Words in a waltz

One of the penalties you've got to stomach for not signing up on the Do-Not-Call list is struggling to say ‘no,’ and that too, as politely as humanly possible, to geeks who try to woo you into a subscription for a newsdaily you have no use for except to blot the oil off ‘pooris,’ (okay, if I had to painstakingly Americanize it, I’d go with deep-fried wheatflour crepes) or a vacation to a place that you’ve either already been to, or are too broke to afford. I have tried many a time to ward these telemarketers off, in vain, but it is with sheer pride that I divulge I’ve rid of some with a dose of gracious goading. All in all, I have had some utterly amusing experiences with these sales callers, for instance, when I was once perceived as a teenager with no decisive power of her own, whatsoever, and asked if my parents were home. But there’s been worse, here’s how:

Me: Hello?
Her: Helloo…hallooooo…er…hellooooo ma’m, I am calling frem the X-magazine uffice
Me: Yes?
Her: We are uffering a sepcripshun for $X a week for the furst X munths to all new custemoors…and…umf…
Me: Oh, that’s nice! But I’m really sorry, I’m not up for it right now, maybe another time.
Her: Ma’m? Wut you say? Halloooo ma’m…I am calling frem the X…
Me: Yes, I got you lady. I am really sorry, I am not quite interested in your offer for now. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?
Her: Wut! Wut you say! You spik eenglis?
Me: Yes, yes, lady. I DO (trying to hold on to the last few strings of my sanity)
Her: Wut, ma’m!! You spikking wut, I dunt get you…wut you say?
Me: Hey lady! I DO speak English and I s-a-i-d, I d-o-n-t h-a-v-e the tiiiiiime to read any magazine…so, there, sorry! (almost losing it…)
Her: Uh…you wut say ma’m, our uffer too goody, all custemoors taken in your area.
Me: Oh, I’m sure, but duh, sorry again…now if you don’t mind, I’d like to say bye!
Her: Hallooooo…ma’am…(feebly)

I, my friends, do speak some English, and it does not transcend the discerning powers of any of my American fellas, believe me. Well, at least when I say ‘let’s make a move,’ they do, in all their dervish spirit, shake a leg or two, understanding clearly that I don't, infact, mean 'let's go now.' So looking back, I wonder if I did the right thing by emphasizing my knowledge of the English language to this woman. Perhaps I should’ve burbled something in a dialect that would’ve been unfamiliar territory to her, and fairly indigenous to me.