As you no doubt know, the Do-Not-Call List is a sham. With most of the telephonic traffic coming from outside our borders, perhaps the only solution is to elect Donald Trump, who understands the evil intent of foreigners better than the rest of us. (I'd still like to see him Governor of New South Wales two-hundred years ago. Move over Captain Bligh.)

But anyway, what ever made the Feds think enacting a law would enfeeble bunko? Nothing ever has or ever will. It's an unbroken chain. Did you know that Emperor Claudius wrote a tome on how to cheat at dice? Two-thousand years later, Abbie Hoffman penned Steal This Book. Of course, both of those guys were literate, unlike the cretins who phone me up relentlessly.

Somehow "charities" escape this prophylaxis. I rarely turn my phone on, but as soon as I do, it rings with a call imploring me to contribute to children with leukemia, clean drinking water, and my all time favorite: the Fraternal Order of Law Enforcement Officers. For Christ's sake! Don't these latter ignoramuses understand I grew up in the sixties and know who Preston C. Densmore is? I mean, I did watch Dragnet religiously, you know.

If that allusion zoomed over your head, check this out. For the cognoscenti, Densmore is played by the same chap who portrayed the Baptist minister in the fine film, Ed Wood. Must be in his actor's résumé: "I'm good at playing con artists."

And then there are the totally worthless robo-calls which give the game away by a too-long pause before connection. For what it's worth, I really want to bang Carmen from Credit Card Services. Were she human, I'd bet she'd sport a bowl haircut, and that really turns me on. I fall asleep at night imagining what her moans would sound like as she frantically and passionately seeks my membrum verile.

But I digress.

I merely wanted to relate several of my favorite phone calls over the ages.

In the early days of telemarketing, back when it was done by hand, there was this local insurance agent by the name of Ray Peterson who bothered Riff and me repeatedly. One time he called and I apologized, "Can you hold for just a moment? I need to turn the stove off." So I set the phone down, and then went about my business (whatever it was) eventually hanging up a half-hour later. I always wondered how long the panting Ray hung on.

Riff was better prepared than me and kept a trumpet by the phone. I relish thinking of Ray suffering inner-ear damage from ill-played scales of a brass instument.

One time I had a call from some bimbo asking for "Mrs. Kreitzer," as though she knew her. Now there's a dead giveaway, I having been single all my life.

Into the phone receiver, I made a pointed (almost theatrical) gulp, and then whispered, "Is this the ambulance? She passed away ten minutes ago. Hurry."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I don't know what to say. Please excuse me."

I always suspected the bimbo gave up telemarketing as a career that very night.

Another rare moment was the afternoon call from a presumably middle-aged lady. She spoke with the tenor of a southern belle, alerting me at the outset some fun could be had. I forget what she was peddling; it might have been double-glazed windows. Our Scarlett O'Hara commenced with a bit of idle chit-chat to engage me, and almost at once I had her pegged as from Georgia.

Leading her on for a while, eventually I interjected, "Eat me."

To which she responded, "Is everyone in your town as rude as you?"

And then I cut loose with an exceedingly clever and pithy rejoinder: "FUCK YOU!" Basically sung, legato, from high B down an octave, to lower B.

I'm not sure how I came up with such a frightfully witty retort. But it really did the trick. I could hear her gasp before disconnecting.

But I've saved the best for last.

After a particularly vexing day of way too many telemarketing calls, I was approaching a boiling point. The phone rang, and sure enough...

"Hello, Mr. Kreitzer. I'm Stephanie with the XYZ Company, and this is a courtesy call."

To which I responded, "And just what courtesy are you extending?"

"What?---Did I catch you at an inconvenient moment?"

And there was my opening.

"As a matter of fact, yes. I was just about ready to climax in the paperboy's mouth."


Next installment: Proof

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