Back in the bad old days when I had a land line, I’d just put the handset in the freezer. Made me laugh.
Dude. That’s cold.
My dad is German. His first name is Wolfgang, last name is (almost, but not quite) Din.
My brother was lucky enough to be the one to answer the call that led to our favorite telemarketer butchering of this name, ever:
Telemarketer: “Hello! May I speak to… Wong Dang Din?”
Brother (stifling giggles): “There is no one here by that name.”
Telemarketers’ calls are a pain in the ass, but every now and then, they lead to comedy GOLD.
Speak up, I can’t hear you!
Yes, I understand that. That’s why I’m calling. Our new credit consolidation program can help him out of these debts.
He’s deft? Well, then he shouldn’t have any problem picking up the phone then, surely?
Peter: “Whoa whoa whoa wait a second? You’re telling me I flew all the way to Kentucky to get some of your fried chicken, and the Colonel isn’t even working today?”
Employee: “He ain’t away, he dead.”
Employee: I say he dead.
Peter: “Is Mr. Sanders in?”
Cashier: “What wrong with you? I say you he dead.”
Peter: (Pause) “The Colonel.”
He’s Death? But I didn’t even eat the salmon mousse!!
I have the opposite problem. If I hear my name pronounced correctly, I immediately hang up the phone. My husband’s from India, and the people at the Indian call centers are the only people who can pronounce our last name now. (Of course, his family can, but we normally e-mail his family unless it’s an emergency - it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.)
Oh dear God, that’s hilarious!
A co-worker died 9/11/99 and we’re still getting callers who ask for him. I just say very indigantly “He died on 9/11.”