My job entials of a lot of communication problems, generally due to the hearing difficulties of those well into their 'golden years' whose ears aren't working but seem to expect their peckers to keep on pecking. Today though was a linguistic problem, namely that I had to speak Spanish. Funny thing though, I don't speak Spanish.
“Uhhh, senor? (I surely didn't pronounce the wavey thing above the n) Hablo ingles? Non? Un poco? Non? Ahh, ok, bueno....umm....call back tomorrow?...no comprendo? Ok, uno momente por favor...um....me no hablo espagnol...niente personna hablo espangol maintenent...oh shit that's french...senor? um...call back tomorrow....telephonay tomorrow? Taco? Quesera una cerveca. Donde esta la playa? Si, quesadilla.”
Today I also spoke with an illiterate man. I'll be totally honest, I was judging the American education system in the most self righteous of ways when I asked for his zip code and he rattled back letter-number-letter number-letter-number. When this man told me that he had never gone to “none of your schools,” I reluctantly thought that's likely for the best given the, you know, horrendous abuse, decimation of culture, and otherwise atrocious behaviour, the effects of which are still being felt and passed on to a new generation. Perhaps you've heard? Irregardless, we managed to get through the order process and get his boner pills sent on up to the great white north. By the end of the call I had forgotten all about it until I told him what the charges would appear as on his credit card statement. How do you check your credit card statement when you can't read? Well, you don't, evidently. Importanter though, when he picked up the phone what did he think he was calling for? I've seen the brochures that get sent out and he could very well have thought he was calling a phone sex hotline, in which case he must surely have been disappointed.
A la prochain.
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