“Hello?”
“Hello, is Eureka Looley there?”
Tomorrow will be a day that lives in infamy; a day that America is reborn. No longer will we hesitate to pick up the phone, glancing suspiciously at the blinking “Unidentified Caller” sign on the Caller ID box.
October 1, 2003 is the day the national Do Not Call Registry activates its list of Do Not Call members – or in plain English, people who are sick of running for the phone, only to hear their first name grossly mispronounced by the incompetent telemarketer on the other end of the line.
This calling list is one you want to be on. The Federal Trade Commission is actually going to make telemarketers stop calling you at those awkward moments, like right when you’re standing naked in front of the bathroom window. My mother is going to cry tears of joy, for her home-cooked family meals will no longer be interrupted by Bob selling Supervacs, and my roommate will no longer be forced from her nap to answer questions about her life insurance (she’s 19).
It took the FTC three years of polls, tests and 64,000 public comments (most of which were ironically gathered by telemarketers) before someone came to this brilliant conclusion: telemarketers are the most despicable creatures on the planet. Therefore, by plea from the general public, there are new rules to restrain them through the phone lines.
The Do Not Call policy will be enforced by everything from the Consumer Protection Agency to state law enforcement. That’s right. If that Buy-one-get-12-free CD clearinghouse keeps calling, you can help send them and their outdated music to the tank.
If the telemarketers don’t get shut down permanently by your complaints, they will be forced to pay as much as $11,000 per call. I firmly believe that money should be allotted to the poor people who put up with these calls in the first place. Us.
If you sign up on the Do Not Call website today, your name and number will be added to the list tomorrow. This registration lasts for five years. Telemarketers have exactly three months to take your name off their calling lists. Even your cell phone can be signed up. You can register up to three numbers, except business phone lines.
Unfortunately, this program does not exorcise your phone from the evils of political organizations, research surveys or those awful charity calls. For these nuisances, there is a simple cure. If you don’t want the peons to call, all you have to do is tell them. It seems too easy, but even the subhuman telemarketer has to listen and respect your wishes. If they don’t do your bidding, they are subject to prosecution by law.
If you don’t have time to register on the Do Not Call list, there are a few home remedies to ward off any batch of phone solicitors. The general rule of thumb: do not be afraid to be rude. Telemarketers are not human beings; they are trained barbarians, ready to do anything and everything to get your credit card number. The key to ridding yourself of these pests is giving them a taste of their own medicine. If all they do is ask you questions, why not ask them a few right back?
For instance: “Are you a telemarketer?” They have to say yes. “Are you trying to sell me something?” No gimmicks here. “What is your first and last name, phone number and home address?” Does the phrase sound familiar?
If you don’t like the idea of questioning these strangers (you’d make a poor telesoliciter), throw out a silencer. By a silencer, I mean a retort that will suck the wind right out of their swindling sails.
“I do not speak the English language particularly fluently, thank you,” is a great one.
When someone asks for me, I often reply “I’m sorry she’s dead.” The caller stammers out an apology and hangs up.
At least everyone has the option to not to sign up. My roommate and I will not be signing up anytime soon. Telemarketers serve as a unique source of dorm room entertainment on a dull afternoon.
When the magazine people call, I tell them the high quality paper from my free issues made excellent bedding for my pet rabbit. I’ve asked the knife company if their blades slice through human bone and if John Deere makes a mulcher big enough to fit my boss.
“I’m sorry,” I told an SPCA-type caller, “but there’s a big juicy possum caught in the grill of my car, and he’s still wiggling.”
A self-employed man named Tom Mabe has taken a similar approach to terrorizing telemarketers. He has made a killing in CD sales on his albums, “Revenge on the Telemarketers” and “Revenge on the Telemarketers, Round II.” The albums feature a series of real phone conversations between Mabe and telemarketers.
Running a business out of his home office, Mabe found that his business calls were constantly being blocked and interrupted by the chronic nagging of salespeople. Mabe didn’t get mad. Mabe got even, and recorded the calls on his answering machine. In one act, he asks the carpet cleaners what the fee is for removing human blood stains from his living room carpet.
Stunts like this have made Mabe’s CDs the best selling underground comedy albums of last year. And who can blame him? Telephone solicitation is a $400 billion industry. It’s about time someone started talking back.
