surfeit of surveys

I (we) have been waylaid by a surfeit of surveys.
Actually, only two have been phone-surveys, one at suppertime, leading me to expect a sales-pitch and consequent hang-up.
Who knows how many others never got through, or hung up in transit.
Yesterday (Friday, October 6) our phone rang twice, but when I answered it I got the dial-tone. It rung again, and this time nothing at all. I pushed a button; again nothing. I pushed another; again nothing. Finally it gave me the dial-tone.

Phone-survey #1 was probably from McDonalds. Allegedly it was about fast-food.
“When was the last time you patronized a fast-food outlet?”
“About three weeks ago,” I said.
“And what was it?”
“Taco Bell (BONG).”
“Have you ever heard of McCoffee?”
Thus began a long litany of every McCoffee McDonalds sells: 89 bazilyun; including McCappuccino, McSwill, and McMud.
As the surveyor paddled through his long list I was tempted to do the plaintive wail of Garrison Keillor: “can’t I just get a cup of coffee?”
But I knew saying so would just be a monkey-wrench.

Phone-survey #2 was about beverages.
“Have you drunk beer in the last few days?”
“No.”
“Wine?”
“No.”
”Hard spirits?”
“Never.”
“Energy-drinks with alcohol?”
“Never.”
“Wine-coolers?”
“Nope.”
“Bottled water?”
“Tap.”
“Thank you for your input, Mr. Hughes.” (A teetotaler; dread! How am I supposed to get zonked if he’s a teetotaler?)

There have been other surveys.
Hertz sent us one about our rental experience in Boston.
I commented about the clerk giving us erroneous tunnel-closings information, prompting a write-back that said heads would roll.
What I didn’t say anything about was directions from my brother that led us into the ozone.
“Take the first possible right-turn,” he said, when he probably should have said “turn right at the rotary.”
The first possible right-turn was onto a side-street that accessed a condo parking-lot.
He also said something about getting on Route 99 South, but there were no signs except for a sign to Route 99 — no direction. We therefore found ourselves on Route 99 North.
I tried turning around in a parking-lot hard by the smelly Boston Harbor (awash with sewage), attracting the attention of two security-guards nervously stroking their sidearms. Al Qeada in a Toyota Corolla.
“Oh yeah; we know that guy. Get yourself turned around. You’re headed for New England. Route 99 South is the other way.”
Linda thinks you may have given Elz different directions; that the directions you gave us were the way you would have gone.
Except you never noticed “the first possible right-turn” was into a condo parking-lot.
And it seems every receipt I get has a survey log-in: “Fill out our survey about your shopping-experience and qualify to win our drawing.”
Nope; pass. I ain’t wastin’ 10 more minutes when it already took 10 just to buy paper.