Here’s the thing: I spend my mornings delivering hot meals and decency to old folks who actually deserve both. Meals on Wheels — the noble front line where compassion meets burnt-out transmission fluid. I hand out food, chat a little, make sure Mrs. Peterson hasn’t decided to put her cat in the microwave “just to dry it faster,” and try to keep the universe balanced between kindness and chaos. And then some telemarketer slithers through the phone lines to destroy everything good about the day.

There’s nothing quite like walking into a senior’s home, seeing their face light up because you brought lunch and conversation, only to find out they just gave their Social Security number to “Officer Steve from the Federal Grants Department.” I want to strangle someone with a landline cord. These people survived world wars, raised families, paid taxes, and now their twilight years are being eaten alive by guys sitting in basement cubicles pretending to be Medicare representatives. Somewhere between “How are you today?” and “We just need your bank routing number,” humanity died quietly.

Do these scammers not have mothers? Or maybe they do, and they already scammed them too. I’d like to believe karma’s out there somewhere with a clipboard, but at this rate, karma’s probably on hold with tech support trying to report a scam call. I swear, half the world’s criminal enterprise seems to involve robocalls and pretending to fix printers.

I’ve thought about getting even. Oh, the fantasies I’ve had. Building some kind of elaborate revenge hotline where every scammer who calls gets trapped in an endless loop of hold music and “your call is very important to us.” I’d pipe in the sound of dial-up internet, just to watch them suffer. Sadly, my probation officer (okay, fine, my conscience) says that’s not legal. Apparently, “vigilante telecom justice” is frowned upon.

You know what’s the worst? These scammers don’t even try anymore. Half of them sound like they’re reading from a cereal box. “Sir, this is the Social Security Office calling about your number.” Really? Which one? I’ve got five. Pick one.

The elderly are polite, that’s their weakness. They still think answering the phone is a social obligation. They don’t ghost numbers; they knit them sweaters. So I tell them: if it’s important, they’ll leave a voicemail. If it’s a scam, they’ll call again before you can finish your soup.

Some days, I fantasize about creating an army of grandmas trained in phone warfare — each armed with sarcasm, hearing aids turned to “stun,” and a strong cup of tea. The first wave hits the scammers with Bible verses, the second with questions about their grandchildren, and by the third, the scammers are confessing their sins and applying for real jobs.

Until that glorious day, I’ll keep doing what I do. I’ll deliver meals, I’ll check blood pressure, and I’ll remind my clients that if someone calls asking for money, they should hang up faster than I can say “press one to unsubscribe.”

And if any scammer happens to be reading this: I hope your phone battery dies in the middle of your next commission pitch, your headset gets tangled in your moral compass, and every robocall you make is redirected straight into an IRS training seminar.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a pot roast to deliver and another elderly hero to protect from the dark arts of “extended car warranties.”