Thank you T-shirt Hell.com....
Customer Disservice
"Hello and how may I provide you with excellent customer service?" Do these
words strike fear in your heart, too? There's nothing worse than trying to
get something done over the phone these day. And nothing sets my tits on
fire faster than when some oily stammering goat herder in New Delhi wants to
start off our conversation with something we both know is complete bullshit.
If they just had the courtesy to begin by saying, "how may I provide you
with barely acceptable customer service" at least we wouldn't have to start
off on the wrong foot. If you need to handle something over the phone, you
better pop in a porno and pack a lunch because it will take all fucking day.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. At this point you're nowhere near talking
to a person, yet. One time I went so long without getting a person on the
phone I ended up talking to a bloody volleyball. Unless that was Tom Hanks.
Yes, I ended up talking to Tom Hanks. Bor-ing. Anyway, before you get
any help you have to navigate through 35 levels of voicemail.
They always start with the same question. "For English, press 1: nachos
Espanol, sombrero numero dos." How the fuck did this happen? Last time I
checked this was America. And in America, no one speaks English, but
they're certainly not all jabbering in Spanish. And besides, how many
people in America actually have a Spanish phone with a numero dos on it?
Nice job setting up the voice mail by the way. God forbid you should press
'1' to get customer service. '1' is always some department that no one
could possibly want to speak to like, 'Resource Market Development'. How
do they get to be first? I blame the Spanish.
If you do manage to get the right department, then you have to punch in
every number associated with your life. Your 48 digit account number, your
social security number, your birthday, how many inches is your father's
cock, how many inches can your father take in the ass?
When you're finally through this maze; you used to get a human being. But
now you get a robot. Like I'm supposed to believe this robot wants to help
me? That sweet sounding robot just wants to find out where I live so it can
tear out my heart and stop me from fulfilling my destiny of leading the rag
tag army of human resistance fighters.
Never talk to the robot. Never do what the robot tells you to do. They
will eventually let you speak to one of the last humans tucked away in the
back: the ones they're saving for their robot zoo.
Although the human is generally no more help. Apparently, the robots have
lobotomized the humans so they can only read from a script. They're
waiting; slowly eating their steaming bowls of curry. They're waiting for
you to mention one or two key words so that they can give you directions on
something completely unrelated to what you asked them.
This is him: "Hi this is Steve (or some other phony American name). How
may I provide you with excellent customer service?"
This is me: "Hi Saptajit, thanks for helping me out."
Him: "Out? If your cable is out, please turn off your cable box."
Me: "Wait a second."
Him: "Second? If you'd like to add a second cable box you need the Sales
department. Please hold while I connect you.
Me: Damn you Saptajit! Don't make me kill your cow!
When they put you on hold they do one of two things. They play some
horrible easy listening music. This is a complete misnomer. This music is
anything but easy to listen to. They should call it "stab yourself in the
ears with an icepick to make it stop" music. Or, they play some
advertisement for the company (over the same crappy easy listening music)
telling you how happy they are to have some of your money and why you should
give them the rest of it.
When they transfer you., they always give you the phone number of the person
they're connecting you to, in case you're disconnected. It's 2005. How are
we still getting disconnected? There is no giant switchboard where they're
plugging and unplugging the lines into little holes? The telephone was
invented in 1876. I think transferring calls should be ready by now.
I eventually manage to get back to the Billing department. It's the same
guy. He now has no idea who I am. He needs to ask me all of my information
again. And then the dreaded question: what is your password?
That's right: five years ago when you signed up for this service, you
created a password. Now, I'm just trying to pay my bill. I know they have
to be careful in this age of identity theft and other nefarious schemes; but
are there really a lot of people impersonating me trying to settle up my
unpaid balance? Just wait until the West Africans get their hands on this
sweet scam. They'll use their unclaimed millions to pay for everything!
I never know what I used for my password and they won't give you a hint. So
now I'm giving Saptajit the passwords to every account I have. Now he can
read my email, access my bank account, and rent movies online. I find that
if I start insulting them at this point, instead of guessing passwords, they
eventually give in.
Me: "Hmmm? Is it, 'you suck?' Is that my password"
Him: "No."
Me: "Shitbrain? You're brain dead? Your head is full of sand and fleas?"
Him: "No, none of those."
Me: "You sister is the dirtiest slut in Calcutta whose cunt is filled with
the broken off penises of all of the lepers who've fucked her?"
Him: "(Sigh) It might be your mother's maiden name."
Me: "See? Was that so bad?"
Him: "Bad?" If your reception is bad you need Technical Services. Please
wait while I transfer your call."
I was going to go to India and kill Saptajit and his cow. I would tie him
to four different rickshaws and tear him to pieces. But there was a
problem with my ticket and I'm not going to call the airline. Soon
Saptajit, soon.
"Hello and how may I provide you with excellent customer service?" Do these
words strike fear in your heart, too? There's nothing worse than trying to
get something done over the phone these day. And nothing sets my tits on
fire faster than when some oily stammering goat herder in New Delhi wants to
start off our conversation with something we both know is complete bullshit.
If they just had the courtesy to begin by saying, "how may I provide you
with barely acceptable customer service" at least we wouldn't have to start
off on the wrong foot. If you need to handle something over the phone, you
better pop in a porno and pack a lunch because it will take all fucking day.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. At this point you're nowhere near talking
to a person, yet. One time I went so long without getting a person on the
phone I ended up talking to a bloody volleyball. Unless that was Tom Hanks.
Yes, I ended up talking to Tom Hanks. Bor-ing. Anyway, before you get
any help you have to navigate through 35 levels of voicemail.
They always start with the same question. "For English, press 1: nachos
Espanol, sombrero numero dos." How the fuck did this happen? Last time I
checked this was America. And in America, no one speaks English, but
they're certainly not all jabbering in Spanish. And besides, how many
people in America actually have a Spanish phone with a numero dos on it?
Nice job setting up the voice mail by the way. God forbid you should press
'1' to get customer service. '1' is always some department that no one
could possibly want to speak to like, 'Resource Market Development'. How
do they get to be first? I blame the Spanish.
If you do manage to get the right department, then you have to punch in
every number associated with your life. Your 48 digit account number, your
social security number, your birthday, how many inches is your father's
cock, how many inches can your father take in the ass?
When you're finally through this maze; you used to get a human being. But
now you get a robot. Like I'm supposed to believe this robot wants to help
me? That sweet sounding robot just wants to find out where I live so it can
tear out my heart and stop me from fulfilling my destiny of leading the rag
tag army of human resistance fighters.
Never talk to the robot. Never do what the robot tells you to do. They
will eventually let you speak to one of the last humans tucked away in the
back: the ones they're saving for their robot zoo.
Although the human is generally no more help. Apparently, the robots have
lobotomized the humans so they can only read from a script. They're
waiting; slowly eating their steaming bowls of curry. They're waiting for
you to mention one or two key words so that they can give you directions on
something completely unrelated to what you asked them.
This is him: "Hi this is Steve (or some other phony American name). How
may I provide you with excellent customer service?"
This is me: "Hi Saptajit, thanks for helping me out."
Him: "Out? If your cable is out, please turn off your cable box."
Me: "Wait a second."
Him: "Second? If you'd like to add a second cable box you need the Sales
department. Please hold while I connect you.
Me: Damn you Saptajit! Don't make me kill your cow!
When they put you on hold they do one of two things. They play some
horrible easy listening music. This is a complete misnomer. This music is
anything but easy to listen to. They should call it "stab yourself in the
ears with an icepick to make it stop" music. Or, they play some
advertisement for the company (over the same crappy easy listening music)
telling you how happy they are to have some of your money and why you should
give them the rest of it.
When they transfer you., they always give you the phone number of the person
they're connecting you to, in case you're disconnected. It's 2005. How are
we still getting disconnected? There is no giant switchboard where they're
plugging and unplugging the lines into little holes? The telephone was
invented in 1876. I think transferring calls should be ready by now.
I eventually manage to get back to the Billing department. It's the same
guy. He now has no idea who I am. He needs to ask me all of my information
again. And then the dreaded question: what is your password?
That's right: five years ago when you signed up for this service, you
created a password. Now, I'm just trying to pay my bill. I know they have
to be careful in this age of identity theft and other nefarious schemes; but
are there really a lot of people impersonating me trying to settle up my
unpaid balance? Just wait until the West Africans get their hands on this
sweet scam. They'll use their unclaimed millions to pay for everything!
I never know what I used for my password and they won't give you a hint. So
now I'm giving Saptajit the passwords to every account I have. Now he can
read my email, access my bank account, and rent movies online. I find that
if I start insulting them at this point, instead of guessing passwords, they
eventually give in.
Me: "Hmmm? Is it, 'you suck?' Is that my password"
Him: "No."
Me: "Shitbrain? You're brain dead? Your head is full of sand and fleas?"
Him: "No, none of those."
Me: "You sister is the dirtiest slut in Calcutta whose cunt is filled with
the broken off penises of all of the lepers who've fucked her?"
Him: "(Sigh) It might be your mother's maiden name."
Me: "See? Was that so bad?"
Him: "Bad?" If your reception is bad you need Technical Services. Please
wait while I transfer your call."
I was going to go to India and kill Saptajit and his cow. I would tie him
to four different rickshaws and tear him to pieces. But there was a
problem with my ticket and I'm not going to call the airline. Soon
Saptajit, soon.