It Rings! It Rings!

Ring. Ring.

Two tones that reverbrated from the table to my ear, enough to jolt me from my then-current state of peace. In a land that was not bereft of dreams, though I experienced none in the latest session, since I had the unfortunance not to abide by the natural laws of sleeping the night, working into the wee hours of the morn.

The air was silent except for the ever-present sounds of traffic outside my window, cars scurrying in the essence of mice in the maze that was a metropolis. Only the occasional staccato of a tram's wheels would add to the constant noise which I had accepted as part of my psyche. Habit and the unofficial practice of embracing the world about me, taking the flows of sound as one constant stream until they would all seem like a friend, the spouse you never acknowledge but is always there, by your side.

And I was awakened by the ring of a phone on the table in front of me.

Me: "Hello?"


Cue progressive metal.


Geoff Tate:
It just takes a minute
And you feel no pain
Gotta make something of your life boy
Give me one more vein
You've come to see the doctor
Cause I'll show you the cure
I'm gonna take away the questions
Yeah I'm gonna make you sure


Naw, it didn't happen like that. As much as I like Operation Mindcrime, thats not what happened. What actually took place, heh:


Telemarketer: Hello, Mr. McDonald?


Ever since the installation of the phone line in my bedroom, a flurry of calls have made their way to my ears. If one has felt the touch of the telemarketer, you cannot help but support the campaign perpetuated by a switchblade-armed bunny rabbit in his quest to rid the world of an ill that has plagued us for so long.

I'm a pacifist at heart. At least mostly. I do not rush out and gut the nearest fellow with a bastard sword (weapon of choice) who disrupts my piece of mind. The most one would get is a rude response, or maybe more.

Now I have been called numerous times and my name referred to as Mr. McDonald, and their mission to sell me raffle tickets to make sure that charity in all her power must be upheld by champions such as us. It is our solemn duty to support the needy and break the Hun, slap the Jap and turn their cities into molten metal. Uncle Sam wants you!


Well, maybe not.


Me: Yeah?

Telemarketer: We're selling some raffle tickets for this so-and-so-rip-off-your-mother campaign, would you like to purchase a few? If you do, you'll be in the running to win so-and-so item.


The first times, they would be fobbed off with wrong number, as is the polite way inherent in every man who has ever picked up a phone. The first times have passed, and I have taken on the persona of a John Doe, or in this case, John McDonald.


Me: Yeah sure, how many can I buy?

TM: [cue number here]

Me: Hmmm, okay, I'd like to buy about lets see, 30 tickets? That's right, send them over to my place. Have you got my address right?

TM: [cue random address here]

Me: Yep, thats the one. Alright, seeya.


That's one way to handle 'em, though one can always scream one's head off and reduce the other person on the line to whimpers and tears. But who knows really? Being their line of work, would they not already be desensitized to the harsh words of the no-sayers? And that the need to feel the love for the folk who call you in the midst of important doings are nothing more than attempts to paint a better image for them operators?

Or if you're really cruel, you can talk to one for > 20 minutes, raising that person's hopes of selling something and shell out a flat refusal at the very end.