The courier service my workplace uses is a small one, and nearly every time I call to arrange a pick-up, I reach the same dispatcher. After I give him our firm's account number, he asks "To whom am I speaking to?" This . . . this profane utterance, with its redundant "to", is uttered in a voice I can best liken to the auditory version of velour with a thick layer of mayonnaise on it. He thinks it's classy, boy, that elegant phrasing. He's so sure of it he coos the offending query like it's too sexy for him to say without letting his eyes drift closed, like I'm going to shiver luxuriantly at his soft verbal touch. Then, after he oleaginously asks to whom he is speaking to, I must continue the conversation without whinnying, seal-barking or otherwise expressing my displeasure. Someday it will just be too much.