Bent Words

Bent Words

July 21, 2007

It seems rather fitting that during the week in which I am mostly feeling worse than I ever have (what with a broken face, severely bruised leg and recently relocated left arm), I should be tormented by the exceedingly rude, incoherent masses. Which sucks, by the way.

It also seems that in my travails I have neglected to find myself a “Family Doctor.” Seeing as I don’t have a family, it never occurred to me that I might actually need a “Family Doctor.” I have an Orthopedic Surgeon to take care of my dislocated shoulders, an OB-GYN to take care of you-know-what, an eye doctor to take care of my paranoia of “night blindness” and a physical therapist so that I might be berated every ten minutes for standing with my knees in a locked position. So why the HELL would I need a doctor to take care of my family?

“Well, Laura, it’s because an OB-GYN can’t remove stitches from your face,” said Nurse Ratchett.

“So you’re telling me that while my Gynecologist was taking medical courses at Harvard, she never learned how to use a tweezers or a scissors?” I asked, seriously.

This made Nurse Ratchett angry.

“You’ll have to find a family practitioner to take care of this – don’t you have a family doctor?”

But I didn’t feel like explaining to her my sensible reasoning so I just called someone else. And she wasn’t much nicer.

“Well, Laura,” said the receptionist as to make sure I was readily set up for a disappointment, “there aren’t any doctors here seeing new patients so I’m not sure what to do.”

“Listen, Sue,” I said pointedly, “how many doctors do you know who actually take out stitches? I just need a nurse to operate a scissors and a set of tweezers as I cannot see the space under my chin in order to take them out myself.”

Kinda like how I can’t see behind me without turning around.

“You shouldn’t perform such practices yourself anyway, Laura.”

“Than do I have an appointment or not?”

I was all set up for Thursday around 3:45PM but I had to cancel last minute since they wouldn’t accept the fact the insurance company messed up my coverage. Blue Cross and Blue Shield recently became Anthem Blue Cross and Blue Shield just in time for my mishap to be completely F’ED up so I would have to explain why someone would set up my policy only to cancel it in the same damned day. Therefore, my insurance card says I have been covered since June but my online registration says I will not be covered until August. Friday morning, frustrated and distraught, I asked one of the guys at work if he would be willing to remove my stitches if I bought him a Red Bull.

“Cool!” said Marc.

And as I tilted my head back, he looked at the deeply buried sewing job and sighed.

“Now this might sting a little,” he said before digging in.

It hurt less than being on hold for 45 minutes and it only cost me $1.32.

On Wednesday I had to work for eleven hours. My first customer made that eleven hours seem like 22 hours. He was a jackass. He yelled at me, over the phone, for correcting his notion that we are a “boat shop.” We are not a “boat shop.” We are a motorcycle shop and we happen to have personal watercraft because Honda decided it would be cool to dominate on land and on water.

When I corrected him that we carry personal watercraft, he raised his voice and stated that that was what he said. I told him that, no, he said we were a boat dealership but we are not, so stop trying to convince me otherwise. Then he raised his voice even more and asked if we had a “bligity jib.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Do you have a ‘bligity jib?!’”

“Sir, I don’t quite understand what you are saying. Perhaps you should call back from a land line so that—“


Saying “bligity jib” louder didn’t make it suddenly dawn on me what he was really looking for.

“Sir, could you just explain to me what it is and perhaps I can assist you better.”

“You don’t know what a fucking ‘bligity jib’ is?”


Don’t swear, kiddies, if there’s something in this world that you REALLY want.

Bastard called back and yelled at our new office manager thinking it was her who had hung up on him. Heh. At least I was off the hook.

On Thursday, I was hurting. I felt like crap. Around mid afternoon, I was really bad and just wanted to go home but I knew I had to make money in order to afford the materials with which to make a machine that will rid the world of non-compliant assholes. So I stayed. I grumbled a lot, too, and thus I am sure that no one really wanted me there but I did, indeed, stick it out.

I answered the phone while our receptionist was busy trying to figure out how to make the bunny jump through the hole with her shoe laces and quickly realized that it was a mistake.

The guy on the other end wanted to cancel his online registration for motorcycle financing and I had to, regretfully, inform him that I had no idea how to do that but I would be happy to pass on a message to the finance manager once he returned.

Jeff said, “Whatever, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” I said, “your name?”

“Jeff,” said Jeff the Asshole.

“And your number, Jeff?”

*long pause*

“4142233344,” he said in one breath before I had written down the second digit.

“Okay, Jeff, I missed that. Could you repeat that for me?”

At which point he repeated each number at a super-slow rate of speed with more sarcasm than George Carlin.

“Sir, you don’t have to be rude,” I said, genuinely offended.

“Rude? How am I being rude? I said my number in a normal speaking voice and you’re not quick enough to pick up on that? Are you slow?”

VERBATIM. I know this because our conversations are recorded.

“Yes, sir, I am a little slow today seeing as I just dislocated my shoulder on Saturday and have a difficult time maneuvering a phone and a pen at the same time.”


My head was hung a little low when I closed the door behind me to the owner’s office. I explained to him that I had hung up on two people in two days. I told him he could listen to the conversations if he so chose and then Tom just put a hand on my shoulder, told me to just take it easy and laughed his ass off.

I love my boss.

I hate mean people. They should be destroyed.

Jeff the Asshole called back on Friday to apologize for his behavior.

But that was only after we had run his finance application through to no less than five different credit unions.


Heh heh.

Written at 9:12 p.m.