Help Dot Calm?

From 2009

Yeah, I know, it’s been a LONG while. Don’t know why, because trust me, there has been enough things pissing me off that I could’ve filled this blog over and over again. Maybe I’m just a lazy fuck. I think it’s the latter. haha I don’t care.

Anyway, today’s experience just made me pop this back open and begin it again. Readers or no readers, I am just going to blow off the steam. The title is kind of a play on words, if you don’t get it, you soon will. If you still don’t, fuck it, you’re an idiot.

So the topic is help support telephone operators. I guess that’s what you call them. Anyhow, let me just ask this simple question. CAN I SPEAK TO AN AMERICAN PLEASE?

Jesus. Let’s just run the last phone call down for you, then get into my rants, or is this part of the rant? Oh, it’s all a fucking rant and always is from me. First I get the fucking automated machine. Please push 1 for blah blah fucking blah. Push 2 if you want to shoot my robot ass and stick this machine up the companies CEOs ass? PUSHING 2!!!!!

So, after being annoyed playing fucking number games like its Sesame Street, now they are taking me to the right (WRONG) department. Luckily this time there was no music that wants to make me slit my wrists, but there was another computer whore telling me ONE SECOND PLEASE, over and over again. Do I have any hair left by this time? I know one thing, my guns being loaded.

Finally, it rings thru and I am going to get a human. But wait, what’s his name? And why do I have to repeat mine and fucking spell it three times? Oh, that’s right; he’s from India, or some fucking where that shouldn’t be doing business for us in the first fucking place. Undercutting American jobs is what you are doing you fucking peasants. But, that’s a different topic, different time.

So, over and over again I got to repeat my number, name, my cock size, what kind of laundry detergent I use, over and over. Ok, I am exaggerating parts of that, but you catch my drift. Then finally after all the intros, I get to tell them my problem. At least three decades and two days have gone by, by now.
Now, he says, let me get one of my techs online here. So again, were off to someone else. Guess who it is though? That’s right, his uncle! Or someone closely related, because this fuck can’t understand shit or help me either. Around and around we go, as my life slowly fades into eternity. Now what, he’s got to transfer me to. What the fuck is this, musical fucking help line?

I sit on hold sharpening my knives and calling Obama on the red phone when I finally get another person. The birds begin to sing, the sun comes out, and unicorns fly out my ass. AN AMERICAN! Thank the fucking lord. I swear Jesus; I’m coming to church on Sunday.

I tell him the problem and I am finally a little calmed down. Yes, I taped up my slashed wrists if you must know. But then it happens. He has to run a test on my line which will take 1-4 hours and someone will call me back. Are you fucking kidding me? I think he should be tried for Treason, because he is obviously working for the enemy! Shoot this fuck to!

To make a long story longer, my internet is still not hooked up, and I am rolling on the old connection for now. I did get a call back to confirm a call back though. Does that make any fucking sense? Guess who it was. The robot bitch from the beginning. God Damn, I’m back to the fucking Jetsons. I GIVE UP. I’m throwing the phone in the toilet and going country to country to shoot every support desk slurpee sipper in the world. Who’s with me?