Butterfly Hates Time Share

Now, remember what it was like to honour words? To deliver promises? For civic mindedness and honesty? For efficacious communication and trust? For compensation of time and due reward.

Well obviously some people have forgotten. And since it is at my expense of time – and partial amusement if I really must admit -, then I say spare no mercy. My humour is only as potent as my wrath.

When I agree to take time off my busy schedule to attend a time-share, it’s not because I really give a shit about what they are trying to sell. You can be selling me tampons for all I care or Nike shoes to polio kids, and the only reason I’m there is because you are offering me something attractive to sit through an hour of me giving you a hard time.

You can’t hard sell me. I will buy what I want to, although I don’t always make the most sound choices, or sometimes $5 cup noodles sound too good a bargain to resist or maybe that one time I bought that sound system that is now still in the box.

It’s not like it was a convivial parade when I sat in that dingy office that would have made a cardboard box look like the Taj Mahal. Neither am I some gregarious youth looking for conversations with a novice trying to up sell me a program that made as much sense as heavy metal song lyrics.

So for sitting through 70 minutes, oh wait no, it was 90 minutes because I gave them so much problems with my questions, the company director actually had to tend to me himself, I think I fucking deserve my free accommodation and air ticket to Phuket.

What?! But Butterfly, you mean you didn’t get your promised gifts?

No shit Sherlocks! It says on the fucking voucher that I have to email my booking details to them, but I must have obviously missed out the part about the 'no reply will be given' fine print.

And here I was thinking I was going to start believing in free goods. Start trusting that perhaps there can be other free things in life, like sex, air, newspapers and STDs.

But because I am such a magnanimous person, so much so that my armpits sweat magnanimity and forgiveness like rain over the Amazon, I am willing to take the high road and give you fucking shitheads in that company a chance to redeem yourself.

I am giving you the benefit of doubt that your IT server might have crashed because there is a free chapatti food festival in India or re-runs of Slumdog Millionaire, so your help desk is not available to rectify the problem.

Or that perhaps Poca might have mistyped the email and God forbid, Hotmail has yet to prompt her of her mistake. Or that maybe you are just so overjoyed to see my booking reservations that your admin staff passed out from sheer excitement.

Whatever the case, I am going to re-send – for the 3^rd time. My gawd, three times. Not maybe people even get that many chances in life. You are so much luckier than the Jews at the Holocaust, or John McCain who will never be President.

So what do you do when you are given another chance by me? You don’t fuck it up. You read the damn email and you acknowledge the fucking booking. And if you have some time, you send me an apology letter and maybe a voucher for two free sundaes at MacDonalds.