Today has not started out that well.
I called AT&T to try and find out why my new iPhone 5 has so many problems. “Welcome to AT&T. Your call is very important to us,” a cheerful automated voice lied, because if it was so important to them they would have fallen off their wallets and hired enough operators to actually take care of their customers. I successfully navigated through eight different voicemail menus, before finally getting to speak to a live human being who wanted to know my mother’s maiden name before they would speak to me.
“Well her name was Thibault until Hollywood decided to make a movie out of my life and then he changed it because it was too French sounding to Stevens,” I try to explain.
“I don’t know what you are talking about sir,” the AT&T operator states, “but if you can’t give me the answer I have here, I can’t establish your identity and cannot talk to you,” and she hangs up.
I’m still fuming when the iPhone springs to life and Warren Zevon’s 1978 evergreen Lawyers Guns and Money my ringtone for my lawyer, Holly Marotte plays. Because I know she charges by the second and also because she is incredibly hot in a dominatrix meets badger meets stripper type sort of way, I pick up the phone on the first ring.
“I just served Hollywood with papers informing him that he has one week to fully comply with what is in your contract or we’re going to pursue all legal remedies available.”
“Okay,” I reply not wanting to run up my bill by asking her to elaborate on what legal remedies are. I’m pretty sure they aren’t sold at pharmacies alongside Robitussin and Vicks Vapor Rub, and more likely are available at the Medical Marijuana store that most of my friends patronize.
“So now the war is on, and you must not talk to Hollywood. If he calls you, you should politely tell him that you are represented by legal counsel and he should address all his comments to me.”
No sooner do I hang up when my phone goes off playing David Allen Coe’s classic country song, “I’d Like to Fuck the Shit Out of You”, which is Hollywood’s ringtone.
“Aren’t you going to answer your phone?” Nina Pennington urges.
“It’s Hollywood. Holly Marotte said I can’t talk to him,” I reply.
“No, Holly Marotte told you to politely tell him that you’re represented by a lawyer and then you can hang up.”
“But you know how Hollywood is, he’s very persuasive, he could sell sand to the Arabs or condoms to priests.”
“Just man up and answer the fucking phone,” Nina orders tossing me the iPhone 5 which picks now to work properly for the first time ever, which gives me an idea.
“Hello you have reached the voicemail for Ric Thibault Industries,” I try to sound like an automaton. Your call is very important to me. If you are calling to apologize for having your shyster send an e-mail claiming I had exhibited bad faith behavior in the form of breaching an oral agreement that I never made please press one.”
I hear Hollywood pressing one. It worked!
Emboldened I continue. “Thank you! If you called to change your best and final offer please press one.
“Operator,” Hollywood shouts into the phone while repeatedly hitting what I presume to be the “O” key.
“I’m sorry we did not recognize your response. If you called to change your best and final offer please press one.”
“Fuck,” Hollywood shouts but follows it up by hitting another key, which I hope is 1.
“Thank you. If you are calling to stop reneging on your agreement please press one.”
“Operator,” Hollywood screams.
“One moment please we are now connecting you.” I intone. I wait ten seconds and then put on my best Indian accent. “Hello my name is Raj in technical support. Who do I have the honor of speaking with today?”
“This is Hollywood,” a very tense voice states.
“Before we start, I have to ask you a security question sir. What is your mother’s maiden name?”
“I want to talk to your supervisor,” Hollywood demands.
“You can dial my supervisor directly sir. Her name is Holly Marotte and I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore,” I hang up.
Today wasn’t that bad a day after all.