The John Deer Tractor Blade Fiasco

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Yesterday, I had been over in Maysville, Kentucky, completing the forms for a pension I was going to receive. After that, I drove over to get new brake shoes installed on my car.

         You park, go inside, order what you want done, give them the keys to the car and wait till the work is done. I had, without thinking, left a lot of important papers on the console of the car.

         This evening, I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating my supper, when the telephone rang. Normally, I unplug that dang thing while I am eating, but today I hadn't; to me, some fried potatoes, coleslaw, cornbread and pinto beans are more important than an unsolicited telephone call. But I went over to the telephone and answered it.

         A fellow on the other end of the line asked if it was me he was talking to. Politely, I let that mistake go. Then, he started trying to explain why he had called.

         According to him, the John Deere tractor blade I had ordered had arrived at his office and his company needed my address to forward it to me. Huh?

         I asked him why his company didn't already have my address, since most companies take down your name, address and telephone number when you are a customer.

          For about thirty seconds, nothing but static spit itself out of that wire. Then, he cleared his throat and said, "The secretary misplaced your address, sir."

         By this time, I was missing those home-fried potatoes and coleslaw I had abandoned on the kitchen table to listen to this fool.

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While I was formulating my reply, I looked over at the kitchen table and noticed steam was still rising from my fried potatoes. I don't care much for cold fried potatoes. I reckoned I could suffer a few more minutes on the telephone . . .

         Directly, already knowing that fellow was on a phishing expedition, I relayed the bad news to him.

         "Mister, whoever you are, I have never owned a John Deere tractor in my life and I did not order a part for a tractor I don't own."

         I could almost see that fellow's face becoming slack-jawed, but he hung in there. . . " Well," he said. "We can't deliver the part without your address."

         "How about this, suppose I drive down to your office and pick it up? Do you reckon that would work?"

         A person might think I reached through that telephone and slapped that fellow silly, the way he carried on then.

          I snickered.

         Just when I thought he was out for the count, that fellow miraculously recovered.

         "Well," he said. "We'll just dump it alongside the road somewhere."

         "I don't care what you do with it, but I have a suggestion. Why don't you turn it into a horizontal position and stick it as far up your hind end as you can get it?"

         That was the end of our conversation. That fellow hung up on me, and I went back to the kitchen table to finish my supper.