Went out to dinner with my brother last night. It's always annoying to get poor service when you go to a restaurant, but for my money, hands down the most irritating aspect of said poor service is not having my drink refilled in a timely fashion.
I'm the kind of guy who's constantly washing down my meal with my beverage. I very much dislike the sensation of thirst. So on the one hand, maybe I require a modicum of extra attention as a restaurant patron. On the other hand...you're a waitress. It's not that big a goddamn deal to check up on me every 15 minutes. In fact, it's your job.
Last night I ordered a beer with my pizza. As I got near the end of it, I started getting anxious. No one had brought me a complimentary glass of water, which usually serves as a backup beverage in case you run out of your first one. So I was walking this tightrope of liquid rationing, like a soldier on the battlefield with a light canteen, and I still had a whole slice left.
This is my biggest pet peeve of eating out: having to guesstimate how and when I should take my few precious remaining sips, each one smaller than its predecessor. Totally stresses me out and sucks the enjoyment out of the meal. The whole point of going out to eat and spending all this money is so you can be catered to. Taken care of. Now, in this situation, I was actually worse off than if I had just stayed home. At home, at least I can get up, go into the kitchen and get another drink if I run out. In the restaurant, I'm at the mercy of whenever it occurs to my twit server to come back over and ask if everything's okay.
In the end, I had to wait about ten minutes from when I finished my beer to when I was asked if I'd like a second drink. I was uncomfortably thirsty the entire time, as I did not have the willpower to resist finishing my pizza slice (nor should I have to, I'd like to add).
I also did not have the balls to tip under 20% to make a statement. So, no lessons learned on anybody's part.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Feeling Pissy
This is something I have wondered about basically forever: why, in virtually 100% of mens restrooms, is there a substantial amount of urine on either the toilet seat or on the floor directly in front of the urinal?
I've been peeing my entire life. Take it from me, aiming your urine stream into a toilet is not terribly difficult. It's not like you're trying to thread a needle and hit a tiny bulls eye from 50 yards away. Most times you don't even need to use your hands. You can just unzip and let it hang, and there's a pretty good chance you will urinate successfully.
So why are guys ALWAYS peeing on the floor? It's disgusting, on a lot of levels. The fact that I have to adopt a special stance just to avoid standing in a piss cocktail of the previous dozen dudes to use the bathroom before me is annoying. But on a personal level, I find this behavior insulting. It's like littering...when people know they won't be caught for degrading communal property, they are all too happy to go to town. I'm extremely disappointed by this mentality of my fellow man. We should be comrades. We all have to use the bathroom at some point or another, and we should take it upon ourselves to keep it as clean as we can for each other.
But no. Instead, apparently the prevailing thought process is to just whip our dicks out and mark our territory, and damn the poor custodian who has to come in and mop it up at the end of the night. Let alone the rest of us who are just trying to enjoy a meal or make a pit stop in an airport without having to avoid soiling our own clothing in some asshole's human waste.
This kvetch is magnified a thousandfold when I happen to be so unfortunate as to have to go #2 in such an environment. Not only do I have to suffer the discomfort of racing through a very private act while risking total strangers coming and going all around me, I also have to grit my teeth through the indignity of cleaning someone's urine off the toilet seat beforehand. And then hope to god that I got it all as I lower myself down upon that haven for disease and pestilence.
Who are you people? Why do you do this??? Show yourselves!!!
I've been peeing my entire life. Take it from me, aiming your urine stream into a toilet is not terribly difficult. It's not like you're trying to thread a needle and hit a tiny bulls eye from 50 yards away. Most times you don't even need to use your hands. You can just unzip and let it hang, and there's a pretty good chance you will urinate successfully.
So why are guys ALWAYS peeing on the floor? It's disgusting, on a lot of levels. The fact that I have to adopt a special stance just to avoid standing in a piss cocktail of the previous dozen dudes to use the bathroom before me is annoying. But on a personal level, I find this behavior insulting. It's like littering...when people know they won't be caught for degrading communal property, they are all too happy to go to town. I'm extremely disappointed by this mentality of my fellow man. We should be comrades. We all have to use the bathroom at some point or another, and we should take it upon ourselves to keep it as clean as we can for each other.
But no. Instead, apparently the prevailing thought process is to just whip our dicks out and mark our territory, and damn the poor custodian who has to come in and mop it up at the end of the night. Let alone the rest of us who are just trying to enjoy a meal or make a pit stop in an airport without having to avoid soiling our own clothing in some asshole's human waste.
This kvetch is magnified a thousandfold when I happen to be so unfortunate as to have to go #2 in such an environment. Not only do I have to suffer the discomfort of racing through a very private act while risking total strangers coming and going all around me, I also have to grit my teeth through the indignity of cleaning someone's urine off the toilet seat beforehand. And then hope to god that I got it all as I lower myself down upon that haven for disease and pestilence.
Who are you people? Why do you do this??? Show yourselves!!!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Kvetcher Has Become the Kvetchee
If I may take a moment to publicly flog myself: I have now become something that for years I have hated. As a writer, it would always bother me to walk into a coffee shop and see the hordes of douchebags clicking away on their laptops. It seemed so pretentious to me, that in a town filled to the brim with wannabe screenwriters, all these people would venture out into public to practice their craft. I perceived it as a desperate, transparent attempt to be seen, as if they were hoping Jerry Bruckheimer would stroll in for his morning macchiato, notice the unshaven guy in a beanie using Final Draft on his MacBook, and tap him on the shoulder curiously. "I notice you're working on a screenplay," he'd say. "Will you tell me what it's about so that I can hand you this bag of money and make you famous?" I mean, why would these people choose to come to a place that is 1000 times more distracting than the quiet of their own homes to do something that requires a good deal of concentration? Never made sense to me. Thus, I mocked these people.
And now, as I focus my Kvetch Beam inward, I finally understand. You see, living alone and working at home has a tendency to drive one somewhat stircrazy. After I spent my entire day yesterday in my own home, talking to nary a soul, alternating between writing, doing pull-ups and playing Wii frisbee golf, I decided I needed to get out more. But to do what? Wander the streets? Go shopping for stuff I don't need? Alas, no. The conclusion I reluctantly came to: do my work in a coffee shop.
And so now, here I sit, at this very moment, existing as the quintessential asshole I spent so many years reviling: a wannabe screenwriter, sitting at the Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, writing a script on my MacBook Pro. Forgive me, Past Ethan. At least I'm drinking my coffee black.
And now, as I focus my Kvetch Beam inward, I finally understand. You see, living alone and working at home has a tendency to drive one somewhat stircrazy. After I spent my entire day yesterday in my own home, talking to nary a soul, alternating between writing, doing pull-ups and playing Wii frisbee golf, I decided I needed to get out more. But to do what? Wander the streets? Go shopping for stuff I don't need? Alas, no. The conclusion I reluctantly came to: do my work in a coffee shop.
And so now, here I sit, at this very moment, existing as the quintessential asshole I spent so many years reviling: a wannabe screenwriter, sitting at the Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, writing a script on my MacBook Pro. Forgive me, Past Ethan. At least I'm drinking my coffee black.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Attention Craigslist and Ticketmaster...
...and any other websites that require me to write the words I see on the screen in the box below to proceed: in order for me to correctly copy these words, they must be somewhat legible. I have no idea what this process proves to you, why correctly copying a meaningless word qualifies me to buy tickets or post an ad trying to sell a camera. But when you make it impossible to do so by presenting to me a "word" that just looks like an ink smudge with a couple dots above it, you defeat your own purpose. When I have to sit for minutes on end, debating if the symbol I'm looking at is a lowercase "g" or part of the uppercase "H" that preceded it, and then am told I'm wrong and have to start all over, the system has broken down. I have a pretty handy mastery of the English language. I can certainly copy words. Don't try and make me feel stupid for doing it wrong when you're the ones who can't present the material properly. Harumph.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
A Penny for My Thoughts
Included in some change I received yesterday was a 2009 penny. I didn't realize until now that they changed the illustration on the back of the penny. Whereas all my life the back featured the Lincoln Memorial, this new penny depicts Abraham Lincoln standing in front of the Illinois state capitol building.
Upon doing some quick internet research, I learned that there are in fact four new pennies for 2009, each one with a different illustration of something Lincolnesque on the back, to commemorate his 200th birthday.
I can't help but wonder...is this entirely necessary? I mean, at a time when we're in a horrific recession, the country so terribly in debt we're using numbers to quantify it that I can't even comprehend anymore, does the government really need to be spending any resources at all redesigning our worthless coins? Because you know this must have cost something: commissioning the new artwork, changing the money-making machine at the mint, whatever. Couldn't that be better put to use for something we actually need?
I know, it's probably a drop in the bucket compared to any amount of money the government spends on anything important. Still though, we just got done with the 50 different quarters, one for each state. And the Sacagawea gold dollar coin...that was a real hit, wasn't it? Those flamed out quicker than Von Dutch trucker hats. And now we have four new pennies to marvel over? Are we supposed to collect them like a set of Transformers movie tie-in Happy Meal toys? Enough with the new coins!
And while I'm on the subject, what are we still doing using pennies anyway? You know how much a penny is worth? Nothing. You need a hundred of them just to make up a dollar, the value of which is rapidly approaching the penny. Let's just round everything up to the nearest five cents and do away with this unsightly copper coinage. Lincoln's already on the five dollar bill; he won't miss being on the penny. Plus, he's dead.
Happy birthday Abe!
Friday, October 30, 2009
LA, You've Gone Too Far
Just got back from a morning constitutional up on Runyon Canyon, the popular hiking trail near my place, where I witnessed a new standard in pet wardrobe weirdness: two small dogs wearing dog-sized Snuggies. That's right. You can now buy Snuggies for dogs. I know they were Snuggies because I lowered my sunglasses so as to allow my eyeballs to pop out of my face and read the label on the miniature blanket with sleeves. It said "Snuggie."
Don't get me wrong, I actually like the Snuggie. I don't have one myself, but I've been tempted to purchase one over the phone, when the ad comes on TV late at night and my judgement is a bit clouded by a coocktail or two. They actually look pretty comfortable, and their commercials are hilarious. But only because of how ridiculous they are. Nobody actually wears Snuggies to the movies or baseball games. If they did, they might very well be institutionalized by their loved ones.
Which is why the dog Snuggie is just too much. In LA people do all sorts of weird things to their dogs: dye their fur, dress them in sweaters and shoes, etc. One time when I worked briefly as a dog walker years ago I had to walk a huge white dog that was wearing a white tank top that said "#1 Bitch" in pink letters (that was a fun day). But a blanket with sleeves? That's just going out of your way to show how bizarre you can be.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Apples & Orangutans
Friends of mine have heard this pet peeve of mine before, but I've shockingly had nothing to kvetch about the past week or so, and I recently heard this expression again somewhere out there in the ether. So here we go.
I hate the expression "apples and oranges." As in, "You can't compare the two. It's like apples and oranges."
Why does this bother me so? Well, simply put, the expression makes no sense. If ever there were two things you could absolutely make a comparison between, it's an apple and an orange. They're both fruits. They're both round. They're roughly the same size. In fact, they are extremely similar to each other. If I were to ask you to list your top five favorite fruits and then discuss the differences between them, there's a very good chance you'd be giving me an answer in which you'd be comparing an apple to an orange. You might also be comparing a watermelon to a banana. Or a kiwi to a plumquat. All totally appropriate things to compare to each other.
My point is, apples and oranges are in fact so similar, so very comparable, that to use the expression "it's like apples and oranges" when indicating that two entities are so dissimilar that they can't even be put in the same discussion, is ludicrous and makes whoever uses this trite cliche sound like an idiot.
Thus, I propose a new expression, something that pits two things against each other between which no logical comparison could ever be made. There are loads of possibilities; just pick out almost any two items you see. Clouds and stethoscopes. Milk and harmonicas. Cell phones and nipples. All those are examples of pairs of things that would be difficult, if not downright ridiculous, to compare to each other. At the very least, they make a thousand times more sense than using apples and oranges to illustrate your point.
But maybe my new saying would catch on faster if it incorporated part of the old one. So we'll keep apples in there. But instead of oranges, how about "orangutans"? Orangutans also starts with "O" - in fact, it actually uses most of the word "orange" (except the E on the end) - so you still have the same kind of alliteration as you did with oranges. Plus, everybody loves monkeys. And, most importantly, there are very few similarities between apples and orangutans.
So remember this new and improved colloquialism next time you say something like "You can't compare Saved By the Bell to Mad Men...it's like apples and orangutans!"
I'm really hoping this catches on.
I hate the expression "apples and oranges." As in, "You can't compare the two. It's like apples and oranges."
Why does this bother me so? Well, simply put, the expression makes no sense. If ever there were two things you could absolutely make a comparison between, it's an apple and an orange. They're both fruits. They're both round. They're roughly the same size. In fact, they are extremely similar to each other. If I were to ask you to list your top five favorite fruits and then discuss the differences between them, there's a very good chance you'd be giving me an answer in which you'd be comparing an apple to an orange. You might also be comparing a watermelon to a banana. Or a kiwi to a plumquat. All totally appropriate things to compare to each other.
My point is, apples and oranges are in fact so similar, so very comparable, that to use the expression "it's like apples and oranges" when indicating that two entities are so dissimilar that they can't even be put in the same discussion, is ludicrous and makes whoever uses this trite cliche sound like an idiot.
Thus, I propose a new expression, something that pits two things against each other between which no logical comparison could ever be made. There are loads of possibilities; just pick out almost any two items you see. Clouds and stethoscopes. Milk and harmonicas. Cell phones and nipples. All those are examples of pairs of things that would be difficult, if not downright ridiculous, to compare to each other. At the very least, they make a thousand times more sense than using apples and oranges to illustrate your point.
But maybe my new saying would catch on faster if it incorporated part of the old one. So we'll keep apples in there. But instead of oranges, how about "orangutans"? Orangutans also starts with "O" - in fact, it actually uses most of the word "orange" (except the E on the end) - so you still have the same kind of alliteration as you did with oranges. Plus, everybody loves monkeys. And, most importantly, there are very few similarities between apples and orangutans.
So remember this new and improved colloquialism next time you say something like "You can't compare Saved By the Bell to Mad Men...it's like apples and orangutans!"
I'm really hoping this catches on.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Stupid Technology
Bored in my home with nothing to do at 10PM on a Tuesday, an idea for entertainment struck me. You see, I have a very cool DVD player. It's a Blu-ray player. The guy at Best Buy told me how cool it is. It is so cool, it connects to the internet - wirelessly, mind you - and links up with my Netflix account. Thus, I can stream Netflix movies from the online universe directly to my television. I can be sitting on my couch, think of a movie I want to watch, access Netflix on my Blackberry, and minutes later have that movie magically appear on my TV via my cool DVD player. I paid good money for this DVD player. Keep that in mind.
So I decided to watch the movie Step Brothers, which was already in my online movie queue. The first thing I did was turn on the TV and DVD player. So far so good. But then, when I tried to access Netflix, a message popped up telling me that "new Firmware was available," and did I want to download an update? I don't know what Firmware is, but I figured if it was new and would improve my system, I should get it. I clicked "OK."
The Firmware started downloading. After three minutes, it had downloaded 0%. Growing impatient and wondering why the DVD player couldn't just do this updating on its own, when I didn't want to use it to watch a movie, I clicked "Cancel." It canceled the download.
When I tried to go back to Netflix, the remote stopped working. I jabbed it at the screen several times, pushing all sorts of buttons to try and elicit a reaction, but got no response. I was stuck.
I did the resquisite tapping of the remote against my palm, the obligatory taking of the batteries out and putting of them back in, but still no reaction. At this point I was muttering under my breath. Cartoonish, Elmer Fuddisms like "razzmatazz" and "sassafrassin'."
Then I remembered I had shrewdly planned ahead for just such an occurance and bought a pack of batteries at the store the other day. I congratulated myself on my foresight and started taking the old batteries out of the remote again to be replaced.
I got the first one out, but the second one was stuck. Just wouldn't come out, the stubborn little bugger. I sat there, brainlessly picking at it with my fingernail for a good 90 seconds before abruptly shouting out "GodDAMMIT!!!" to the empty room, got up, stormed into the kitchen, got some scissors and pried the battery the hell out of there.
I went into the other room and got the new batteries, only to realize I had purchased 24 AA's, when in fact what I needed were two AAA's.
Uttering my loudest sigh of the day, hoping God might finally hear my annoyance, I found a different remote with the same sized batteries and pilfered them, trading them into the DVD remote. Full success! I was able to use the DVD player again like it was 1998. I clciked on Step Brothers, and it started downloading.
Very.........slowly.
I waited just under another 1o minutes, when after 95% of the downlaod was complete, a popup message broke the unfortunate news that there had been a Network Error. "Download Failed."
So ended my night, after roughly a half hour of wasted life.
Why can't things just work? Why does technology actually end up deproving my life instead of improving it more often than not? I never had this problem with my Betamax player.
So I decided to watch the movie Step Brothers, which was already in my online movie queue. The first thing I did was turn on the TV and DVD player. So far so good. But then, when I tried to access Netflix, a message popped up telling me that "new Firmware was available," and did I want to download an update? I don't know what Firmware is, but I figured if it was new and would improve my system, I should get it. I clicked "OK."
The Firmware started downloading. After three minutes, it had downloaded 0%. Growing impatient and wondering why the DVD player couldn't just do this updating on its own, when I didn't want to use it to watch a movie, I clicked "Cancel." It canceled the download.
When I tried to go back to Netflix, the remote stopped working. I jabbed it at the screen several times, pushing all sorts of buttons to try and elicit a reaction, but got no response. I was stuck.
I did the resquisite tapping of the remote against my palm, the obligatory taking of the batteries out and putting of them back in, but still no reaction. At this point I was muttering under my breath. Cartoonish, Elmer Fuddisms like "razzmatazz" and "sassafrassin'."
Then I remembered I had shrewdly planned ahead for just such an occurance and bought a pack of batteries at the store the other day. I congratulated myself on my foresight and started taking the old batteries out of the remote again to be replaced.
I got the first one out, but the second one was stuck. Just wouldn't come out, the stubborn little bugger. I sat there, brainlessly picking at it with my fingernail for a good 90 seconds before abruptly shouting out "GodDAMMIT!!!" to the empty room, got up, stormed into the kitchen, got some scissors and pried the battery the hell out of there.
I went into the other room and got the new batteries, only to realize I had purchased 24 AA's, when in fact what I needed were two AAA's.
Uttering my loudest sigh of the day, hoping God might finally hear my annoyance, I found a different remote with the same sized batteries and pilfered them, trading them into the DVD remote. Full success! I was able to use the DVD player again like it was 1998. I clciked on Step Brothers, and it started downloading.
Very.........slowly.
I waited just under another 1o minutes, when after 95% of the downlaod was complete, a popup message broke the unfortunate news that there had been a Network Error. "Download Failed."
So ended my night, after roughly a half hour of wasted life.
Why can't things just work? Why does technology actually end up deproving my life instead of improving it more often than not? I never had this problem with my Betamax player.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Americans in Financial Hole
Has anyone else seen this one second television commercial? It usually comes on during football games. It is literally just a one second shot of someone reading a newspaper that has the massive headline "Americans in Financial Hole."
At first I thought it was a programming glitch, like when you start to see the beginning of a commercial but then it cuts back to the game you were watching because someone realized there wasn't enough time to show the whole thing without missing some of the action. But I've seen this spot about a half dozen times now, and that's all it is - a quick shot of a guy reading a newspaper with this weird headline, sandwiched in between two other commercials.
There's no product being advertised. Seems like it's just a subliminal message designed to make us feel even worse about the economy than we already do - and while we're trying to relax and watch our escapist entertainment, no less. So what I want to know is, who's the jerk responsible for this Debbie Downerism?
My money's on the Republicans. Maybe it's Rush Limbaugh. He's taking the money he was going to use to buy the Rams and spending it on bumming out the NFL fans he won't have the opportunity to rule over.
At first I thought it was a programming glitch, like when you start to see the beginning of a commercial but then it cuts back to the game you were watching because someone realized there wasn't enough time to show the whole thing without missing some of the action. But I've seen this spot about a half dozen times now, and that's all it is - a quick shot of a guy reading a newspaper with this weird headline, sandwiched in between two other commercials.
There's no product being advertised. Seems like it's just a subliminal message designed to make us feel even worse about the economy than we already do - and while we're trying to relax and watch our escapist entertainment, no less. So what I want to know is, who's the jerk responsible for this Debbie Downerism?
My money's on the Republicans. Maybe it's Rush Limbaugh. He's taking the money he was going to use to buy the Rams and spending it on bumming out the NFL fans he won't have the opportunity to rule over.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Throwblechs
Was watching football last Sunday, as per usual. Is anyone else getting incredibly sick of these ridiculous throwback jerseys every single week? I mean, there isn't a week that goes by where some team is completely unrecognizable because they're wearing some uniform that a previous incarnation of their team wore in like 1892.
It started out innocently enough. A few years ago the Chargers wore their throwback powder blue uniforms for a game, and everyone thought they looked pretty snazzy. So the rest of the league started catching on, presumably because teams discovered they could probably sell more merchandise that way.
But it's just gotten out of hand. If the league wants to have a throwback week, that's cool with me. Pick one week out of the season where every team wears it's throwback jersey. Done. That's enough to sell the merchandise. But the way it is now, every week some teams are wearing their regular uniforms, while others look like they're fictitious teams from Any Given Sunday. We just finished Week 5, and the Patriots have already worn their throwbacks twice. Come on!
The Pats' opponent last weekend, the Broncos, were wearing throwbacks that looked like the Steelers' throwbacks. This is how absurd this has become: I'm already confusing different teams' throwback uniforms with each other.
But this one really took the cake: the Kansas City Chiefs were playing the Dallas Cowboys, and wearing throwback jerseys of the team they used to be: the Dallas Texans. So the Chiefs' helmets had logos of the state of Texas on them, and their coaches were wearing gear that said "Dallas Texans." Even though they're from KC and were playing against Dallas. And oh by the way, there's a whole other team in the NFL actually named the Texans now. Way to represent Kansas City, Chiefs. The whole team must have an identity crisis, for Christ's sake. No wonder they're 0-5.
And as if the throwbacks aren't enough, teams also find it necessary to wear jerseys that are simply completely different colors than their regular uniforms. Anybody see Miami Monday night in those orange jerseys? How about Seattle a couple weeks ago in those lime green ones? Those were classy. The Seahawks looked liked they'd been slimed on You Can't Do That On Telelvision. (Anyone? Anyone?)
In closing: thank you very much, San Diego. You started all this. PS - at this point you wear your powder blues at least as much as the navies, so I don't even know which is the modern uniform and which is the throwback.
It started out innocently enough. A few years ago the Chargers wore their throwback powder blue uniforms for a game, and everyone thought they looked pretty snazzy. So the rest of the league started catching on, presumably because teams discovered they could probably sell more merchandise that way.
But it's just gotten out of hand. If the league wants to have a throwback week, that's cool with me. Pick one week out of the season where every team wears it's throwback jersey. Done. That's enough to sell the merchandise. But the way it is now, every week some teams are wearing their regular uniforms, while others look like they're fictitious teams from Any Given Sunday. We just finished Week 5, and the Patriots have already worn their throwbacks twice. Come on!
The Pats' opponent last weekend, the Broncos, were wearing throwbacks that looked like the Steelers' throwbacks. This is how absurd this has become: I'm already confusing different teams' throwback uniforms with each other.
But this one really took the cake: the Kansas City Chiefs were playing the Dallas Cowboys, and wearing throwback jerseys of the team they used to be: the Dallas Texans. So the Chiefs' helmets had logos of the state of Texas on them, and their coaches were wearing gear that said "Dallas Texans." Even though they're from KC and were playing against Dallas. And oh by the way, there's a whole other team in the NFL actually named the Texans now. Way to represent Kansas City, Chiefs. The whole team must have an identity crisis, for Christ's sake. No wonder they're 0-5.
And as if the throwbacks aren't enough, teams also find it necessary to wear jerseys that are simply completely different colors than their regular uniforms. Anybody see Miami Monday night in those orange jerseys? How about Seattle a couple weeks ago in those lime green ones? Those were classy. The Seahawks looked liked they'd been slimed on You Can't Do That On Telelvision. (Anyone? Anyone?)
In closing: thank you very much, San Diego. You started all this. PS - at this point you wear your powder blues at least as much as the navies, so I don't even know which is the modern uniform and which is the throwback.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Nobel Peace Cries
I'm not terribly political, nor do I particularly enjoy when whiners like me start spouting off about politics, the government, foreign affairs, etc, like they know how to run the country better than the people who are actually doing it. But the conservative backlash over President Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize is pretty disturbing.
Look, I don't think he particularly deserved it either. You shouldn't win awards for stuff you say you're going to do, but haven't actually done yet. That being said...he is our president. He was elected by a majority of the country to lead us, and whoever determines who to give this award to decided to give it to our guy. Shouldn't we as Americans be proud of that, as opposed to using it as just another opportunity to criticize him?
But no. The right has totally thrown away any intention of getting behind Obama. On anything. It's absurd, disappointing and a little frightening. Rush Limbaugh called his winning the award a "greater embarrassment" for America than not getting the 2016 Olympics. Which, by the way, right wingers were also rooting against getting, simply so they could rejoice in another failure of their president. These are also the same people who were outraged over Obama delivering the highly socialist message to America's children to stay in school and work hard.
Look, conservatives: I know you didn't vote for the guy. But he won, fair and square, and he's in charge of running the country for the next 3+ years. Rooting for him to fail at everything just so you can replace him with Mitt Romney in 2012 and have your taxes lowered slightly is idiotic and unpatriotic. You guys are like Colts fans screaming in anger that Peyton Manning got voted to the Pro Bowl after having an off year. Just shut up and support your fucking team once in awhile.
Look, I don't think he particularly deserved it either. You shouldn't win awards for stuff you say you're going to do, but haven't actually done yet. That being said...he is our president. He was elected by a majority of the country to lead us, and whoever determines who to give this award to decided to give it to our guy. Shouldn't we as Americans be proud of that, as opposed to using it as just another opportunity to criticize him?
But no. The right has totally thrown away any intention of getting behind Obama. On anything. It's absurd, disappointing and a little frightening. Rush Limbaugh called his winning the award a "greater embarrassment" for America than not getting the 2016 Olympics. Which, by the way, right wingers were also rooting against getting, simply so they could rejoice in another failure of their president. These are also the same people who were outraged over Obama delivering the highly socialist message to America's children to stay in school and work hard.
Look, conservatives: I know you didn't vote for the guy. But he won, fair and square, and he's in charge of running the country for the next 3+ years. Rooting for him to fail at everything just so you can replace him with Mitt Romney in 2012 and have your taxes lowered slightly is idiotic and unpatriotic. You guys are like Colts fans screaming in anger that Peyton Manning got voted to the Pro Bowl after having an off year. Just shut up and support your fucking team once in awhile.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Stripper Follow-Up
As I am wont to do after being slighted, I sent Michael, the proprietor of RisqueKitty.com and World's Worst Pimp, an aggrieved email detailing my experience with him and his company. Here is our correspondence, with his misspellings left intact to further demonstrate his level of retardation:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: Ethan Furman <ethanfurman@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, October 02, 2009 4:55 pm
To: info@risquekitty.com
Attn: Michael
You'll be happy to know you completely ruined my gift to my friend for his 30th birthday. Instead of waking up to a topless girl giving him a lapdance, he woke up to me handing him a shot of vodka. Why? Because you assured me it was "no problem at all" to have one of your girls come to his house this morning at 9AM.
What happened when she didn't show? You implied it was my fault for even making such a request, saying "you had a 50-50 shot of this happening anyway since it's so early." Oh really? That would have been helpful information to give me when I confirmed with you that the girl would be there. I would have gotten someone else to do it.
Instead, you ruined everything with your incompetence. Being completely unapologetic on top of it was a nice touch. You're a shitty company, and I'll do my best to make sure people don't use you.
E
Michael's Response:
My Response to His Response:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: Ethan Furman <ethanfurman@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, October 05, 2009 12:13 pm
To: info@risquekitty.com
Your arrogance is disappointing. I'm somewhat shocked at your complete lack of apology over a situation in which you completely failed to deliver your service to a paying customer. It must be these stellar skills that have kept you in the whore business an impressive 11 years. You're a regular Donald Trump.
I get it. Your coke-addicted employees are strippers who can't be relied on to get up in the morning and be somewhere on time. Just don't be such a prick when you're clearly in the wrong.
Michael's mind-numbingly idiotic response:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: info@risquekitty.com
Date: Wed, October 07, 2009 4:35 pm
To: ethanfurman@gmail.com
Best Regards,
Michael
(818) 723-3870
risquekitty.com
My (hopefully) concluding response:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: ethanfurman@gmail.com
Date: Wed, October 07, 2009 5:45 pm
To: info@risquekitty.com
This email is too stupid to even respond to. I hope something truly terrible happens to you.
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: Ethan Furman <ethanfurman@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, October 02, 2009 4:55 pm
To: info@risquekitty.com
Attn: Michael
You'll be happy to know you completely ruined my gift to my friend for his 30th birthday. Instead of waking up to a topless girl giving him a lapdance, he woke up to me handing him a shot of vodka. Why? Because you assured me it was "no problem at all" to have one of your girls come to his house this morning at 9AM.
What happened when she didn't show? You implied it was my fault for even making such a request, saying "you had a 50-50 shot of this happening anyway since it's so early." Oh really? That would have been helpful information to give me when I confirmed with you that the girl would be there. I would have gotten someone else to do it.
Instead, you ruined everything with your incompetence. Being completely unapologetic on top of it was a nice touch. You're a shitty company, and I'll do my best to make sure people don't use you.
E
Michael's Response:
From: "Risque Kitty" <info@risquekitty.com>
Date: Mon, 05 Oct 2009 11:03:39 -0700
To: Ethan Furman<ethanfurman@gmail.com>
Subject: RE: Thanks for Nothing
Thanks for those nice woods of encouragement. I too wish you the best of luck with your business as well. Fortunately for me Ive been in business for 11 years and plan on at least another 20 years to go. So good luck at bad mouthing me and my company.
Did you give your friend a lap dance since he didnt get one from the girls??? just curious.......I hope he liked his shot!!
My Response to His Response:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: Ethan Furman <ethanfurman@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, October 05, 2009 12:13 pm
To: info@risquekitty.com
Your arrogance is disappointing. I'm somewhat shocked at your complete lack of apology over a situation in which you completely failed to deliver your service to a paying customer. It must be these stellar skills that have kept you in the whore business an impressive 11 years. You're a regular Donald Trump.
I get it. Your coke-addicted employees are strippers who can't be relied on to get up in the morning and be somewhere on time. Just don't be such a prick when you're clearly in the wrong.
Michael's mind-numbingly idiotic response:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: info@risquekitty.com
Date: Wed, October 07, 2009 4:35 pm
To: ethanfurman@gmail.com
Apology? for what? did you pay any money? NO! did they arrive? NO! Are they coke addicts? NO! Are you a moron? YES We have a winner you are definately a moron! What have you won? A jerk off session with your friend!. Hope it was a good one. your the frickin prick who showed up with a bottle of vodka to your friends house and had a circle jerk session not me.
Best Regards,
Michael
(818) 723-3870
risquekitty.com
My (hopefully) concluding response:
Subject: Thanks for Nothing
From: ethanfurman@gmail.com
Date: Wed, October 07, 2009 5:45 pm
To: info@risquekitty.com
This email is too stupid to even respond to. I hope something truly terrible happens to you.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Strippers are Unreliable
Today was my friend Adam's 30th birthday. Rather than buy him a present, I thought a better gift would be to give him a memory, something that would forever mark the mature transition into the adulthood of his thirties.
I decided to hire a stripper to wake him up by singing Happy Birthday while giving him a lap dance.
Pretty good idea, right? Who wouldn't want to wake up to a topless girl gyrating on top of you on your birthday? That's a memory that will last a lifetime.
So I went online a couple weeks ago, trying to find companies that could provide such a service. The one I landed on was called RisqueKitty.com. They had a good looking website, lots of girls to choose from in multiple cities, etc. In short, it looked like a legit operation. I called up and spoke to someone named Michael, who assured me he could provide what I was looking for.
I picked out a busty blonde named Heidi. Michael assured me she would be at Adam's house today, Friday morning, at 9AM, ready to sing happy birthday while grinding on his bedcovers. The price was $140, plus tip. I believe his exact words were, "No problem at all, you're all set."
Cut to this morning. I arose early and left at 7:30AM to make the drive from Hollywood down to Hermosa Beach, giving myself plenty of time to stop by the ATM for a roll of 20's. I had previously arranged for Adam's roommate Jason to let me in. Jason was also in charge of getting Adam nice and liquored up the night before, to ensure there were no early risings on this day. When I arrived, Jason came outside to assure me that Adam was still snoring snugly in his bed. Everything was all set.
Except the stripper didn't come. I had expected her to be a little late. But at 9:15 I called old Michael to see where she was. "She's probably stuck in traffic," he offered.
"Well...can you call her and see when she'll be here?"
He said he would. Another fifteen minutes. No stripper. No Michael. I called him back. No answer.
Jason kept running inside to make sure Adam was still asleep. He was, but Jason wasn't sure how much longer that would last. I called Michael a couple more times, but it kept going to voicemail. I was getting the unsettling feeling that he was now avoiding my calls.
Finally, at 9:50, I got ahold of him. "Yeah, she's not answering her phone, so I don't know what to tell you," he said unapologetically. "She probably overslept."
"Are you kidding?" I asked, in disbelief at his poor customer service skills.
"To be honest, you had a 50-50 chance of this happening anyway, just cause it's so early." I couldn't believe this guy. Was he actually blaming me for this complete destruction of a great idea?
"Oh really?" I asked. "I appreciate you telling me that NOW!"
"You're welcome. Have a nice day," he quipped.
"Fuck off."
I'd like to think I got that last part out before Michael hung up, but I'm 80% sure he never heard it. This angered me infinitely more.
So this guy totally ruined my birthday surprise. I had to quickly formulate a Plan B, which turned out to be chilling shots of vodka, waking Adam up myself and forcing him to drink. Which isn't terrible, I guess, other than the confusion he had of why I was in his house.
Who knew strippers could be so unreliable?
*Bonus Kvetch: Jason had alerted me the night before that Adam told him he had agreed to pick up another friend of ours, Kevin, from the hospital at 10AM after having a medical procedure done. Obviously, this would have screwed up everything, as it would have caused Adam to be awake and leaving the house right when the girl was supposed to come over. So I quickly called Kevin and told him that, while I didn't want to be insensitive to his deteriorating health, I would need him to contact Adam ASAP and tell him to come pick him up an hour later, and hang out in the hospital a little longer all drugged up on painkillers. Thankfully he was a sport and agreed, but the stripper's no-show makes me feel bad about that on top of all this.
Many people's lives were damaged today. Happy birthday, Adam.
I decided to hire a stripper to wake him up by singing Happy Birthday while giving him a lap dance.
Pretty good idea, right? Who wouldn't want to wake up to a topless girl gyrating on top of you on your birthday? That's a memory that will last a lifetime.
So I went online a couple weeks ago, trying to find companies that could provide such a service. The one I landed on was called RisqueKitty.com. They had a good looking website, lots of girls to choose from in multiple cities, etc. In short, it looked like a legit operation. I called up and spoke to someone named Michael, who assured me he could provide what I was looking for.
I picked out a busty blonde named Heidi. Michael assured me she would be at Adam's house today, Friday morning, at 9AM, ready to sing happy birthday while grinding on his bedcovers. The price was $140, plus tip. I believe his exact words were, "No problem at all, you're all set."
Cut to this morning. I arose early and left at 7:30AM to make the drive from Hollywood down to Hermosa Beach, giving myself plenty of time to stop by the ATM for a roll of 20's. I had previously arranged for Adam's roommate Jason to let me in. Jason was also in charge of getting Adam nice and liquored up the night before, to ensure there were no early risings on this day. When I arrived, Jason came outside to assure me that Adam was still snoring snugly in his bed. Everything was all set.
Except the stripper didn't come. I had expected her to be a little late. But at 9:15 I called old Michael to see where she was. "She's probably stuck in traffic," he offered.
"Well...can you call her and see when she'll be here?"
He said he would. Another fifteen minutes. No stripper. No Michael. I called him back. No answer.
Jason kept running inside to make sure Adam was still asleep. He was, but Jason wasn't sure how much longer that would last. I called Michael a couple more times, but it kept going to voicemail. I was getting the unsettling feeling that he was now avoiding my calls.
Finally, at 9:50, I got ahold of him. "Yeah, she's not answering her phone, so I don't know what to tell you," he said unapologetically. "She probably overslept."
"Are you kidding?" I asked, in disbelief at his poor customer service skills.
"To be honest, you had a 50-50 chance of this happening anyway, just cause it's so early." I couldn't believe this guy. Was he actually blaming me for this complete destruction of a great idea?
"Oh really?" I asked. "I appreciate you telling me that NOW!"
"You're welcome. Have a nice day," he quipped.
"Fuck off."
I'd like to think I got that last part out before Michael hung up, but I'm 80% sure he never heard it. This angered me infinitely more.
So this guy totally ruined my birthday surprise. I had to quickly formulate a Plan B, which turned out to be chilling shots of vodka, waking Adam up myself and forcing him to drink. Which isn't terrible, I guess, other than the confusion he had of why I was in his house.
Who knew strippers could be so unreliable?
*Bonus Kvetch: Jason had alerted me the night before that Adam told him he had agreed to pick up another friend of ours, Kevin, from the hospital at 10AM after having a medical procedure done. Obviously, this would have screwed up everything, as it would have caused Adam to be awake and leaving the house right when the girl was supposed to come over. So I quickly called Kevin and told him that, while I didn't want to be insensitive to his deteriorating health, I would need him to contact Adam ASAP and tell him to come pick him up an hour later, and hang out in the hospital a little longer all drugged up on painkillers. Thankfully he was a sport and agreed, but the stripper's no-show makes me feel bad about that on top of all this.
Many people's lives were damaged today. Happy birthday, Adam.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Warning to Prospective Homeowners
Back in May I became a homeowner for the first time, moving into a condo building in Hollywood. A few weeks later, it was announced that two positions on the five member Homeowners Association Board were becoming temporarily available, and that if anybody was interested in joining, to express interest. Eager to get involved in the goings-on of my new building and meet my neighbors, I did just that.
Big mistake.
As it turned out, only me and one other guy chose to be on the HOA board. I now understand why. I am bombarded by emails daily about every possible boring issue pertaining to the building - sometimes they come so rapidly, one after another, that my Blackberry vibrates nonstop for minutes on end. I get anxious looking at them all sitting there, piled on top of each other, waiting for me to read them and chime in my required approval for some resident I've never met to install a ceiling fan in his unit.
I also have to attend meetings. Usually they are just once a month, and the first two I participated in weren't so bad. But we had one last week that lasted three hours. It was like seeing The Watchmen again, only ten times as tedious. I won't bore you recapping why it took as long as it did (I actually started to, but then decided better of it when I began nodding off at the memory), but at least know this: there was only one building resident in attendance, and he had no complaints to make during the portion allotted for homeowners to talk about their issues. If there had been a sizeable turnout of residents there with things to talk about, the meeting could have easily been over four hours long, in which case I would have shot myself in front of everyone like the kid does in the "Jeremy" video. Come to think of it, I don't even know why that one homeowner voluntarily sat through that whole meeting. He really must have no life.
Anyway, part of the reason I joined the board was because the position was temporary - my seat and two others were to be up for re-election after two months. Because I don't say much at the meetings, I was peer pressured by the rest of the board to run for re-election, a process that basically involved writing down my name on a list. So I did (this was before the three hour fiasco). Last night the election results were announced down in the pool area. I sat there, praying I had been voted out and replaced by one of the three nutjobs who were actually running against the incumbents. Alas, it was not meant to be. I am simply too popular for my own good. I was re-elected. I now face a two year sentence of being Member-at-Large on the Hollywood Regis HOA board.
Sigh. At least I'm not President. That guy really suffers.
So, for anyone who is considering joining the HOA board in their building: I do not recommend it.
Big mistake.
As it turned out, only me and one other guy chose to be on the HOA board. I now understand why. I am bombarded by emails daily about every possible boring issue pertaining to the building - sometimes they come so rapidly, one after another, that my Blackberry vibrates nonstop for minutes on end. I get anxious looking at them all sitting there, piled on top of each other, waiting for me to read them and chime in my required approval for some resident I've never met to install a ceiling fan in his unit.
I also have to attend meetings. Usually they are just once a month, and the first two I participated in weren't so bad. But we had one last week that lasted three hours. It was like seeing The Watchmen again, only ten times as tedious. I won't bore you recapping why it took as long as it did (I actually started to, but then decided better of it when I began nodding off at the memory), but at least know this: there was only one building resident in attendance, and he had no complaints to make during the portion allotted for homeowners to talk about their issues. If there had been a sizeable turnout of residents there with things to talk about, the meeting could have easily been over four hours long, in which case I would have shot myself in front of everyone like the kid does in the "Jeremy" video. Come to think of it, I don't even know why that one homeowner voluntarily sat through that whole meeting. He really must have no life.
Anyway, part of the reason I joined the board was because the position was temporary - my seat and two others were to be up for re-election after two months. Because I don't say much at the meetings, I was peer pressured by the rest of the board to run for re-election, a process that basically involved writing down my name on a list. So I did (this was before the three hour fiasco). Last night the election results were announced down in the pool area. I sat there, praying I had been voted out and replaced by one of the three nutjobs who were actually running against the incumbents. Alas, it was not meant to be. I am simply too popular for my own good. I was re-elected. I now face a two year sentence of being Member-at-Large on the Hollywood Regis HOA board.
Sigh. At least I'm not President. That guy really suffers.
So, for anyone who is considering joining the HOA board in their building: I do not recommend it.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Not Surprising
Same old story. I was supposed to have a coffee table delivered today. I bought it like six weeks ago, and a couple weeks ago the store, CB2, called to set a date for delivery. Today was that date. They said they'd be calling me to tell me what time they were coming, but I never got a call. So around noon today I called the store to see what the deal was.
The table wasn't in stock, and somebody was supposed to have called to notify me but didn't. The girl on the phone had no explanation as to why this had happened. She apologized. She set a new delivery date for next week.
This is constantly happening to me. I pay good money for a product or services, somebody is supposed to contact me but never does, and then when I follow up after my time has been thoroughly wasted, it's always, "We don't know why no one contacted you."
I know why: incompetence. It's everywhere. It's infiltrated every person working at every company on planet Earth. And it really chaps my goddamn lips already.
The table wasn't in stock, and somebody was supposed to have called to notify me but didn't. The girl on the phone had no explanation as to why this had happened. She apologized. She set a new delivery date for next week.
This is constantly happening to me. I pay good money for a product or services, somebody is supposed to contact me but never does, and then when I follow up after my time has been thoroughly wasted, it's always, "We don't know why no one contacted you."
I know why: incompetence. It's everywhere. It's infiltrated every person working at every company on planet Earth. And it really chaps my goddamn lips already.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Club Scene
Went to a Hollywood club the other night. Was immediately reminded of why I don't go to Hollywood clubs.
I went out of pseudo-obligation: it was my girlfriend's friend's birthday party, and my girlfriend's other friend was promoting the club, and thus had her own table. This is the only reason I went; having your own table at a Hollywood club is key, because it allows you a place to sit and drink and not have to constantly get jostled around somewhere in between the bar and the dance floor amidst all the riff-raffians and douchebaggery.
I was there for all of a half hour before Club Promoter Friend announces that we all have to get up because she "sold the table." I don't even really comprehend what this means; all I know is that 45 seconds later I'm being hustled over to the purgatory I was previously guaranteed to be able to avoid, and some other people are settling in to relax where I had just been sitting.
This, to me, was really the height of uncoolness between friends. You invite people to a club you're promoting because you have a table, then "sell" the table and force your friends to stand around like common assholes? This would be like if I invited you to a baseball game, then scalped the tickets in the parking lot and told you to call a cab home. Some nerve.
So, let the jostling commence. As I was standing by the women's bathroom, waiting for my girlfriend and her friends and trying to pretend like I was having a good time (or at the very least like I'm not a weirdo who patrolls women's bathrooms), I noticed a fat girl who was freaking another girl in a wheelchair. This confused and depressed me. What was a girl in a wheelchair doing at a club? What is the point of that? If I lost the use of my legs, this would be the last place I would go. "Hey man, you coming out to the club tonight?" "Sorry bro, paralyzed from the waist down. Just gonna chill tonight and watch On Demand."
At the end of the night, I was just thankful not to be there single, because I would commit suicide trying to pick up girls in a place like that. It would be fine if everyone knew sign language and you didn't have to scream at people to be heard. Or if I was a good dancer and could just shimmy up to chicks. But as it is, these places are not for me.
I went out of pseudo-obligation: it was my girlfriend's friend's birthday party, and my girlfriend's other friend was promoting the club, and thus had her own table. This is the only reason I went; having your own table at a Hollywood club is key, because it allows you a place to sit and drink and not have to constantly get jostled around somewhere in between the bar and the dance floor amidst all the riff-raffians and douchebaggery.
I was there for all of a half hour before Club Promoter Friend announces that we all have to get up because she "sold the table." I don't even really comprehend what this means; all I know is that 45 seconds later I'm being hustled over to the purgatory I was previously guaranteed to be able to avoid, and some other people are settling in to relax where I had just been sitting.
This, to me, was really the height of uncoolness between friends. You invite people to a club you're promoting because you have a table, then "sell" the table and force your friends to stand around like common assholes? This would be like if I invited you to a baseball game, then scalped the tickets in the parking lot and told you to call a cab home. Some nerve.
So, let the jostling commence. As I was standing by the women's bathroom, waiting for my girlfriend and her friends and trying to pretend like I was having a good time (or at the very least like I'm not a weirdo who patrolls women's bathrooms), I noticed a fat girl who was freaking another girl in a wheelchair. This confused and depressed me. What was a girl in a wheelchair doing at a club? What is the point of that? If I lost the use of my legs, this would be the last place I would go. "Hey man, you coming out to the club tonight?" "Sorry bro, paralyzed from the waist down. Just gonna chill tonight and watch On Demand."
At the end of the night, I was just thankful not to be there single, because I would commit suicide trying to pick up girls in a place like that. It would be fine if everyone knew sign language and you didn't have to scream at people to be heard. Or if I was a good dancer and could just shimmy up to chicks. But as it is, these places are not for me.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
God Bless
When exactly did it become mandatory for all baseball players to point two fingers to the sky after even the most minimal of achievements? What are they doing? Thanking God for allowing that bloop fly ball to land in short right field for a single? Paying tribute to a dead grandmother who was the inspiration to play the game as a child?
I don't remember this happening before Barry Bonds started doing it as his trademark, pointing to the sky when he reached home plate after every home run. That was his thing. He was Barry Bonds. Don't these nobodies realize how trite it looks nowadays when every single one of them makes the same insincere gesture upon reaching first base after drawing a walk?
I don't remember this happening before Barry Bonds started doing it as his trademark, pointing to the sky when he reached home plate after every home run. That was his thing. He was Barry Bonds. Don't these nobodies realize how trite it looks nowadays when every single one of them makes the same insincere gesture upon reaching first base after drawing a walk?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Super Dupe
Oh man, have I got the kvetch of all kvetches today. This one was a doozy.
Last night I went with my girlfriend and two friends to a concert - the Killers at the Hollywood Bowl. A couple weeks earlier, my girlfriend found a guy selling tickets on Craig'sList: four for $100 each in the Garden Box seats. The face value of the tickets was about $135, so this was a great deal (obviously you can see where this is going). Nevertheless, my girlfriend said she caught the posting about a minute after it went up and the guy claimed he was selling them cheap because he needed cash quickly, so we just thanked our lucky stars and snatched them up.
My friend Adam actually went to meet the guy to pick up the tickets, because he lives not far from where the guy was. He actually remarked that the ticket seller was a nice guy, and that he told him the tickets had been given to him as a gift, but that he couldn't use them because he had been invited to the USC-Ohio State game, and he needed cash quick to get a plane ticket. Stupidly, none of us thought to question this based on the fact that the football game was last weekend, and the concert was on a Wednesday. In one ear and out the other. But I guess when someone tells you a story that's too stupid to actually be true, it's just human nature to assume that it is.
So, here we go. My girlfriend goes and picks up a whole smorgasbord of picnic supplies - two shopping bags full of food, because our "tickets" are to a four person box with a picnic table. We take a cab to the Bowl, nice and early, walk through the security checkpoint, up to the ticket takers, who use their little sensor gun to scan our tickets, and...BEEP-BOOP.
I had never heard the BEEP-BOOP before when having my ticket scanned. It's usually just a happy, upbeat BEEDLE-BEEP! This BEEP-BOOP was a discouraging sound, like when a contestant gives the wrong answer on a game show. The ticket taker looked at her gun. "Invalid ticket," she said. She scanned my girlfriend's ticket. Same sound. Same response from the ticket taker.
We all looked at each other, stunned. We continued exchanging stunned looks as someone led us to a security office and explained that we had been ripped off. They showed us three other packets of fake tickets with our exact seat numbers that other naive rubes had been sold by the same brilliant but dastardly con artist. A regular Frank Abignale Jr. had gotten his hands on us.
As this was happening, I flashed back in my mind to when my friends had shown up at my house prior to the concert and handed me my ticket. I recalled a brief blip of a thought going through my brain at the time that the ticket didn't feel quite exactly like a real ticket...the texture of it was almost imperceptably off...but this fraction of a notion quickly vanished - most likely because someone put a cocktail in my hand, and I moved on to thinking about drinking it.
In any case, this ignored premonition was of little use to us now, standing around outside the Hollywood Bowl with bags full of food and no tickets to the show. The security officer gave us a photocopy of our fake tickets and encouraged us to file a police report. She said that if this guy had ripped off enough people - and from the looks of it, he was on quite a roll - then his crime could escalate to a serious charge. Again, little solace was taken in this at this particular moment.
Luckily, I went to the box office and was able to purchase four more tickets in very similar seats in the Garden Box section, for only $25 more per ticket. Of course, this was on top of the $400 we had already flushed down the toilet. But we did get to see the show, which was great (kvetch-free!). And we do have a pretty good story.
All I know is, this asshole has some pretty intense karma coming his way. This isn't like someone breaking into your home and stealing your TV. This is: you made plans, made preparations, invited friends, got excited for something you were looking forward to, got in a car and went somewhere...only to have it all taken away from you. That's a pretty shitty thing to do to someone...let alone however many people Dickwad McMoneybags did this to.
Last night I went with my girlfriend and two friends to a concert - the Killers at the Hollywood Bowl. A couple weeks earlier, my girlfriend found a guy selling tickets on Craig'sList: four for $100 each in the Garden Box seats. The face value of the tickets was about $135, so this was a great deal (obviously you can see where this is going). Nevertheless, my girlfriend said she caught the posting about a minute after it went up and the guy claimed he was selling them cheap because he needed cash quickly, so we just thanked our lucky stars and snatched them up.
My friend Adam actually went to meet the guy to pick up the tickets, because he lives not far from where the guy was. He actually remarked that the ticket seller was a nice guy, and that he told him the tickets had been given to him as a gift, but that he couldn't use them because he had been invited to the USC-Ohio State game, and he needed cash quick to get a plane ticket. Stupidly, none of us thought to question this based on the fact that the football game was last weekend, and the concert was on a Wednesday. In one ear and out the other. But I guess when someone tells you a story that's too stupid to actually be true, it's just human nature to assume that it is.
So, here we go. My girlfriend goes and picks up a whole smorgasbord of picnic supplies - two shopping bags full of food, because our "tickets" are to a four person box with a picnic table. We take a cab to the Bowl, nice and early, walk through the security checkpoint, up to the ticket takers, who use their little sensor gun to scan our tickets, and...BEEP-BOOP.
I had never heard the BEEP-BOOP before when having my ticket scanned. It's usually just a happy, upbeat BEEDLE-BEEP! This BEEP-BOOP was a discouraging sound, like when a contestant gives the wrong answer on a game show. The ticket taker looked at her gun. "Invalid ticket," she said. She scanned my girlfriend's ticket. Same sound. Same response from the ticket taker.
We all looked at each other, stunned. We continued exchanging stunned looks as someone led us to a security office and explained that we had been ripped off. They showed us three other packets of fake tickets with our exact seat numbers that other naive rubes had been sold by the same brilliant but dastardly con artist. A regular Frank Abignale Jr. had gotten his hands on us.
As this was happening, I flashed back in my mind to when my friends had shown up at my house prior to the concert and handed me my ticket. I recalled a brief blip of a thought going through my brain at the time that the ticket didn't feel quite exactly like a real ticket...the texture of it was almost imperceptably off...but this fraction of a notion quickly vanished - most likely because someone put a cocktail in my hand, and I moved on to thinking about drinking it.
In any case, this ignored premonition was of little use to us now, standing around outside the Hollywood Bowl with bags full of food and no tickets to the show. The security officer gave us a photocopy of our fake tickets and encouraged us to file a police report. She said that if this guy had ripped off enough people - and from the looks of it, he was on quite a roll - then his crime could escalate to a serious charge. Again, little solace was taken in this at this particular moment.
Luckily, I went to the box office and was able to purchase four more tickets in very similar seats in the Garden Box section, for only $25 more per ticket. Of course, this was on top of the $400 we had already flushed down the toilet. But we did get to see the show, which was great (kvetch-free!). And we do have a pretty good story.
All I know is, this asshole has some pretty intense karma coming his way. This isn't like someone breaking into your home and stealing your TV. This is: you made plans, made preparations, invited friends, got excited for something you were looking forward to, got in a car and went somewhere...only to have it all taken away from you. That's a pretty shitty thing to do to someone...let alone however many people Dickwad McMoneybags did this to.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Bad Car Wash
Just took my car to the car wash. My car was pretty dirty, but the most glaring blemish was a large white bird shit stain on one of the taillights. When I got home, I noticed a significant portion of it was still there. I had to go upstairs, come back down with a rag, and scrub the rest of it off myself.
I realize it was my bad for not checking the car out before I drove away. But still, come on. That's inexcusable. The most basic expectation of bringing your car to a car wash is for them to get the bird shit off it - if not in the high-powered, roll through washing section, then for sure on the human-powered rub down afterwards. This half-assed effort makes me burn with regret for tipping the car wash employee. But, then again, lesson learned. From now on I'll remember to check and see if all the bird shit is gone.
I realize it was my bad for not checking the car out before I drove away. But still, come on. That's inexcusable. The most basic expectation of bringing your car to a car wash is for them to get the bird shit off it - if not in the high-powered, roll through washing section, then for sure on the human-powered rub down afterwards. This half-assed effort makes me burn with regret for tipping the car wash employee. But, then again, lesson learned. From now on I'll remember to check and see if all the bird shit is gone.
You May Exercise, But You're Still a Hog
Hey lady. Yes, you, the one who's been working out here in the building fitness center every morning this week. The one who never even acknowledges me when I walk in, even though the room can only fit about five people.
I don't know if you've noticed, but there's only just this one TV in here. So whatever is on that TV, that's what everyone has to watch. And yes, I realize the unwritten rule is that whoever gets to the gym when no one else is there assumes temporary ownership of the remote and can watch whatever he or she wants. So congratulations, you always get here before I do. You win. Enjoy your control of the television.
All I'm saying is, if the roles were reversed, and it was me who had the power of the remote every day, maybe one time I would offer it to someone else. Like, say, the only other person in the fitness center who I pretend to ignore when you come in after me every single morning. I might not subject you and whoever else might be working out here to watching the same stupid VH1 video countdown every single morning. Or even if I didn't offer you the chance to watch something you might want to watch, at least I myself might try changing it up, so as not to see the same lame Taylor Swift and Adele videos every single goddamn day. That kind of thing might be considered courteous. As opposed to your behavior, which I consider to be discourteous. I'm just saying.
Oh yeah, and as long as you're going to force me to watch the VH1 video countdown every morning...maybe you could turn the TV up to a volume where we could actually hear the fucking songs. What do you think?
I don't know if you've noticed, but there's only just this one TV in here. So whatever is on that TV, that's what everyone has to watch. And yes, I realize the unwritten rule is that whoever gets to the gym when no one else is there assumes temporary ownership of the remote and can watch whatever he or she wants. So congratulations, you always get here before I do. You win. Enjoy your control of the television.
All I'm saying is, if the roles were reversed, and it was me who had the power of the remote every day, maybe one time I would offer it to someone else. Like, say, the only other person in the fitness center who I pretend to ignore when you come in after me every single morning. I might not subject you and whoever else might be working out here to watching the same stupid VH1 video countdown every single morning. Or even if I didn't offer you the chance to watch something you might want to watch, at least I myself might try changing it up, so as not to see the same lame Taylor Swift and Adele videos every single goddamn day. That kind of thing might be considered courteous. As opposed to your behavior, which I consider to be discourteous. I'm just saying.
Oh yeah, and as long as you're going to force me to watch the VH1 video countdown every morning...maybe you could turn the TV up to a volume where we could actually hear the fucking songs. What do you think?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Nothing Short of Blasphemy
I heard something downright alarming the other day. It was so horrifying, my earlobes nearly folded themselves up into my ear canals so as to permanently prevent me from ever hearing anything ever again.
I was listening to the radio in my car - Star 98.7, I believe it was - when (and I think we can all agree on this) one of the best songs ever written came on: "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses.
So there I am, singing along to Axl's sweet sweet vocal stylings. And then, as he finishes up the chorus, it came time for Slash's big solo - one of his best, mind you, and Slash is not a guitarist short on awesome solos. As I set my voice for falsetto mode to screech along to his Les Paul...the song fast forwarded to later in the solo. Meaning, they edited about 30 seconds of it out, skipping right to a later part of the solo.
I couldn't believe my ears. Not only that, but later on in the song they edited another section out. I can't remember which one, because I was still suffering from the emotional devastation of the first edit. Nevertheless, I picked up on something else being wrong, even though I was too woozy to pinpoint it. It was probably similar to what it's like for a soldier to get shot in war, then kind of only barely notice when he gets shot a second time, because of the overwhelming pain of the first bullet. I probably should have pulled the car over, but I didn't. Luckily, no one was killed.
Except for "Sweet Child," that is. Why would they do this? Why would they edit down such a classic rock song? It's not like they censored swear words or anything, like when you watch "Casino" on AMC and it sucks because every third word is "fuck." They just went ahead and shortened it. Why? I don't know. It's not like it's a particularly long song. And even if it was, is there a finite amount of time radio stations have to play music? Are they worried they'll run out of air space that goes on forever? Last time I checked, the radio just plays music continuously, all the time, and will continue doing so until the world ends.
Suffice to say, I am of the opinion that whoever was in charge of this decision to bastardize "Sweet Child O' Mine" is a hater of good, if not all, music, and should be tortured before being put out of his misery.
I was listening to the radio in my car - Star 98.7, I believe it was - when (and I think we can all agree on this) one of the best songs ever written came on: "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses.
So there I am, singing along to Axl's sweet sweet vocal stylings. And then, as he finishes up the chorus, it came time for Slash's big solo - one of his best, mind you, and Slash is not a guitarist short on awesome solos. As I set my voice for falsetto mode to screech along to his Les Paul...the song fast forwarded to later in the solo. Meaning, they edited about 30 seconds of it out, skipping right to a later part of the solo.
I couldn't believe my ears. Not only that, but later on in the song they edited another section out. I can't remember which one, because I was still suffering from the emotional devastation of the first edit. Nevertheless, I picked up on something else being wrong, even though I was too woozy to pinpoint it. It was probably similar to what it's like for a soldier to get shot in war, then kind of only barely notice when he gets shot a second time, because of the overwhelming pain of the first bullet. I probably should have pulled the car over, but I didn't. Luckily, no one was killed.
Except for "Sweet Child," that is. Why would they do this? Why would they edit down such a classic rock song? It's not like they censored swear words or anything, like when you watch "Casino" on AMC and it sucks because every third word is "fuck." They just went ahead and shortened it. Why? I don't know. It's not like it's a particularly long song. And even if it was, is there a finite amount of time radio stations have to play music? Are they worried they'll run out of air space that goes on forever? Last time I checked, the radio just plays music continuously, all the time, and will continue doing so until the world ends.
Suffice to say, I am of the opinion that whoever was in charge of this decision to bastardize "Sweet Child O' Mine" is a hater of good, if not all, music, and should be tortured before being put out of his misery.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Man's Best Friend
There are few things more brain-blowingly frustrating than standing around on a sidewalk in the early morning waiting for a dog to shit. Especially when said dog has woken you up at 7:30 AM by yapping his head off from his enclosed area in your home, indicating that he has to go to the bathroom.
This leads you to groggily arise and wander the streets in clothes a homeless person wouldn't be caught dead in, something you clad yourself in before your mind was functioning on a fully coherent level. And then the dog has the nerve to sniff everything it sees, eat god knows what off the ground, sit and scratch himself endlessly - in short, doing everything but what he tricked you into coming outside to do.
You can't go back inside yet, for fear that he'll shit in the house once you take your eye off him for one second. Putting him back in his enclosed area is a 100% guarantee of more ear-splitting barking. So the unfortunate reality is that the very best option you have is this: standing around outside, your life governed by the scatalogical timeline of a 9-month-old mongrel, as you hope, wish and pray that he will just poop already. The only thing more pathetic is the euphoric joy that erupts in your heart when he actually does bless you with a decent sized turd, which you then have the glorious honor of picking up and throwing away.
This psychological humiliation is all magnified a hundredfold when the dog is not even yours, but your girlfriend's, who sleeps soundly in bed upstairs.
This leads you to groggily arise and wander the streets in clothes a homeless person wouldn't be caught dead in, something you clad yourself in before your mind was functioning on a fully coherent level. And then the dog has the nerve to sniff everything it sees, eat god knows what off the ground, sit and scratch himself endlessly - in short, doing everything but what he tricked you into coming outside to do.
You can't go back inside yet, for fear that he'll shit in the house once you take your eye off him for one second. Putting him back in his enclosed area is a 100% guarantee of more ear-splitting barking. So the unfortunate reality is that the very best option you have is this: standing around outside, your life governed by the scatalogical timeline of a 9-month-old mongrel, as you hope, wish and pray that he will just poop already. The only thing more pathetic is the euphoric joy that erupts in your heart when he actually does bless you with a decent sized turd, which you then have the glorious honor of picking up and throwing away.
This psychological humiliation is all magnified a hundredfold when the dog is not even yours, but your girlfriend's, who sleeps soundly in bed upstairs.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
More Corporate Lies
These companies really kill me. It's like seriously impossible to complete a transaction over the phone or internet without some sort of colossal hassle involved. My girlfriend and I went to Cabo a couple weeks ago, so she handled the bookings through Priceline.com, using my credit card. Then she found out we could get a better room in the same hotel for a cheaper price, so she canceled the hotel booking she made with Priceline (but kept the plane flights). She was assured I would be refunded the hotel portion, which was over $1,100. Beautiful.
After we got back, I checked online and saw my credit card had not been refunded the money. I called Priceline and was assured - a second time now - that the request was still being processed, and I had nothing to worry about; I would definitely be refunded.
You can guess what happens. A week later now and still no refund, so I call again. Bad news, I'm afraid. My refund request has been denied. The room, you see, was nonrefundable. "No no," I responded. "I was told twice that it absolutely was refundable." Again, the customer serveice rep says, nothing they can do.
As you already know from my earlier postings, I'm an old hand at this sort of thing, so I immediately asked to speak to someone with more authority. This new guy told me the same story. "You cannot do this," I started to raise my voice. "You can't have someone promise me that my reservation will be refunded, then have me go on vacation, come back, and tell me you can't refund the money. That's lying!" There was the usual back and forth on how there was nothing he could do, and I was just expected to politely eat the $1,100, hang up the phone, and happily go on with my day. After I started screaming a little more, he asked if he could put me on hold to see "if there were any options" for me. Would I mind holding? "I'd love to," I said.
It took all of one minute for him to come back and tell me they were going to refund the entire cost of the reservation.
I don't know what the deal is with these companies, why it's always lies and grief and stonewalling, as opposed to honest transparency and friendly customer relations. Is it just me? Or does this sort of thing happen to everybody?
After we got back, I checked online and saw my credit card had not been refunded the money. I called Priceline and was assured - a second time now - that the request was still being processed, and I had nothing to worry about; I would definitely be refunded.
You can guess what happens. A week later now and still no refund, so I call again. Bad news, I'm afraid. My refund request has been denied. The room, you see, was nonrefundable. "No no," I responded. "I was told twice that it absolutely was refundable." Again, the customer serveice rep says, nothing they can do.
As you already know from my earlier postings, I'm an old hand at this sort of thing, so I immediately asked to speak to someone with more authority. This new guy told me the same story. "You cannot do this," I started to raise my voice. "You can't have someone promise me that my reservation will be refunded, then have me go on vacation, come back, and tell me you can't refund the money. That's lying!" There was the usual back and forth on how there was nothing he could do, and I was just expected to politely eat the $1,100, hang up the phone, and happily go on with my day. After I started screaming a little more, he asked if he could put me on hold to see "if there were any options" for me. Would I mind holding? "I'd love to," I said.
It took all of one minute for him to come back and tell me they were going to refund the entire cost of the reservation.
I don't know what the deal is with these companies, why it's always lies and grief and stonewalling, as opposed to honest transparency and friendly customer relations. Is it just me? Or does this sort of thing happen to everybody?
Worst Class
I flew first class last weekend, LA to NY. Never flown first class before. I was actually pretty excited, but it didn't take longer than five minutes into the flight for me to be brought back down to earth (not literally, of course, as I was in the sky).
Usually when I fly, I stop off at the gift shop to get a couple magazines. Not this time, I told myself. I was positive they would have ample reading material and in-flight entertainment up in first class. But alas, when I pushed the flight attendant button, a frumpy woman shuffled over and scowled at me, saying "What happened, did the button push itself?" Thrown off by the sarcasm indicating her resent at my asking her simply to do her job, I mumbled an apology, then asked if they had any newspapers. "No," she said flatly. "Really? Magazines, anything?" She told me no again, but then reassured me that "If I see any lying around, I'll grab it for you."
Awesome. First class amenities include the flight attendants performing the acts of a street urchin by scavenging other passengers' belongings. I couldn't wait to get my hands on whatever rumpled publication this woman could root around and dig up from coach (which never happened, by the way). I've been on much shittier airplanes in third world countries that give you free copies of the local paper. And I can't even get a goddamn LA Times in first class on American Airlines.
I started drinking mimosas, and looked through the in-flight magazine (my only reading option) at what the movie was they'd be showing. It was something I'd never heard of, called EASY VIRTUE. It was about an English guy who marries an American girl and then has to introduce her to his family (hilarity ensues, I'm guessing). I checked to see what the flight was going to be on the way back to LA. It was THE PROPOSAL, that romantic comedy about Sandra Bullock forcing Ryan Reynolds to marry him to get a green card or something, and him having to introduce her to his family. So what I had to look forward to here were two romcoms about couples getting married and meeting each other's families. Nice variety. I was overjoyed when the stewardess brought me my own personal movie player that had a wider selection of things to watch...you know, the kind of thing that JetBlue has built into their seats...in coach.
When I ordered my third mimosa, I was actually cut off. The stewardess told me to wait till after breakfast. I asked her if she was worried that I was going to get drunk. "Yes," she said. Then, trying to backtrack on offending me, she said "Not because of you...because of me." Righty-o. Whatever that means. Again, I was under the impression that in first class the customer should be totally catered to. That's why the tickets are like three times more expensive than coach. And here I was being told to slow down on my champagne and orange juice. It's not like I was doing Jaeger bombs, for Christ's sake. I told her not to worry about it, then ordered one from another flight attendant.
Other than that the flight was quite pleasant. I was just really hoping not to have stuff to kvetch about on a first class flight. Well done, AA.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
I Continue to Hate Sprint
Recently I went to a dinner party. At one point I was asked to make a run to the local corner mart (despite being a guest) to pick up some pineapple juice for the specialty cocktails being made. When I returned I tried to call someone to let me into the apartment complex, only to be routed to a Sprint customer service center informing me that my account had been suspended. Having almost shot myself as a result of dealing with Sprint matters in the past, I could immediately sense my heart rate quickening.
There was the standard 10 minutes of hold time before I could speak to someone, during which I managed to get into the building and back into the party. I excused myself to the balcony, as I knew there would be voice-raising, possible yelling involved.
I was right. A subhuman female customer service rep finally picked up and informed me that my service had been shut off because I had a past due account balance of $177 - two months. I told her I didn't understand how this was possible, as I always pay my bills on time. In fact, I have a wonderful feature set up on my account that automatically charges my credit card when my bill is due every month, so there is no possible way I can fail to pay my bill on time. But as I've learned, anything is possible in Sprint Land.
After berating this emotionless freak for just up and turning off my phone service - as opposed to, say, sending me an email or text message informing me that my bill was past due - perhaps maybe even warning me that my service may be in jeopardy of being shut off - I calmed down, wanting to get on with the business of just paying the bill and returning to the dinner party. As I was getting out my wallet, the she-zombie told me they would not accept payment in the form of a credit card. "What do you mean?" I asked, confused. She told me the only way I could pay this bill was in person, with cash, at a Sprint store, or by way of "money gram." She was very insistent that there was no way they could take my credit card, despite the fact that this is how I have paid every single phone bill with them for years and years.
"Listen to me," I said, blood temperature on the rise. "There is no way in hell I am spending any part of my day going to a Sprint store with $177 in cash to pay this bill. That's insane."
"You can also pay with a money gram, sir," she repeated.
"I don't even know what the fuck a money gram is!" I screamed. "That is not a form of payment in this country! We pay for things with credit cards!" Then I asked her "Can you even tell me what a money gram is?"
She didn't answer me. "Hello?" I asked. Still no answer, but I could hear her clicking away on her keyboard. She was looking up what a money gram was. I looked through the window at my friends enjoying the party, having a good time, possibly wondering what I was doing out on the balcony. "Look, put someone else on the phone," I sighed. "This whole thing has been a colossal waste of my time. Put someone on the phone who has more authority than you."
She put me on hold. Much more waiting. Finally a guy with a whiny voice took over the call, and things didn't get much better. He kept insisting I had to pay this bill in cash at a Sprint store. I tried to reason with him, to tell him that was ludicrous, to please listen to the very words that were coming out of his mouth. No matter. These people have all been brainwashed to produce the most frustrating answers available to their loyal customers. The one positive thing he did for me was actually turn my service back on. But again, to pay my bill, I would have to go to a... "Yeah yeah yeah," I said. "Look, I'm not going to a Sprint store. I'm just not. So if you won't take my credit card then we have nothing left to talk about."
"All right sir, you have a nice night." Asshole. I hung up and went back inside.
The next day I got a text message from Sprint asking me to pay my bill online via credit card.
There was the standard 10 minutes of hold time before I could speak to someone, during which I managed to get into the building and back into the party. I excused myself to the balcony, as I knew there would be voice-raising, possible yelling involved.
I was right. A subhuman female customer service rep finally picked up and informed me that my service had been shut off because I had a past due account balance of $177 - two months. I told her I didn't understand how this was possible, as I always pay my bills on time. In fact, I have a wonderful feature set up on my account that automatically charges my credit card when my bill is due every month, so there is no possible way I can fail to pay my bill on time. But as I've learned, anything is possible in Sprint Land.
After berating this emotionless freak for just up and turning off my phone service - as opposed to, say, sending me an email or text message informing me that my bill was past due - perhaps maybe even warning me that my service may be in jeopardy of being shut off - I calmed down, wanting to get on with the business of just paying the bill and returning to the dinner party. As I was getting out my wallet, the she-zombie told me they would not accept payment in the form of a credit card. "What do you mean?" I asked, confused. She told me the only way I could pay this bill was in person, with cash, at a Sprint store, or by way of "money gram." She was very insistent that there was no way they could take my credit card, despite the fact that this is how I have paid every single phone bill with them for years and years.
"Listen to me," I said, blood temperature on the rise. "There is no way in hell I am spending any part of my day going to a Sprint store with $177 in cash to pay this bill. That's insane."
"You can also pay with a money gram, sir," she repeated.
"I don't even know what the fuck a money gram is!" I screamed. "That is not a form of payment in this country! We pay for things with credit cards!" Then I asked her "Can you even tell me what a money gram is?"
She didn't answer me. "Hello?" I asked. Still no answer, but I could hear her clicking away on her keyboard. She was looking up what a money gram was. I looked through the window at my friends enjoying the party, having a good time, possibly wondering what I was doing out on the balcony. "Look, put someone else on the phone," I sighed. "This whole thing has been a colossal waste of my time. Put someone on the phone who has more authority than you."
She put me on hold. Much more waiting. Finally a guy with a whiny voice took over the call, and things didn't get much better. He kept insisting I had to pay this bill in cash at a Sprint store. I tried to reason with him, to tell him that was ludicrous, to please listen to the very words that were coming out of his mouth. No matter. These people have all been brainwashed to produce the most frustrating answers available to their loyal customers. The one positive thing he did for me was actually turn my service back on. But again, to pay my bill, I would have to go to a... "Yeah yeah yeah," I said. "Look, I'm not going to a Sprint store. I'm just not. So if you won't take my credit card then we have nothing left to talk about."
"All right sir, you have a nice night." Asshole. I hung up and went back inside.
The next day I got a text message from Sprint asking me to pay my bill online via credit card.
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