Today's tremendous telemarketer call

Ok, honey babe...
That Doctor Rosenthal, he's an asshole

 

I once parlayed a telemarketing call from a bubbly young Canadian woman into quite the conversation about her life. Apparently she had been in some sort of minor vehicle accident and had won a huge judgment against the person at fault. So she was working part-time as a telemarketer while she collected the judgment payments.

She wouldn't share details of her sex life, though.

 

There's a telemarketer in California named Jerry who calls me at work by mistake every now and then, thinking I work at an auto body shop in Oklahoma. It seems that auto body shop has the same seven-digit number that the phone on my desk has and the area code is one digit off.
Jerry (or Jerry The Tool Man, the Hobo with a House, as he once called himself) always sounds wasted and after a few minutes he usually figures out that he called the wrong number. We usually talk a little about baseball, the Red Sox, the Dodgers, that sort of thing. Then he goes on his way.
I actually enjoy talking to the guy and I get a few laughs out of it.

 

I was a telemarketer for two years in my college days. I primarily answered calls from people wishing to tour Chicago. But we also helped Illinoisans plan weekend getaways to other parts of the state.

Now those were some great calls. We had one dude from California who often called in murders and UFOs and such. He was calling in on an Army recruiting line and wanted me to send some tanks and troops over. And he wasn't just playing a joke.

I once had a 30-minute conversation with a crazy lady from Zion who told me that the neighbor's daughter was dead and that the firemen and the policemen and everybody else in her town were crazy. Since we were monitored and hammered for breaking from our loosely scripts responses, I planned her a picnic on the shore of Lake Michigan. I think that she appreciated the fact that I acted as though she was completely sane.

I also had a 30-minute call from a lady living in a penthouse near Lincoln Park. She was drinking hot toddies and telling me about the wonderful artists that she brought from Europe to live with her and do commissioned works.

I was offered two jobs during calls, one was as an entry-level newspaper reporter.

I had one lady scream at me because I kept insisting that Chicago wasn't a state. Another lady requested to speak to a supervisor and told them I was wonderful after she had asked what the job market was like in Illinois and I had responded with "I don't know. I make about $6 an hour. I might not be the best person to ask."

We also took the fucking calls for Hairclub for Men. Good god. I heard it all on that one. One lady wanted to grow hair on her beaver, ditto for guys and their junk. We weren't allowed to tell anyone about the "procedure." But that didn't stop them from asking whether it was glued, implanted, a wig, regrown with magic beans.

As soon as I told people what they wanted to know, they routinely slammed down the phone without a thank you, goodbye or hail mary. But I had secret weapon. Our computers were capable of sending a fax. So I'd enter their phone number into the system and laugh my ass off throughout the night as I received notice after notice that the fax wasn't going through because someone was answering the phone.

 

My wife got a call from a telemarketer offering subscriptions to Gourmet magazine.

Problem was hee pronounced it Gour-met, not Gour-may. When my wife corrected him he got so embarassed he just hung up.