There are advantages to being a curmudgeon, if only a half-hearted one.
Got a phone call last evening. Bear in mind that any call that comes to the house now is usually either my hospitalized Sweetheart or someone desiring an update on her condition (generally fair, with patchy low clouds in the morning). This call was different.
"Hello? Mr. [garbled]?"
Any mispronunciation of my name, even given certain domestic dialects, generally means yet another calling service outsourced to somewhere in the middle-to-far east. I place this one in Pakistan or India. I start with Mr. Polite first.
Inner Dad: "Yes. Can I help you?"
Telemarketer: [reading from script] "Mr. [unintelligible], I am calling to ask for your help in answering a product survey with regards to your sporting goods purchases."
Clearly this lad has not been a regular reader of the Inner Dad or Woody's Woundup.
Inner Dad: [unable to help myself] "Are you serious? I haven't seen the inside of a sporting goods store in years!"
Telemarketer: [quickly scanning suddenly unhelpful script] "You say you don't buy sporting goods?"
Inner Dad: [now enjoying the call, having gained the upper hand] "Oh, I suppose you could count the scooters I buy for my daughters at Target, but other than that, no, I don't."
Telemarketer: [abandoning now useless script] "Ah, um, [Hindi expletive for all I know], thank you very much for your time, Mr. [still unintelligible]."
Inner Dad: "My pleasure."
And I meant it.