Phone Monkey: Fish Hoofs and Other Observations

Hello, my name is this. I’m calling about that. Please. Thank you. Goodbye. That’s pretty good phone etiquette, at least in the 21st century, so I’m not going to press my luck. Mostly–and by mostly, I mean over fifty percent–people are at least halfway decent over the phone. Not good. Not bad. Somewhere around a C or C+, if I had to give a grade. Of course, there are the A+ people, to whom we almost don’t like talking, because they ruin the curve. And there are the maniacs who curse, threaten, belittle, or harass us–you know, the F- crowd, the yang to the yin.

And then there are the calls that just take your breath away.

Fish Hoofs

Um, yeah. I ordered and the guy, I don’t know what’s wrong with him, y’know what I’m sayin’, I couldn’t even enjoy my meal because I’m like, well, “Am I really eatin’ chicken?” ’cause he’s tryin’ to say that… that fish ‘n’ chips… I–I never had no–I don’t eat certain certain types of fish. I eat cod and haddock, and he said that’s haddock, and that’s a lie. That fish is not haddock. It’s… it’s… I don’t know what it is. It tastes just like some fish I tasted for the first time from Deli Max, I remember, and I was like, ‘Oh! What is this! It’s like a tunafish or somethin’ or maybe it could be tilapia. I don’t know. It’s not haddock. And he’s tryin’ to tell me, “Come and see. I’ll tell you on the package it says haddock.” That is not haddock. You know, I mean, like just be up front and say, “No, it’s not haddock. It’s some other fish.” And, you know, I could deal with that, but he’s sayin’ it’s haddock. I’ve tasted haddock. That’s all I eat, is haddock and cod. But when you say it’s haddock when it’s not haddock, you know, you kinda question, like, is the chicken chicken, or are you eatin’ rabbit’s feet or somethin’ like that. It just, you know, makes you not really wanna eat, you know, appreciate the meal. You know, you question everything. He shouldn’t be lyin’ like that, and, um, just be truthful and say it’s not haddock. And I asked him if I could get the money back for the haddock, he was like, “No.” I mean for the plate. Because… it was just ridiculous, I mean, I don’t know what type of fish that is. It’s just… it’s like a tunafish or somethin’. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t like to eat stuff that I don’t what it is, because some fishes have fins on it–or whatever–hoofs, or whatever, and I don’t eat fish like that.

[Finally given an breath to interject, the phone monkey begins speaking, but–]

Like red snapper… I don’t eat… like red snapper? Not red snapper… like catfish or somethin’. I don’t eat fish like that ’cause they have… catfish have… whaddo they have, fins on ’em or somethin’? Or they have somethin’ on them that there’s fishes I don’t eat. I only eat fish that don’t have any things like, um, you know, certain… I think it’s a fin or somethin’. But I know I don’t eat–I don’t like that–him tellin’ me that it’s haddock and it’s not haddock. I know what haddock is. He said I could come and look at–and, and he’d show me the package. You don’t have to show me no package. I know what type of fish. If you’ve eaten cod and haddock all your life, you know–this fish tastes like a mackerel, and it tastes like this fish that I did not like, was from Deli Max, and he said it was tilapia so I told him I would try tilapia, and I tried tilapia, and I tried it and I didn’t like it. Ok, I didn’t like it. But, um, I… you know. But he’s sayin’ it’s haddock, and it’s not haddock, and he’s sayin’ that, um, I can’t return it. I wanted to return it because it’s not whatever fish it is, it’s just not, like, fish like edible fish for me, ’cause it was dried up and it was–I don’t know what it is, and he’s not bein’ honest about it. If you’re gonna sell somethin’, be truthful and tell people what it is.

[The rest is pretty much standard customer service stuff. The phone monkey assures her it’s haddock, reiterates that the guy at the restaurant says she can come look at the bag of fish, that she is not getting a refund, and then she gets in the last word and hangs up.]

I impart to you that bizarre tale in order to point out something important about the customer service people you will speak with as a customer.

Despite our daydreams and fantasies of a better life, we are not omniscient.

Remember the good phone etiquette I mentioned earlier? Always start with some version of hello. Caller ID is an amazingly useful tool, but it’s still a limited technology. We’re a small internet-based company, not the NSA, and we generally only know who you are and what the hell you’re carrying on about if you tell us first. Like Bruce Willis said, “Not yaddayaddayaddayaddayayoo. Short. Korbin. Korbin Dallas.” Brevity may be the key to wit, but it’s also the key to getting anything done.

I haven’t yet been able to pin point whether it’s our position as the complaint department, a product of being based on the internet, or just the way we speak to each other in 21st-century America, but people’s inability to speak with each other like humans is appalling. Not only is directionless ranting a normal occurrence, but hang-ups are commonplace. I don’t have any direct line to old-school complaint department people, but I would guess that before e-commerce, hanging up on someone was once considered rude. Now, a pretty regular call proceeds much like the following: please give me this, got it, done, click. Acting like a cold, consuming robot is a pretty cynical way to go through life.

But this is all touchy feely stuff, anyway. After a few years, a good phone monkey feels nothing at all. The real lesson to take away from this is that the person on the other end of whatever problem you have is quite likely the lowest person on the ladder. The reason you are ranting and jabbering at this person in particular is because no one else will put up with it. The more responsibility we get, the greater the gap between us and the public. After you start earning a certain sum, the unspoken rule is that you don’t earn that money just so people can treat you like garbage for eight hours a day. It’s pretty much the equivalent of paying one’s dues, except that some people keep paying and paying and paying.

On the bright side…

oh.

I’m So Tense

I’ve been tempted over the last few weeks to post about the horrible things customers do and say. I’ve also wanted to air out grievances regarding terrible and (borderline) criminal management practices, and the terrible toll that customer service takes on one’s physical and mental health. In short, I want to whine. But why whine when there are so many beautiful things out there, just waiting for someone to notice?

Take, for example, the following line from an email I received today:

“It always has been happened.”

Whaaaaa? you say. Or perhaps I’m being an ass for making fun of someone’s ESL issues. Oh, here goes the jaded know-it-all, right? Perish the thought! As a verb tense, this is a thing of beauty, so let’s cut it open and see how it ticks.

It happened. Once. At some point in time, possibly never again.

It always happened. Routine instances. Points on a line, most often in conjunction with another event. Here. Here. Here. Here and here and here. Up until now, at which point, for narrative reference, it may be happening.

It has happened. At least once, though possible more than once. It may also be “it happened” with “has” as an emphasis, though this would be less formal, more colloquial.

It has been happening. From some point in the past up until and including the present moment. Sometimes incidental, sometimes continual. Typically, set in motion by an outside actor.

It is. Exists now. It was. Before now. It has been. Before–could be again–might even still be.

It has been happening. Continually, from some past point through the present moment.

It has been happened. Before. Passive voice. The connotation is that an outside, unnamed force made the past event or identical events happen.

It always has been happened. In conjunction with other events in the past, the above outside force made it happen over and over again, the most recent instance terminating just before the present moment. Probably, it will have happened again in the near future.

Additionally, it is a permanent affixing of the past tense on a moveable event. The event will never happen. In fact, it never seems to happen. It has always been and will always be finished before it begins. Time, in most other tenses, is the reason for the tense’s existence. We unravel time into a string, and place on its length an object or objectified chunk of time. In this tense, we drop objects like marbles into the malleable mass of jelly that is time. They may move with the internal currents to new locations in time, but inside they always have been what they were.

Hey, at least it is not always having been happening. Unless it’s Groundhog Day.

Okay

Here I am, taking your requests. It’s a busy day, but I have a moment. Can I help you?

Okay.

That’s good to hear. Your request seems simple. Would you like to give me the details, so I can put them into the system?

Okay.

Great. It seems there’s a considerable sum of money involved here. Would you like a copy of the transaction details, for your records?

That’s okay.

It’s okay?

Okay.

Yes?

It’s okay.

So yes, then, or no?

That’s okay.

No?

Okay.

Okay. Will that be all?

Yes, thank you.

 

Darmok

The last thing I want to do is belittle someone for not speaking English well. I don’t speak it well, and my roots go back to the American Revolution, or so I just learned. But there are times in this job that make one feel under appreciated. All our orders go through as text. This is precisely so restaurant staff, who may or may not speak English, can at least see what they need to make. Occasionally, however, there are issues, and a we will need to speak with someone. We have people on staff who can speak Spanish, and I can get by with minimal broken Mandarin, but that leaves a lot of languages out, and so we have conversations like the following.

“A customer from last night ordered the seafood udon, and asked for no calamari.”

“Yes. No calamari. We no calamari. Japanese restaurant. Seafood only, no only vegetable combination.”

“This udon was served with only calamari.”

“No. No calamari. Restaurant only seafood combination. Calamari tomorrow. Tonight, calamari. No send order today.”

“I’m sorry. I meant they received their dish incorrectly.”

“Oh!”

“Ok, so the customer ordered the seafood udon.”

“Ok.”

“And they asked for no calamari–“

“Yes. No. Calamari Japanese restaurant. Today. Tomorrow. Send calamari, no vegetable combination. Seafood combination calamari.”

[fast forward 10 minutes]

“Do you understand?”

“Calamari. No calamari. Yesterday.”

Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra.

So, when you ask your customer service rep to help you with something you haven’t tried doing already, this is likely the kind of interaction they’re having while you drum your fingers on the table and think of how the Better Business Bureau should hear of this terrible customer service.

Pax Per Bellum

It’s been a rough month.

Partially, this is my own doing, because I’m kind of a sucker for unpleasant knowledge. It used to be harmless fun. What happens if I drink this? Why is this substance illegal? Surely, a drop like this won’t kill me. Let’s try!

Now, I’ve transitioned into reading the news. All of it. From everywhere. What happens if I search for this? Who are these people? What does this really look like? Is it really as bad as they say?

Call it stubborn curiosity, morbid fascination, or intellectual imperative. I’m not naive, just apparently a glutton for punishment. Saying that used to be a flippant little remark. Yes, I have some deep-seated inability to enjoy happy things, and look how I surround myself with small miseries! Isn’t it adorable?

But I got burned.

In a misguided, go-straight-to-the-source attempt to learn who these ISIS/ISIL fellows are, I watched one of their recruiting/propaganda videos (no, not the one you’re thinking of–I still have some self respect) that’s been floating around on the web and, well… I know now. And no, I’m not telling you where to find it. I’m sitting here in my room, telling you what this disease feels like. If you want to know as badly as I did, go catch it. Just not from me, ok?

To say that it is violent is to call the ocean wet. And “savage” doesn’t seem to fit with the emotional calculus and professional video editing evident in its creation. It’s the kind of cold, smiling brutality that reminds the viewer (or at least the viewer who isn’t sympathetic to the cause) that the human body is just meat. It makes one’s joints ache and stomach churn. And yet, the video has a twisted kind of appeal. No matter how badly you want to look away, there’s something in it that’s carefully designed to tap into that most base of animal instincts inside each and every one of us. Militant or not, sympathetic to the cause or not, we all get a mainline boot of fight-or-flight.

But this video wasn’t designed to scare me or recruit me. This was directed toward potential allies and enemies in the Middle East. As a terror tool, the effect is obvious. Carnage–real carnage–is a terrifying thing. But as a recruitment tool, it almost seems counterintuitive. In America, our military recruitment propaganda is a lot of big ships, fast jets, and sneaky commandos sneaking places. Maybe this is because we haven’t really fought a war we needed to fight in a very long time. But we’re also a democracy, more or less, and rely on our freedom of choice: do we fight, or do we not.

In the places where ISIS is getting a foothold, however, there is often no longer a choice, but a dilemma. If you fight against ISIS, implies the video, well, see this building where guys are fighting against us, and see how we’re giving them no quarter and transforming them into these macabre piles of corpses and heads here? Yeah, they’re you and everyone you know. But if you fight for ISIS, you get to not be in that pile of corpses. See? Everyone’s happy. Well, except for those other guys, but they’re dead now, so they don’t have an opinion anymore. It’s a hell of a way to create a utopia.

This makes American dude-bro hawkishness seem downright civilized. We glorify armed men as heroes, forgetting that “greatness is based primarily on values that we abhor.” Okay, maybe a quote from a confessed spy and traitor wasn’t the best choice there, but the man had a point. If we consider ourselves to be a great nation, we need to be sure that the greatness is coming from values that we admire and would want to foster in others.

With recent, high-profile incidences of police militarization in the US, and with increased reportage of excessive force and unnecessary police violence toward unarmed citizens in places like Ferguson, MO, there is a temptation to draw connections toward the brutality seen in other places around the world. Obviously, the ISIS fanatics and our own police forces have very little in common, other than being armed and primarily male. But they also share an increasingly us-versus-them attitude.

To protect Americans from terrorism, the federal government donated surplus military equipment to local police departments across the country. How grenade launchers, automatic rifles and APCs would stop something as carefully planned and under-the-radar as the 9/11 attacks is a mystery, but it made people feel safer, so that’s good, right? Maybe not. Here’s a favorite quote of mine from HBO’s The Wire:

This drug thing, this ain’t police work. No, it ain’t. I mean, I can send any fool with a badge and a gun up on them corners and jack a crew and grab vials. But policing? I mean, you call something a war and pretty soon everybody gonna be running around acting like warriors. They gonna be running around on a damn crusade, storming corners, slapping on cuffs, racking up body counts. And when you at war, you need a fucking enemy. And pretty soon, damn near everybody on every corner is your fucking enemy. And soon the neighborhood that you’re supposed to be policing, that’s just occupied territory.

–Maj. Howard “Bunny” Colvin, Season 3, Episode 10 “Reformation”

The point of this, if not obvious, is that when you give police departments military hardware, and every small town has a tactical unit, don’t be surprised when they get tempted to use it. It also draws the line between soldiering and policing. In fact, the Posse Comitatus Act expressly forbids “military involvement in civilian affairs” unless called upon by Congress to do so, which is why military bomb disposal units, but not drone operators, can work with local law enforcement. This is largely due to the skill set that separates the military from the police. The goal of a police department is to hold a community together, whereas the goal of the military is generally to take communities apart. The militarization of police forces, and the warrior mentality that accompanies it, negates that separation and creates the situation Bunny describes, in which ordinary citizens are treated like “a fucking enemy.” It’s hard to call someone a peace officer when they’re loaded to bear with weapons of war.

We’ve had a pax per bellum mentality about a lot of things: terrorism, drugs, disease, hunger, poverty, and cancer. We do this with the erroneous confidence that through war on these things–meaning their eventual elimination–we can achieve peace. ISIS, too, wants to achieve peace through war, but what they’re searching for is ideological uniformity. Given the complexity of human nature, uniformity is a pipe dream. Even if they succeed in setting up whatever kind of society they’re trying to build, the kind of brutal intolerance for differences of opinion will eventually cause them to implode.

Of course, Ferguson isn’t Syria, and the police aren’t ISIS, but war is war: divisive and singleminded.

Peace is balance. These things are going to be with us for a very long time, and in many arenas it may serve us better to police when we can and war when we have to.

My Summer Vacation, Part III: Flying High With Ms. Biscuit

Manila. We were just cleaning up after one mess, when another fell from the sky. Unless you’ve been vacationing in your fortress of solitude for the past month, you’ve probably heard every bit of news about the Malaysian Airlines flight shot down over Ukraine, so I won’t go into it much, except to say that boarding our own flight, prefixed with “MH,” there was a definite chill in the air aside from the blast freezer that is Filipino air conditioning. It was quite apparent that everyone was doing everything they could to think about anything but high-altitude death.

Everyone, that is, except for one woman.

Let me digress for one moment here. Air travel, in general, sucks. Before being allowed anywhere near the aircraft, there are queues, scans, queues, more scans, queues, questions, queues, and, if you happen to be flying in the US, the surrender of dignity and the very real possibility of nudity. And of course, there are more queues.

But once you’re up in the air, flying doesn’t need to be a horrible experience. It’s not the subway, where the accepted method of communicating with your neighbor is keeping your mouth shut and your eyes on the floor or some other inanimate object. In fact, airplanes are one of the few vehicles in which turning to your neighbor and attempting conversation is still almost universally considered not weird.

Almost.

It was about 20 or 30 minutes into our flight, right around the time when those who were going to try and catch a nap on the four-hour flight were getting comfortable. A loud voice popped my comfortable bubble of pleasure, just as I was settling into a book. It wasn’t the tone that screams danger–just the kind that indicates that the four hours are about to feel like six.

“Rosemary! Rosemary! You have to try these biscuits! My children love them!” the woman crowed from the row behind us.

And so it began. Demands for biscuits and drinks came first, quickly followed by an analysis of the crash of MH17, particularly the fact that many, many AIDS researchers had been on board. If there is one thing that nervous passengers trapped in a flying metal cylinder six miles up do not want to hear, it is an analysis of a recently doomed flight from the same airline. People were turning around, giving her the evil eye, but some part of her brain interpreted “potential angry mob” as “rapt audience.” And in a sense, we were. She was so loud that almost everyone within three rows had their airline-issued headphones on. And even then, we were captive witnesses to her life story, as told to Rosemary from one middle seat, across the aisle, to another middle seat.

She has three kids: two daughters and a son. One daughter is 27 not married, and worked for Microsoft in Singapore, but moved back to the Philippines. Her mother, of course, wants her to get married, but she (or her mother) is having trouble finding someone at her level.

And then, before launching into the story of her own life, she wanted more biscuits.

She got married at 21 in London. “I was born Hindu, but in 2008, God touched me, and I was born again.” I got that part through a loud fight scene in the movie Ip Man, which I’d thrown on because reading was a fool’s errand. The guy next to me turned to me and we shared a moment. No words were spoken, but we both knew what we wanted to ask: “Now show us on this doll: where did God touch you?”

The story of her religious revelation and conversion to Christianity (a marvelous topic on which to crow loudly while on a plane returning to a Muslim country, by the way) continued unabated for as long as the biscuits lasted. Mercifully, they ran out quickly, and she flagged the cabin crew down for another hit.

“We’re sorry, but we have no more biscuits.” No more?! No more. Just three. No more. Okay, just one, then. “Ma’am, we have run out of bisuits?” But couldn’t they go back and check, pretty please. No. Why? There are none left. It took a delegation of cabin crew to confirm that there were, indeed, no more god damned biscuits, so please shut up about them already. Rebuffed, Ms. Biscuit turned to the topic of bodily functions.

Rosemary has knee problems, and so did Ms. Biscuit, until she started taking something called MSN. I may have changed my mind about her if I thought she had been injecting the Internet into her knees. But nope. No NSA geeks tapping her lower extremities. Oh well.

As we descended into Kuala Lumpur, Ms. Biscuit asked Rosemary to look her up in Indonesia because clearly they had a spiritual connection. As did we all–at least with each other. The level of hostility toward this woman was incredibly tempered, considering how long she had held us all captive. On a flight back from Laos, friends of ours (not terribly inclined toward hyperbole) were witness not to Jesus, but to an epic fight between a German woman and a Malay man after the woman politely asked a group of first-time flyers to please stop praying so loud because it was freaking people out. The man took offense and launched into the woman with a tsunami of invective. The crew apparently tried to calm the man down, but he threatened to kick everyone’s asses, and shook his fist in righteous anger. The woman cowered and broke down sobbing, and the two were separated, the woman moved to the front and the man to the back.

The point is that it could have been a whole lot worse. The B story of this is that on almost any flight in the US, this woman would have been asked to not shout across the aisle, and if she didn’t stop, would probably have been gagged and bound in a very not-sexy way. So maybe we need more doms working for the airlines. No whips, just good knot work.

My Summer Vacation, Part II: Food and Stuff

[I made an edit to my last post. Apparently, the video I had didn’t embed, and I didn’t notice until Trisha pointed it out to me. I’ve put a link in the text.]

On one of my days off (it’s always a working vacation), before Typhoon Glenda hit, I went to the Yummy Eats 2014 food festival. I went primarily to pick up handcrafted, thick-cut bacon from Mad Meats, but once you have a bag of meat, there’s a tendency to start a collection. After all, what good is meat if you don’t have cheese? And what good is cheese if you don’t have artisanal crackers? And so on. I didn’t get a lot of good pictures from the festival, but the following are the ones I thought were worth sharing.

Cream cheeses flavors with herbs and garlic. Very good, but we forgot about them and left the jars I bought in the Philippines.

Pouf! Marshmallow Creme. It came in three flavors: original, Oreo, and cookies and cream. I tried the latter, and it was delicious, but I didn’t think I could transport a jar of it safely back to Malaysia in my baggage.

Chicharrones. Deep fried pork rinds (pork skin). Absolutely delicious.

A Game of Thrones cake!

There were many more booths, one with a lasagna that I loved, but alas, I left my festival guide behind, and can’t remember the names of the vendors.

As always, the food in the Philippines was ridiculously good across the board.

Stay tuned for Part III, in which I drop some helpful tips for not being “that person” on an airplane.

My Summer Vacation, Part I: My First Typhoon

Now that family time is winding down, I thought I’d get back on the horse, writing-wise, and share a few moments from the last two weeks in the Philippines. I’m also going to call the 60-Day Blogging Challenge a loss. I didn’t write every day for 60 days, and even though those days were at the end, when things got super busy, it’s a bit late to ret-con the whole thing as a hiatus. I got close, though, so that’s something. Anyway, enough wallowing.

My First Typhoon

As some people may know, The Philippines got hit with a mid-size typhoon, which, according to most accounts could have been a lot worse.

Here’s a video I took of the winds outside.

The power had gone out, and I was trying to work, using a mobile WiFi device, but service was spotty, especially as cell towers went down, or when flying debris battered them into a wiry pulp. During one service outage, I took the above video, and then, when I’d moved upstairs, I snapped the following picture as one tree began to disintegrate.

 

The damage in this particular neighborhood was light: missing roof tiles and shingles, several downed trees, and a couple crushed fences. But a quick excursion into the city proved that the storm had been somewhat stronger than first thought.

Windows in a nearby high-rise were blown out, and the roof of a hotel (not pictured) was partially destroyed. At one point during the early hours of the storm, something oblong and orange flew by, caromed off the upper wall of the house, and disappeared down the road. I’m almost certain we were hit by a mango, though there remain skeptics. It is possible, nay likely, that those windows fell victim to other such projectiles.

Due to the high volume of such storms, the city has taken to having billboards that can roll up and be stored on site. If the advertisement isn’t stowed in time, it can act like a sail and pull the whole structure down with it. Of course, some of these frames are old, have been through several storms already, and are ripe for the picking.

 

Trees like the above and below littered the streets, both in Manila proper and especially in the suburbs, where larger trees caught the wind and toppled over, often taking street signs and chunks of the sidewalk or road with them.

  

 As soon as the winds had died down, reconstruction and debris clearing began, but it turns out, some of the funds going toward disaster recovery are held up due to investigations into corruption and pork-barrel politics. Oops.

Stay tuned for Part II, the lighter, fluffier side of this trip.

Back in the Philippines

I’ve been a little remiss about getting the last few days of the 60-Day Blogging Challenge wrapped up. I should have started earlier, so that the last days of it weren’t a scramble of international travel and family business. Oh well. I’ll try to get the last posts banged out over the next few days.

My future daughter-in-law had her baptism today, something that was, for me, a first. I went to Catholic high school, and have been to full and half Catholic marriages, but am not myself Catholic, and have never been to a real live baptism of a real live baby. Aside from the baptizee soiling herself upon application of the appropriate fluids (I bet the priest would have regretted talking about how the child should be naked as a symbol of rebirth, had the parents opted to go that route), the event was about as smooth as could be expected, which, if you don’t know what to expect, is a rather odd thing to say–but here we are.

The next day or so should be somewhat busy, what with our engagement party and related festivities, so updates may be brief, but they will be forthcoming, even if I am not.

Also, I needed to get this out of my <span style=”font-family: baptismal;”>system</span>.

Mahjong

In preparation for our upcoming trip to the Philippines, my fiancee and I are teaching my parents how to play mahjong. It’s a fairly straightforward game, even though its rules can change slightly, depending on where you’re playing. The general idea is to win by having four groups of three and a pair. The groups of three must be of the same suit (Balls, Sticks, Characters, etc) and can either be a run of consecutive numbers or three of a kind. There are exceptions and wild-ish tiles, like the Winds, of course, but their use follows the general set of rules. It’s a little like poker, gin, and Go Fish all rolled into one, and played with thumb-size tiles instead of cards.

Theoretically, this is an easy game to learn, once you memorize the Chinese numbers. Little did I know how difficult it would be to differentiate balls from sticks. My parents are artists, but the ball and stick thing is a huge hurdle. We’re working on it, though. Also confusing are the Chinese characters, particularly for the Winds, which to the Western eye can look very much the same at a quick glance. Past that, though, it’s just like any other game–symbols and strategy.

My mother, against whom it took me many years to defeat in Scrabble, has now begun aggressively cleaning up. I’m beginning to think she is only pretending not to know what the difference is between balls and sticks.

We got sharked.