30 June 2009 - 23:00Fuck Mumblers

If there’s one thing that gives me blood-tinged diarrhea worse than a Crave Case, it’s people who mumble and get pissed when you ask them to repeat themselves. What’s worse is when you have a contractual obligation to help people, and instead of providing relevant information pertaining to their problem, they mumble off a list of completely unrelated problems, be it how many times they’ve bitched about the same problem in the past or how all the worry over the problem has given them a rash on their crotch and the dog’s tongue burns when she comes in for her twice daily slob-job. Then, on top of making your attempt to help more unbearable than sitting cheeks spread on hot coals with an anal fissure, this asshole will deem your help as less than satisfactory if it doesn’t automatically and immediately turn piss into gasoline. It’s like giving to St. Mary of the Festering Areola Orphanage only to have an orphan come to your house and kick you in the dick because your donation didn’t lead to them finding loving parents. Fucking orphans.

The click of the tongue, the exasperated sigh, the impatient cadence in their repetition; each irrational expression of blame an invitation for my nuts to occupy their vacuous face holes so that they might have a reason to talk like they have a mouth full of soggy scrotums. All too often, the blame is placed on the listener for “not listening.” Mumblers who use this excuse make me wish there were a way to regrow foreskin in the form of a plastic bag, so that I can expand my “choking people to death with my penis” methodology. Chances are, we stopped listening the minute you decided to start explaining your problem like a teenager apologizing to his mom for jerking off onto the good linens.

For instance, the other day, I was admiring the newest patch of hair that had sprouted from my taint when I was rudely interrupted by a phone call.  I answered in a loud, clear voice, subsequently giving Billy Mays’ penis a secondary case of rigor mortis. The response I received from the other end of the line was timid and nearly silent, causing me to spring the angriest boner I had mustered in seconds. When I courteously suggested that the caller speak up unless he wanted me to throat fuck the phrase from his gullet, he responded in a surly, bothered tone, as if I’d asked him to slather my nuts with fire ants and let me bury them in his ass. Being professional, I calmly asked him for his information so that I might adequately assist him. Upon receiving it, I did what most professionals do when they experience undeserved anger from clients: I took a dump in a box and mailed it to his address.

The next time you make a call or ask for assistance or need something, for my sake and yours, don’t fucking mumble. Chances are, the person for whom you are asking help either can’t or doesn’t want to help you in the first place.