I realize that this post was supposed to be about alcohol and Darwin; however, grand meteorological, theological, and metaphysical events have dictated otherwise. Without any sort of witty prelude I am just going to come right out and state it, my computer died. I am a typical online kid, everything - I mean everything is on the desktop of my now very dead dell laptop.
My friends tell me that life is too short to lament the loss of the ones we love, so this post is not about my loss it is about getting even. I hate dell, not because they make junk computers, because they have the worst customer service ever. The following is a harrowing tale of bad elevator music, individuals who suffer from severe ESL, and the use of the mentally retarded as customer service representatives. Here is the story after the computer died at 11:36 pm.
11:45-Call #1- level of irritation 3/10: I go through the entire charade of entering pins, passwords, waist size, and penis girth. Finally, Punjab the Putz gets on the line and says "thank you for calling dell"- Now if Punjab had more then curry for brains, he would have looked at the clock in his New deli office and realized that it was 12:15 am and I am calling technical support. A simple amount of deductive logic would have tipped him off that I did not want pleasantries I wanted to speak to someone who would fix the problem. This is the same as hiring a hooker and having her say she wants foreplay- she is not paid for foreplay- deductive reasoning hookers have it, guys in New Deli don’t. 12:35 am- Punjab hangs up, while trying to transfer me.
12:45 am - Call#2- level of irritation 5/10: Once again go through entire charade of entering bicep width, dogs' height, and oil level of midsize sedan in Mongolia. After a 35 minute hold time, I get John who sounds like Punjab- but I play along. He asks if I have an open case file- I say Punjab hung up on me- he says ok we will start from the beginning. He proceeds to verify all my information, a curious procedure considering I had to enter four pass codes and all body measurements to get past his computer call screener machine. But I play along. He then makes a startling discovery- I own a dell! But not just any dell, I own a business machine- something I hoped the passwords dell gave the machine would tell him- but I was wrong. (What does the express service code really stand for?) He says he has to transfer me to "people who are equipped to handle the problem" we all know that really means that I am going to have to dial again because they are going to hang up on me- but what the hell it is only 1:15 am and I don’t need sleep, besides Punjab just got his morning curry shipment. Sure enough some bad elevator music and it is time for call number 3.
1:45am call #3- level of irritation 7/10: To quote head and shoulders "to effectively control itch rinse and repeat"- so I do with all of the above, except the itch is still there. Now I am back speaking to Punjab except he has finished lunch and his name is now Ben. (Sounds the same though). Punjab pretends like he has not spoken to me, and after verifying that my asshole is round and sanitary, he says he is going to transfer me to a technician who can help. Sound familiar? Well just as I am bending over and Punjab in inserting his magic wand in my rump, Mike comes on the phone. Wonderful I think finally someone who can help- nope I was wrong again. Mike (who I believe is Punjab’s cousin in the cubicle over) states that he only works with desktops. But I don’t own a desktop- so in his best Tony Blair imitation Punjab’s cousin says he is going to transfer me- I get cut off at 2:35. I now have the same elevator song ingrained in my memory.
2:50am- call #4- irritations 11/10 after going through all the requisite steps I finally get to George who promises that English is his first language, he can fix the problem, and that he is on this side of the Atlantic. Wonderful life is finally taking a turn for the better right? Wrong. George starts off with "what seems to be the problem?". An innocuous question, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and respond as politely as I can “THE FUCKIN' MACHINE IS BROKEN, YOU DAMN CRACK POT, and WHY ELSE WOULD I BE CALLING YOU AT 2:45 IN THE MORNING? MY OWN HEALTH? A REALLY FUCKED UP LONG DISTANCE, CELL PHONE MINUTE USING, GAY DOMINATRIX SESSION?" He apologizes for mass murder in Darfur and partial birth abortion and goes on, to say “so it does not turn on at all?" nope. We go through all the usual stuff, take the battery in, take the battery out, put the ac cord in, pull the ac cord out, do the hokey pokey and turn the computer about... nothing works. Finally, George comes up with a gem “how do you feel about taking off the cover and playing with insides of the machine?" “My initial thought was “did your mother drop you as a child or did the curry force you to shit out your brain?" So I said “well it can't get anymore fucked then it is- of course I am comfortable taking apart my $3,000 dollar machine." So we take screws out unplug and re-plug things, we find out that the plans he has on his computer don't match the computer lying on my operating table. 3:35 am computer gets back together and George makes the startling announcement - " it is fucked I am going to send out a service team". (brilliant- took the dell guys 4 hours to figure out what i knew in 15 mintues).
Call #4 part 2- 3:36 am- irritation level = apathetic
I hate life. George now tells me he needs to send out a tech to service the machine, but since my call came in so late the order will not be processed until Monday morning instead of Sunday night. Wonderful one extra day of no computer. Now things get interesting, George's computer blows up, so he has to start inputting the data of what we have done. He is pecking away at his keyboard; I am starting to fall asleep. He then appears to be getting to the end and asks for my zip code. I give it to him, and he says the computer says it does not exist. So the zip code that works just fine to send me my bill, to send me the collection notice, to send the repo guys - well now it conveniently does not work? So now George is stumped, his extensive training in fucking up people's lives stops at the point where the computer says sorry you are retarded. Finally at 4:35 am he gives me sort of tracking number that will tell the next idiot at dell what my body mass index is, percentage of my body that is fat, and size of my shoes.
Thank you Dell, I have lost faith in the human race- becuase if this is progress i want out. With unending hate for Dell and Verizon ( to be the subject of another post). I think dell customer service would be better if you called and they just sent a guy named bubba who came over and just pissed on your foot.