Bill Collectors

There is nothing I love more than being woken up before the asscrack of dawn by a telephone ringing. Especially when the asshat on the other end of the line is a bill collector. And it’s not even MY bill.

No matter how many times I’ve explained that Maria Consuela Espinoza Hernandez (name changed to protect the deadbeat that is giving out my number knowing they aren’t going to pay their bills in the first place) is not at this number, they still don’t get it. Not even when I repeatedly ask to have my number removed from their call list. Or the times I’ve promised I would hunt them down and shove my phone up their ass so they could enjoy the calls almost as much as I do.

I’ve considered using an air horn, but that might not go over well with the rest of the members of the household. But it sure would start my day off with a smile. Not only would it probably make the bill collectors instantly shit their tighty whities, but it would probably levitate my sleeping brood to ‘scared cat on the ceiling’ status.

I’m off to the mega-evil box store filled with the shopping dead to hunt down an air horn in a can undoubtedly made in China by enslaved, orphaned children that get paid their wages in rice. Ah, the price we pay for living high on the hog in the good ole US of A.

Until next time, my the sun shine down upon your head and your day be asshat free.