Thursday, May 19, 2005

ode to the telemarketer

you persistent sales fool. fingering your telephone with consumer pleasures.

I hope you will call back.
I have some things I would like to say.

I would like to begin with you sitting comfortably. I certainly am. I hope there is nothing in your call centre which chafes your buttocks. as a child I had an acute fear of buttock chafing. I wondered whether if you chafed skin long enough, eventually it would wear through like cheap cotton pants
(page 43 of the catalogue, reference number EH598 K2, £2.99 per tenpack)
and you would be left with nothing. nothing but inverted buttocks. it would be cool at first, you could keep things in the inverted buttock hole. you could store Frisbees and dinner plates and cats. but it wouldn’t stop there. you might have to keep sitting. you might wake up in the morning and think “there is sitting to be done today, and I must do it, regardless of my chafed buttocks and Frisbee hole”. and then what would happen? the walls of the chafe-hole would begin to crumble too, like that small boy grasping desperately at the well walls. and we all know what happens next. earth scrapes away under the eager fingernails. clods of mud fall down on the head. a slow and persistent waterfall of earth pillocks down on top of his tiny screaming form.
the boy is quiet.
and the buttocks, they are chafed.


the life of the telemarketer is strange. she enters homes through telephone cables, a disembodied voice seeping into lives all over the country. penetrating living rooms with her eternal patter. people are doing things in their worlds when the telemarketer enters. people are shaving their legs in the bath and thinking of telephone calls from lovers. people are boiling eggs and waiting on hospital reports. people are engrossed in trisha. they are the grumpy ones. they mutter curse and swear voodoo magick on the telemarketer’s children.

the telemarketer doesn’t have children. this is because she sits all day in the call centre with chocolate digestives and numb buttocks. no one wants to date someone with numb buttocks. when fingers roam into the endless expanse of a telemarketer’s ass, they want it to be appreciated. but chafed numb buttocks will not respond to illicit tickles. they will remain immobile and unconcerned, thinking their buttocky thoughts and not really bothering about much.

this is the great crisis of the telemarketer. unconcerned buttocks.

we all have our great crises. the Trisha viewer’s is that she has run out of sweet’n’low and has to put sugar in her tea. this makes her worried. she is concerned that this is the first in a slippery slope to obesity, that she will slither flabbily down the slope in to the realms of the great unloved. she questions her laziness, why she does not make the mission now to the corner shop, but Darren has just told Trisha that he has been unable to get an erection in six months and she is questioning if it perhaps his sporadic marijuana addiction that can explain why. she is also questioning her forgetfulness on the last tesco mission. perhaps she is feeling the first clutches of senility fingering her once nimble mind. none of these things concern the telemarketer however. except possibly the sweet’n’low vs sugar debate.

the telemarketer dwells in the abyss of the inane.
the telemarketer is going slowly insane.

sometimes the telemarketer considers masturbation to kill the long hours on the phone. if the telemarketer had had a sexy voice, she would have been a porn line operator. however, a childhood spent in leeds and the failure to adopt any heavy smoking or whisky habit means the telemarketer lacks the suitable fingered caresses in her voicebox. last year the telemarketer thought about taking up smoking to prep her voice, but she knows in truth it is too late for that. besides, the pornographic imagination of the teenager is beaten into submission by long hours of bored daily questioning. the telemarketer would have to conjure up worlds of erotic image for those spasming jerking customers, need to paint pictures of worlds with crotchless red satin panties and busy fingers, bent double secretaries with their nipples chafing on scattered files and keyboards. by the end of the day, the telemarketer finds it difficult to think of much beyond her chafed buttocks. numb arse. numb mind. busy busy busy.


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