian. Yeah. Broke off my ass."

Fact is, I think people who "play" with telemarketers by leading them on, by being rude, by freaking on them, well... I think they're dicks.

These poor bastards were so hard up for money that they accepted a job as a telemarketer and you think you're entitled to shit on 'em? Fuck, no. Cut a brother a break, man.

That shit ain't right. Life's short, yeah? A little respect takes the sting out of it. It'd be nice if displaying it would become the norm again.

Sigh. Ever the romantic. And how they'd get my fucking number anyhow? Damn you, Cosmos, and your listings service.