I was still half-dazed and groggy from my peaceful drunken slumber being interrupted when I finally picked up my cell on the third ring. “This better be goddamn important,” I groused to myself as I hit the “talk” button.
And wouldn’t you know it, it was some horseshit marketing scam or whatever-the-hell, because some broad who sounds like she’s comin’ straight outta Calcutta is offering me a free stay at Marriot hotels. I don’t know many details, I just know its bogus.
So I have that in mind when the little Brooklyn Masala starts barreling through her pre-written spiel, starting with, “Hello my name is Sheila. Blah, bling, blang, bloo…” I couldn’t hear the rest because I curtly attempted to derail her runaway freight train of foolishness by simply stating, “No it ain’t.”
“Excuse me sir?”
“You’re name’s not Sheila.”
“What do you—”
“Spell it? Ummm…well…”
(Laughing) “Okay miss, you have a nice day.”
Phonetic spelling gives it away every time. Now if I asked her to spell “Vishnu” she’d get it with no problem. I mean, ain’t nobody under the age of fifty stuck with that granny-ass name, and ain’t nobody of any age who sounds like Apu’s daughter has ever been named such crackery nonsense. No wonder Princess Jasmine over there can’t spell it. But this just highlights what’s wrong with all these telemarketing flim-flam artists. You mean these damn phone jockeys can’t even tell me their real first names, but I’m supposed to take their word that inexplicably free shit—in this case a hotel stay—is somehow on the up-and–up? Eat a dick.
And in honor of “Shela”, dip it in curry first.