Tuesday, September 03, 2002

the chair… the freaking chair…

the chair… the freaking chair… where is the chair…
We checked with our marketers and they advised us that the person who told us a big ol’ rocker could be delivered from Freeport Maine to San Francisco (US) in 5 business days was smoking crack.  It would be another fortnight before we had our five-inch thick leather-n-foam cushions, our mortise-n-tenon construction, our wide-n-flat armrests for stable beer maintenance… so we got the first woman back on the line and asked her, “why did you say this would only take a week?”
“Thank you for calling.  How can I help you?”
“You can deliver my chair on time, you freaking incompetent!”
“Certainly, sir - what size?”
“Are you listening to me?  I’m going to come over there and rip that chair out of your puckered old rump!”
“Great!  What catalogue number are you using?”
“MY CHAIR!  WHERE IS MY CHAIR?”
“Has your inseam measurement changed since Y2K?”
“Hang on a minute...” - that’s when I put the phone down on the desk, got my carving kit from the top cabinet, took a top secret stealth transport to Boston, then a train to Lewiston, and a bus to Freeport, so that I could speak to her in person.  The knives were gleaming and hungry.  But she was on break and I got bored so I went back home to wait.  The knives, they are bitter… like my heart…