"What time is it?"

I just made the ENTIRE LIFE of the MasterCard lady, who took my very polite call about my $1.08 finance charge, which may not sound like much to get one's thong in a wad about, but here on Planet Blonde, that's, like, one entire atom of gasoline. So I dialed, sweetly fuming, and she explained the charge, and I said, "Oh! I understand. Thank you," and there was this pause and then she goes, "Really? You mean it?! You're the FIRST PERSON EVER to understand that on the first explanation! Can you call back, like, every single day?" Then she lifts the phone away from her ear and she goes, "This girl understood the finance charge!" There was another fourteen minutes of telling me how awesome I was for understanding the finance charge, and finally, because God knows I hear how awesome I am all day long anyway, I had to cut her short and so I said, "Well, thank you for your help," and she said, "No, thank YOU, Miss Tink."

Lookit, I know that people, as a general rule, are stupid. In one of my worse Horrible Day Jobs, I used to fend off the loserly at Union Terminal, a converted train station largely known for its GIGANTIC-ASS SEVENTY FOOT CLOCK ON THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING. The information desk where I worked? Had a huge digital clock perched overhead AND a clock over my shoulder so that those of us standing DIRECTLY BENEATH this enormous, unmissable timetelling device didn't have to crane our necks off trying to figure out when lunch was coming. And you KNOW what question I got asked the most. Day after day. Hour. After. Frickin'. Hour.

Seriously? If a dyscalculiaic blonde who gets lost on a gokart track understands about the finance charge where the rest of the world has failed? We are in bigass trouble, my friends. Big, bigass trouble.