Thursday, April 10, 2008

The Lost Art of Creative Name-Calling

When I first started as a collector the hours flew by - I didn't have a clue what the fuck I was doing and would wind up talking to the freakiest people... that would be both in the office and on the phone. I started my "career" in collections at a young, just born, collection company... so the paper we were collecting was the bottom of the barrel. Crap like delinquent health club memberships, cell phones and cable tv accounts. The shit that everyone on the planet walks away from. Fuck Ballys, fuck the Dish, fuck Verizon. And fuck Fingerhut ---- no shit you can get a charge account with Fingerhut... which reminds me I had a boyfriend a longass time ago that was a computer geek - did some sort of database whatnot. But he comes home one day - he'd been working his geeky magic at the Hut and first thing he says is "Hey, guess who bought a voice disguiser at F-Hut?" How the fuck would I know... please tell me, oh master of the the data and finder of the valuable bits of info, who bought the voice disguiser? "Jeffery Dahmer" Weird shit eh?

So back on the subject of collectors get the super shitty accounts. Therefore, the conversations you wind up having tend to be on the "I can't believe I'm hearing this shit come out of someone's mouth" end of the spectrum. I get this account and first time I call it, the guy on the other end picks up and doesn't even say hello but lets loose with a most awesome stream of profanity... fuckyouyoupiceofshitcuntfromhellgofuckyourselfandthehorseyourodeinonandyourmothertoo. click. Hmm, what to do.... must put this one on the "remember to call everyday list". And so we eventually get the conversation to be a bit less one-sided... and I also wind up chatting with the dude's dad... dude is 53 years old and lives in his dad's basement. Damn, that is hot. I want a boyfriend that lives in his dad's basement and doensn't pay his bills.... sadly it never worked out between us. Our last conversation ended with some creative name-calling on his part. He told me my pussy was soooo big that he could drive his truck into it and turn around and not bump into the sides.... and finished off the insult calling me "big, fat 'gina lips" and hung up.

And now that I've been performing the task of calling debtors for a couple years, I've moved up to supposedly better accounts. All that really means is when I talk to someone they have predictable tales of woe to tell.... boring boring boring. I much prefer calling the inbred cousin-fuckers that had their double-wides repoed. Make that six-fingered, triple-nippled, inbred, cousin-fuckers.