As I was taking my evening walk with my wife I happened upon a group of Canadian Geese. I guess they are handsome birds, but they shit all over the neighborhood like a herd of dachshunds on a strict fish oil and flax seed diet. Ever since I was a kid I have not liked Canadian Geese. They are loud and obnoxious. They are ill-tempered. How a nation of (mostly) mild-mannered and incredibly nice people like the Canadians ever claim them is beyond me. They really should be called New Jersey Geese, or maybe Long Island Geese, oh-even better, Philadelphia Geese(city of brotherly love, my ass-you haven't done business there!)
Back on track...
I remember as a darling and precocious child of five years old, my mother would take me to the park often to feed the ducks. I loved feeding the ducks,(stay with me on this, I'll get to my point). The mallards and the mergansers, they were all so sublime, as they made that low, happy quacking noise as I fed them white bread. They would overcome their shyness and come up and take it from my hand. I was king of the ducks and they adored me, at long as the bread held out.
Then one day, the geese came up to get some of the bread. They started kicking the ducks out of the way, I think one of them had brass knuckles. They started hissing and scaring away all the polite little ducks,
I was a little scared, but I held out a big piece of bread in the palm of my hand, expecting them to gently grab it like my friends the ducks always did.
Instead, the ungrateful Hoser chomped down on my palm and took the bread and hissed at me afterwards! It was like him and the other geese were laughing at my pain...
"Honk, Honk, Honk,"
Being very advanced and self-possessed for my tender years, I shouted at the goose, "You Feathered bastard!! You come back here right now! I'll tear your beak off and use it for a close pin! Where the Hell did you get teeth at?!"
Of course, in my rage and still developing language skills, all my Mom heard was "AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!Mommy!! The bad ole goosey bit me!!"
As she kissed my boo-boo, I swore I would never trust another Canadian Goose again.
My customers remind me of the geese lately. I can hear them holding themselves back, just waiting until they can bite me, or honk and hiss at me. The thing is, like the Canadian Goose, they can't be stealthy. You never hear of ninjas employing stealth geese. They might make good watch dogs, but they would keep you up all night. Generally, Canadian Geese have a horrible personality, dominated by both overwhelming arrogance and meanness. Nobody ever keeps them as a pet and sleeps with them or talks about how loving and peaceful they are-that's because they are evil-evil-evil.
I have a lot of customers that are like the mallards, just a joy to work with and I want to do whatever it takes to keep them happy. Then the geese call in. I can smell the anger and the distrust over the phone. They want to bite my hand so bad.
Two of them come to mind. One lady who had only invested once, and that didn't turn out so good when she lost Boardwalk, started calling and yelling at a newbie because they couldn't understand her half-ass "elite investor talk" and then when I tried to help her she yelled at me because the trade wasn't done yet. Just like a goose trying to bite my hand.
Monday, a "gentleman" called me and proceeded to yell at me because the price of a stock changed. "What are you going to do about this! I am not happy! I have lost a lot of money on margin because of this price change!". It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. It was about as effective as yelling at a policeman because you ran over one of those "Severe Tire Damage Will Occur" exit only ramps. All I could hear was "Honk!Honk!Honk! Hisss!"
I just wish I could play back the recording to people so they could know how stupid they sound, even how mean. When my customers honk and hiss at me, at that instance, I change back to that little kid who got his hand bit. I am not helping you anymore. You are not getting my bread, and I am going to tell my dad what you look like, come hunting season! He has a doubled-barreled, 12 gauge, loaded with #4 steel shot with your name on it! Come Sunday after next, we will sit down to a big goose dinner. Then you will be filled with all the bread you want-it's called Stove-Top-bitch!.
Ok...I feel a little better, and kind of hungry.
Thanks for reading,
Purgatory: A place of suffering and torment with an unknown duration. In Roman Catholic Theology-the place where the dead are purified from their sins.
By Rage Against The Machine