Why Telemarketers?

I don't recall any point in my life when I heard the words, "Golly, I want to be a telemarketer when I grow up" uttered from any set of lips. As a matter of fact, I am certain I never heard those words. But yet, we have them.

They come in all shapes and styles too. There are the cheery ones, the glum ones; those who are in their phone-sale prime, and those who work at the Post Office. And it takes a psychologically strong type of person to be successful at it. You make calls, knowing that 60% of the time you will have people slam the phone in your ear before you ever get to mention whatever penis-enhancing product or marriage-reconciling service you offer.

Have you ever called a complete stranger of a man, and tried to talk to him about potential erectile dysfunction? I have, and I wasn't even getting paid. Worst week of my life.

And to be on the other end of the line, whoooo-wheeeee. I'm gonna tells you what's up. I don't know anybody who has actually bought into a service of this nature. But the most interesting part to me is how the psychology of telemarketing has evolved. I am below illustrating a time line of the evolution of telemarketing.

Phone --> Telemarketer --> *69 --> Caller ID --> TME1 --> TME2.

TME1 (TeleMarketer Evolution #1) are those annoying calls you receive, when as soon as you pick it up, there is a slight pause before anybody says anything. Like the executives have become so wrapped up in the mind-boggling number-crunching of it all, that the computer now dials calls for you. Immediately. Allllll day.

TME2. This is the one that has a slight pause, but isn't even a person. It is a computer recording.

So, the other day I received a call. It went something like this:

me: Hello
comp: (slight pause) Hello! You need to hurry. Your vehicle's warranty is nearly expired. Press ONE to connect with a service agent who can extend your warranty right now.

The last two words, right now were announced like the Speed Boat races or Monster Truck rally guy, the one that screams "Sunday! Sunday Sunday!" in the most testosteroney voice you've ever heard.

After I heard the way he made it sound, I got excited, mostly to do with the bottle-point-five of wine i had.
"Oh crap, I need to extend my warranty!"
So I pressed ONE. After nearly a minute on hold, a [insert your choice: hick, hill-billy, oakie, redneck, goat humper, dung slinger]-voiced lady answered, in a voice much raspier than my own,
her: Make-n-model o'-yer car."
me: Uh, Toyota Ca--
her: I need the year!
me: Oh, well, it's uh, an '85. 1985 Toyota Camry.
(silence)
me: Uh, hello. Can you extend my warranty please?
(more silence)
me: Ma'm, are you there?
her: How in God's green earth does a'eighty-fi' Camry still got a warranty on 'er?
me: Oh, but the man, the man before you told me I needed one. He--hello?

It needn't be said my '85 gem is no longer under warranty. And is also needn't be said that answering the phone when I darn well shouldn't have was a bad move. I fed myself my own spoonful of shut up.