Shyzer.com

Whenever I post on HIF, I try to make the freebies somewhat funny, for what two things go better together than laughter and freebies? Sometimes I just make up random crap about what I might do with the freebies, but I usually try and think of how I can tie in one of my random escapades from my past and if I’m really lucky, I might remember a good tale to tell here on Shyzer.

Enter the free golf tees post from yesterday.

As the post scantily covers, my grandma used to live right next to a golf ball driving range. I would run over at least three or four balls every weekend as I mowed her tiny back yard, so it wasn’t long before I had a nice collection of what I viewed as ammo. I would sometimes stay with my grandma overnight since her health was deteriorating at the time, but once she went to bed at the crack of 6 PM, I always found that I was bored out of my mind. I’d read a little, listen to the radio (what I would have given for an iPod or laptop computer back then!), but every night I’d invariably find myself outside in the row of fur trees separating the range and her yard with a bucket of balls next to me.

For a while, I used to pick a target and see how many times it took me to hit it or I’d throw balls back towards the golfers just to see how close I could get. But it didn’t take long for me to either get bored again or run out of balls to throw and seeing as how I always tried to make a game out of any situation, I finally got the idea to run around.

On the range.

At night under the bright lights.

I do remember wearing a football helmet though. Because if there’s one thing I’m a stickler for, it’s safety! You know, while I’m voluntarily dodging lethal flying projectiles and spirit crushing insults from the golfers.

I don’t even remember what the point of the game was. At one point I started cleverly referring to it as “Dancing Golf Time.” I never did get beaned. Not once. I guess that doesn’t bode too well for South Carolina’s golfing elite. I’m pretty sure I just tried to stay out as long as I could, running around, flailing my arms and screaming insults back at the golfers before the acne ridden teenager who drove the golf ball collecting kart came flying like a bat out of hell towards me. Then I’d high tail it for the tree line and stealthily make my way back home, where I’d bask in the glow of my victory over cranial blunt trauma and enjoy a refreshing Diet Coke.

I think that’s all old people drink.

Anyways, a few friends eventually came over and started the Friday night ritual with me. And they say Spartanburg is boring to grow up in! After a few weeks, the owner had finally had as much as he could take, and thus he kindly gave us 10 seconds warning over the loudspeakers that he was about to release his four Dobermans off their leashes.

We thought he was just joking.

He wasn’t.

I honestly can’t think of a time where I’ve run faster than I did that night. I know the 200 yard head start we had on the beasts sounds impressive, but I seem to remember that gap shrinking at about an average of 100 yards a second, give or take. Somehow I ended up leading the way off the range and we wound up in a total stranger’s garage, slammed the door closed, and waited an hour before they finally slunk home.

And you know what? I have to tip my hat to that owner and those dogs, because it’s a testament to their ferociousnesses that the next weekend we weren’t playing “Temp the Dogs.”

I ordered a bullhorn off the Internet today. I’m not really sure why.

I’m sure I’ll be able to put it to good use, though. And by “good use” I mean continuing to make fun of people constantly, only now in a much louder and more obnoxious voice.

A while back, I bookmarked a page called Private Phone and promptly forgot all about it, but today I checked it out a bit more in detail and it’s pretty darn nifty!

It allows anybody to sign up for a brand spankin’ new phone number complete with voicemail that you can access on-line or via telephone. So let’s say somebody asks for your phone number, but you’re not comfortable giving out your home or cell number. Well, just give them your Private Phone number! Then, when they leave a message for you, you’ll be alerted via e-mail or text message telling you that you’ve got a new voicemail. You can then either call your Private Phone number and enter your pin or go to your on-line account and listen to it! It even comes with caller ID, so that if you decide you want to call the person back, their number is right there for you to see.

You can pick virtually any area code you want, which is nice in that you won’t look suspicious when giving out the number since you can pick your own area code. You can also record a custom message, so it sounds like your actual personal voicemail. Plus another cool little feature is that all of your voicemails are automatically recorded and uploaded to your on-line account, where you then can share them with your friends via e-mail or your blog or something! Stan used to have something similar called JerkMail, for those that remember. It sure would have been a lot easier had this service been around back then!

But this all leads me to this! I created a phone number (864-641-3866) just for my websites. I’m posting this on my other sites as well and asking people to call it and leave something funny! Heck, just call it if you’re bored and have nothing else better to do! If I get anything interesting or cool, I’ll post the audio recordings* of them up here on Shyzer to share with everybody else! In fact, leave your Private Phone number in the comments and I might even give ya a buzz

*None of your private info is said in the audio records, it’s just the voice message you leave. So you can trust that I won’t be posting your actual phone number on here for everybody to see!

One of the classes I’ve been subbing in recently is reading Flat Stanley. In fact, the entire grade is reading it and this is a wonderful fact for me, seeing as how most of the hot and/or cool teachers in the school teach that grade. Stan was kind enough to record a Flat Stanley Song a few years back, which thanks to the wonderful inventions of the Internet and iPod, I have downloaded and passed off as my own.

Not only did the kids eat it up, but the fellow teachers loved it as well. Thanks Stan!

I always thought it was odd when I walked in a restaurant and saw one of those little “How are we doing?” cards on all their tables. It seemed like a waste of the paper they were printed on, for who in their right mind would think that a small postcard filled with “unsatisfactory” marks would sway the minds of those sitting in a corporate office? And who even filled out those things, anyways? I’d never seen a patron complain to their waitress and then fill the thing out. Usually a new meal and a free Oreo dessert was all it took to make most people happy.

And then one day I received a letter addressed to Mr. Delay.

About eight years ago, Atlanta Bread Company opened a small deli in the local mall and it was all the rage. I admit, they made some damn good sandwiches, but for a broke high school kid, they were a little pricey. One night, however, Chong and I were walking out of the movie theater and decided to grab some dinner before heading home. We strolled over to ABC and were about halfway through our meal when I noticed the small rectangle out of the corner of my eye. I have no idea what movie we had just seen, but it must have been a comedy, because I remember being in one of those giddy and punchy moods. You know the one, where everything is funny and God help you if somebody near by says the word “duty.”

Alex ran up to the counter and grabbed a pen and we proceeded to fill out the card with remarks such as “Our pickles were too soggy” and “The music here is gay” and “The checkout lady didn’t smile OR suggestively wink at me when I paid her my money!” At the end, it asked for our name and address. We settled on using “Art Vandelay” as our name, yet for some reason we actually used my real address.

About two weeks later, we were strolling through the hallways in school when one of Chong’s friend ran up to him and punched him in the chest. “What the hell did you do,” she demanded from him. Knowing a pissed off, psychotic girl when I saw one, I decided it was high time I get the hell away from this scene before it turned ugly, so I began to walk off. “Oh no, you’re in this too! You both were sitting there laughing your asses off while filling out that questionnaire!” It finally dawned on me that this was Chong’s friend that worked over at ABC. However, still being truly confused since we doubted our little review could have caused such a reaction, we asked her to elaborate. “We got a freaking 15 cent pay cut because of you guys! And somebody from corporate is coming to inspect us later this week. Whatever you morons wrote on that card pissed somebody off!”

We were stunned. They actually took that thing seriously? We figured the name would be signal enough that it was a joke since everybody and their cousin in that day and age knew “Art Vandelay” was the fictional character from Seinfeld.

Once we got home later that day, Chong came over to my house for a few minutes and we sat chatting in the kitchen as I ruffled through the mail. I remember stopping in mid-sentence and bursting into laughter when I saw who the envelope was addressed to. I ripped it open and looked at the letter just to see if they’d made a mistake on the outside.

Nope. They’d addressed the darn thing to a “Mr. Delay.” The letter went on to explain how they were very sorry and how they’d make sure to investigate into the poor quality of the food, the low level of customer service, and the “inappropriate” music, among many of the other silly things we’d complained about. We must have showed that letter to everybody we knew and beamed proudly when people asked if we were the ABC idiots. I’ve got no idea what happened to it, though, for I can’t remember actually seeing that letter in many years. It’s one of those many things you look back on and think, “Damn, I really wish I had kept that, if for no other reason as a reminder of how retarded and yet how much fun we used to have.”

However, I still don’t consider this issue resolved since I never got my free Oreo dessert. Maybe Mr. Delay needs to write another letter.

My middle and high school days were the only time in my life that I’ve lived in any one house or apartment for longer than a few months at a time. It was located in a little neighborhood on the west side of town; a place where I met the infamous Chong and where some of the best times of my life are etched into my brain. You know, all that Hallmark, little white picket fence, Leave it to Beaver type bullshit. But most importantly, the house had a phone number that was just one digit off from the local Super K-Mart.

You see, our number ended in 333. K-Mart’s ended in 666. So at the very minimum, we received two or three calls a week from unsuspecting customers who had dialed the phone without looking and simply misplaced their finger on the keypad. At first, we were polite and understanding:

“No, you’ve got the wrong number.”
“Nope, this is 333, you want 666. ”
“Yeah, this is K-Mart…haha, just kidding…”

That lasted all of 10 days. It soon became custom to sporadically hear throughout the Goob Household perfect impersonations of K-Mart employees; from the initial greeting, to the humming of the classic on-hold music while we “transferred” them to the department they sought, to the eventual part where we insulted / pissed off the caller and laughed after they hung up.

So I figured, why not recreate my two favorite K-Mart Phone Call memories; The Sold-Out Home & Garden Section and The Go Fuck Yourself Shoe Department.

The first one was actually performed by my brother Waynus. I had picked up the phone and been asked to be connected with the Home & Garden section without even so much as a simple “Hello.” This slight oversight by the caller for some reason pissed me off, so as I put her on hold, I told Waynus to pretend he worked in the H&G department and to pretend nothing was in stock. It went a little something like this.

Waynus: “Hello, this is the Home & Garden Department, my name is John, how may I help you?”
Caller: “I bought a fern bush from you just two days ago and it has already died. When will your next shipment be in, because these obviously came from a bad batch.” (notice how she didn’t say hello there either! Bitch!)
Waynus: “Hold on just one second miss, let me check our records….oh I’m so sorry, but we aren’t getting in any more ferns for the rest of the season.”
Caller: “What?! It’s April! What do you mean “the rest of the season?”
Waynus: “I honestly don’t know, I’m just reading what’s here in the logs. Tell ya what, I’ll let you come in and swap that dead fern for any plant you want once our next shipment comes in.”
Caller: “Oh, all right. Well, how about your next shipment of roses. When do they come in?”
Waynus: “Let’s see…Oh darn, we aren’t getting any more of them either.”
Caller: “Are you serious?! How can that be?”
Waynus: “You know how corporate offices can be. Nobody ever understands their reasoning…”
Caller: “Fine…(by this point she’s really getting frustrated)…How about orchids?”
Waynus: “Nope, no more of those either.”
Caller: “WHAT? How about daisies!?”
Waynus: “All out.”
Caller:”Marigolds?”
Waynus: “Nada.”
Caller: “TULIPS!?”
Waynus: “Not a one!”
(This literally went one for a full 60-90 seconds before she finally lost it. The whole time I was on the phone listening on, holding down the mute button, and trying not to burst out laughing.)
Caller: “WELL WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE THEN?! I’VE JUST NAMED EVERY SINGLE DAMN FLOWER IN MY GARDEN!”
Waynus: “Okay, okay, let me go ask my manager……..Okay, he says we are getting in some ferns soon.”
Caller: “FERNS?! THAT’S WHAT THIS WHOLE CONVERSATION IS ABOUT! YOU SAID YOU WEREN’T GETTING ANY MORE IN!”
Waynus: “I did? Oh…um…hold on….yep, we’re not getting any more in!”
Caller: (Then there was this loud scream of anger followed by eight or nine curse words)
Waynus: “Wait, wait, wait, it says here we are getting some daffodils in soon!”
Caller: “WHEN?!”
Waynus: “Um….oh, no. It says we aren’t getting any more daffodils in soon.”
(More curse words followed by me finally losing it and bursting out laughing)

Honestly, I have no idea why she got so upset. She must have been having a bad day before hand or something. I didn’t feel bad though, because she could have avoided it all simply by saying “hello” to me at the start.

My most favorite call, however, needs a little background story. Chong and I were for some unknown reason wandering around Super K-Mart due to massive boredom and…well, boredom. Apparently our loitering, however, was against some asinine policy, because we were soon being followed by an assistant manager named Mark. It was apparent that he thought we were about to shoplift something, which is some pretty sound reasoning and all because every teenager in the world who walks through a store looking at things is obviously up to no good! He finally swooped down upon us with a Rent-A-Cop by his side and told us we either had to purchase something or leave. As we began to protest, he held up his hand and told the Rent-A-Cop to escort us out of the building. What Mark failed to realize was that he had just pissed off two immature teenagers who had the means and the goal to make his life as much a living hell as possible. We finally looked at each other, silently nodded, and proceeded to walk to the front of the store, and grab two shopping carts each, which made the Rent-A-Cop back off and let us be. We filled them all to the brim with as much shit as possible, before taking them to Mark and telling him we changed our minds and didn’t want any of it anymore. As he was screaming about how immature we were, we walked off smiling and feeling that justice had been served.

That was, until thirty minutes later when the phone rang in my kitchen and Chong picked it up since he was closer.

Chong: “Hello?”
Caller: “GET ME THE FUCKING SHOE DEPARTMENT!”
Chong: “One moment please!” (puts the caller on mute) “Dude, there is some chick on the phone who is pissed! Tell her you’re the shoe department and make her think you are Mark! ”
Goob: “You are truly evil….I like it!” (grabs the phone) “Yeah, this is the K-Mart shoe department. What the hell do you want?”
Caller: “I WAN…..wait, what did you just say to me?”
Goob: “I said this is the shoe department, woman, what the hell do you want? We’re a little busy right now and I don’t have time to be chit chatting on the phone with angry customers.”
Caller: “How dare you talk to me like that?! What’s your name, asshole, I’ll have your job for that!”
Goob: “HA! I don’t think so, bitch. My name is Mark and I’m an assistant manager down here. They wouldn’t fire me over your word alone! So why don’t you go try and threaten somebody else!”
Caller: “I have never in my life been treated more disrespectfully from an employee of a store than I am being treated right now! You better believe that I plan to…”
Goob: (I cut her off) “Listen bitch, I don’t care what you plan to do. You can call my boss. You can call the corporate office. You can even come down here and meet me face-to-face. The end result is still going to be the same. Nobody will give a flying fuck. Boo hoo, so you’ll take your business elsewhere. We won’t care! We have millions and millions of customers, you think we’ll cry because you’ve gone to shop at Wal-Mart? Hell, from the sound of your voice, you’re probably fat and ugly, so getting you out of our store will probably make things a little prettier around here!”
Caller: (She had really started going off when I said “fat and ugly”) “FAT AND UGLY!? FAT AND UGLY?! I’LL HAVE YOUR JOB FOR THIS! I’LL….”
Goob: (seeing that my job here was done, I felt it best to interrupt her again and get off the phone) “Blah, blah, blah. Like I said, we’re busy here, slut. So either you can get your whiny ass down here and ask to talk to me face-to-face, or you can shut the hell up and leave me alone. The choice is yours.”

I’m sure nothing ever happened to Mark over all that. I highly doubt he was in the shoe department then and even if he was, I’m pretty sure there would have been some other employee that could vouch for him saying that he never said any of those things on the phone. But I like to think that that lady actually went down to the store and caused Mark a little bit of trouble while he sorted everything out. If there’s anything I truly hate in the world, it’s profiling people just because some of their peers do certain things.

Unfortunately, my phone number no longer ends in a cool miss-dial like that. But it sure is fun to talk about those days with my brothers and sister up here in Virginia. In fact, they have reminded me of heaps of hijinks that we used to pull back in the day, which I had completely forgotten about but which their little brains soaked up richer and fuller than mine. In fact, I think I’ll create a new category called “hijinks” just for little stories like these.