Friday, September 29, 2006
El Bastardo's Rant on the Backdoor Tactics of the Fuckwit Religious Right
Okay. As many of you know from my earlier rants, I am not a big fan of religion. Nor do I put much confidence in those who practice and/or believe in any form of religion. But as long as they keep their idiotic childlike fantasies to themselves, I have no problem.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday
Are you loathesome tonight?
1.) Humans That Come Into Contact With My Children.
Earlier, I was sitting here at the computar machiene while the kids ate their dinner. They had asked for pot pies and I won't eat those things, so I let them eat on their own tonight. I was listening to music, fairly loud. Opeth, if you must know.
The kids go, "MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM!"
"What?!" I ask, and turn the tunes down.
"Do you believe in god?" they ask, in unison.
Er, what? Did they just...WHAT?
"No," I said. "Where did you hear that word?!"
"At school," says my son.
"Me, too," says my daughter.
"No," I tell them. "I do not believe in god."
"I do!" chirps my daughter.
"Me, too," says my son.
"Do you even know what god is?" I ask. I am getting more and more alarmed by the minute.
"He lives in the sky!" says my daughter.
"He makes people!" says my son.
"He most certainly does NOT!" I say, incensed. I wave my arms. The kids look puzzled.
This went on for a little while and by the time we were done, I wanted to bash my face against the wall repeatedly.
I finally got them to stop it by saying that other people are more than welcome to believe whatever they want, but in our house, until they are of an age that they may make their own decisions about such, we do not have anything to do with god or any other religious trappings. Mostly because my functioning brain won't allow it and the very idea makes me itchy. And we all know how I feel about the itchy.
Now. Okay. I have had time to breathe since this exchange. Sure, I was shocked and appalled and dismayed and I don't think I could've been more upset even if my 4 year old daughter had come home announcing that she's pregnant to an imprisoned Samoan lesbian and getting married next week and also addicted to crack.
You see, I have taken great care not to expose my children to anyone's religion or my lack thereof. While I may occasionally shout "Jesus Jumped-Up Christ!" when I bang my elbow on the corner of the desk, that's about all the farther I've gone in the god department.
But my kids have apparently been exposed to this elsewhere and this upsets me. I am not raising any budding Jesus-freaks here. I do not want to have them coming home and chirping about how "god makes people."
Why? Because it's nonsense. Kids have an active enough fantasy life without throwing in some adult's idea of a good time on top of it. If my kids want to jabber about imaginary cosmic thingies in the sky, they can talk about goddamned purple flying monkey unicorns.
I had planned on not bringing up the subject of my atheism until they were a lot older. I, perhaps naively, thought that we could get away with not talking about it until they were old enough to understand. And when they were old enough to understand, I figured they could make their own decisions about it. And if they chose atheism (which is just and good and right AND WTF YOU IDIOTS STAY AWAY FROM MY CHILDREN), then that would be fine and dandy. And if they chose to go the theist route (oh, it burns and burns), well, then that would also be fine and dandy. Unless they decided to go Mormon or Jehovah's Witness or Wiccan, in which case I would promptly disown them and spit at them if I saw them on the street. Contrary to popular opinion, a mother's love is NOT unconditional.
But no, apparently this will not happen. The best laid plans and all of that. My kids have been exposed to whatever cack-handed jabber their schoolmates and other people have been spouting and now I find myself having to explain that I lack belief in deities and also explain that they, too, lack belief in deities because they don't know what the hell they are on about. They are atheist by default, because they don't freaking know what "god" is.
While I realize that this was inevitable, I just wasn't prepared for it, I confess. I found myself suppressing the near overwhelming urge to run around the house, waving my arms around while screaming, "NOOOOOOOOOO. GET THEE BEHIND ME, CHRISTIANS!" or something along those lines, after which I would promptly take a bath in Clorox to get it off me.
So, listen up, People That Have Been Oozing the Religious Yippety-Yap All Over My Kids: fucking knock it off! I can't explain logical fallacies to a 6 year old and a 4 year old! They barely understand me when I tell them that certain TV shows aren't always just on when we want them to be, there's something called programming and time-slots and time-zones and stuff. How can I explain that invisble cosmic sky daddies did not, in fact, "make people"? I can't sit down with them and explain Pascal's Wager and Paley's Watchmaker and why none of it makes any damned practical, logical, REASONABLE sense to people that do not regularly suspend disbelief and roll out the bathmat to praise fucking Allah 900 times a day or go to Mass or tithe to the fucking church or wear a dumb beanie hat. BECAUSE JUST SHUT UP AND GO AWAY.
Maybe I should sit them down for a little heart to heart and explain that if they want to be religious right now, they can become Pastafarians and preach the Good News of the Flying Spaghetti Monster to all and sundry. Because, as we all know, in the beginning, he created a mountain, some trees and a midget.
Some days, my impending sense of doom just goes into overdrive. This is one of those days.
PS - However, if there is a hell, I am probably going there:
The Creep says:
Man. Time 2 of the My Little Ponies DVD.
The Creep says:
The Creep says:
Did you know that there was a "special princess twirl"?
I had no idea.
The Creep says:
Well, now that I know, I can teach it to you.
Excellent! I always wanted to be a special princess, but I wasn't fortunate enough to be born with the Down's Syndrome. You make all my dreams come true.
The Creep says:
I'm sorry, Corky. Sometimes these things just come out of my mouth and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm sure you understand.
No hate from EB tonight, due to extenuating circumstances that require he retreat to his Fortress of Bastarditude. Stay tuned for bile from him at a later date. Same Bastard time, same Bastard channel.
But oh...what is this?
Oh yeah, baby.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
I Always Knew That a Mullet Would End Up Causing Me Some Pain
Last night, I had a nightmare.
It was truly scary. One of those ones that seem to go on and on and on forever and you can't escape.
And like most of my nightmares, this one was absurd.
You see, Dog the Bounty Hunter had kidnapped my children. You'd think that someone with a Mullet Most Magnificent and a cool theme song done by Ozzy...you'd think he wouldn't be interested in snatching children, especially since he's already got like 20 of them or something. But steal them Dog did, causing EB and I to hunt through town, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Mullet Most Magnificent, and therefore find where my children were.
He chases criminals! He hunts them down! He doesn't need my kids!
Sadly, I woke up before we could find my wee ones. And fortunately, they were tucked in their blankets, safely sleeping the sleep of non-kidnapped children.
So I guess that worked out all right.
If you haven't seen this yet, you should:
I wish Donny Osmond would be MY backup dancer. That's awesome.
And now, after working and working and working and braindeath...I sleep. Stay tuned for tomorrow's hate. It might have a surprise!
Friday, September 22, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Not-Thursday
Yeah, didn't get a chance to write last night. I'd like to say it was because I was out on the town, havin' a blast, gettin' drunk, gettin' in fights, gettin' arrested, goin' to jail, and gettin' my fellowship on with my companion drunken cellmates by singing "Go Down, Moses" in four-part harmony, but alas. That did not happen.
My real life is so much more excruciatingly boring than all that, though you may, from time to time, catch me singing "Go Down, Moses" by myself anyway.
I won't tell you what I was really doing, but if you are very clever, you might be able to figure it out anyway. Hint: it involved the TV, random shouting, the fetal position and insomnia.
LET MY PEOPLE GO.
Anyway, here's your hate:
1.) The Realization That I Am a Hopeless Dork.
I have introduced The Creep to the Wonder that is the YouTube. I have shared random fun videos, most of which I have already posted here.
Then I shared the Best Music Video Ever Made, which is Bonnie Tyler's video for "Total Eclipse of the Heart."
If you hadn't seen that before, or at least not since you used to hug the TV while you watched VH1's Pop Up Video, you're welcome. Your life is more enriched for having seen this video today.
I wish I had been there for the meeting that developed this video. Whatever genius thought of having ninjas, men in furry loincloths, an army of Children of the Damned-esque choirboys, a mostly naked boys' high school swim team, a group of gay men in motorcycle jackets, and a mostly naked boy with wings all together in one music video is my personal hero.
Also the end of this video is sheer cinematic genius.
Anyway, so this set off a volley of sending links to music videos back and forth, and The Creep sent this:
And even before the video loaded, I was all, "YEAH. GWAR. YEAH YEAH. GWAR GWAR GWAR. HEH. YEAH YEAH," and bouncing up and down in my chair in glee and that is when I realized that I am hopeless.
But hey, whatever. GWAR. GWAR. GWAR GWAR GWAR.
What is extra-special is the argument that broke out in the comments section of this video. I never really thought I'd see a fight break out over whether or not Slipknot is better than GWAR. Because why would you argue about that?
And, suddenly, I feel better about my dorkiness, because at least I'd never do that.
In public, anyway.
Hail Saddam a go-go!
2.) The CGI Barbie Movies I Keep Seeing Advertised.
I don't know what's up with these Barbie movies. Not so long ago, I saw a commercial for one and went, "AHHH! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"
"Mom, that is Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus," my daughter stoutly informed me.
"Is that for kids? Surely that's not for kids. It looks so...wrong."
"It's for kids!"
Not for my kids. I'm not buying any DVD with an army of computer-generated Barbies with dead, dead eyes flailing around and singing.
Not going to happen.
3.) The Fact That It's Fucking Freezing In Here.
I can't get the damned pilot light on the furnace lit. There is something wrong with it. So, of course, there is no heat. And it's freaking cold in here in the mornings and since it's quite possible that I am actually a reptile, my body temperature lowers to match that of my surroundings, and so, I am freaking cold. It appears not to bother the children, so that's good. But still.
I called the landlord to inform him that the pilot light won't stay lit and could he please come and fix it. Or send someone to fix it. And he said he would. But no one has come yet. So the pilot light remains unlit.
And did I mention I'm freaking cold?
I'm thinking about climbing into the oven for an hour or two, just to warm up.
My luck, though, I'd get all snoozy from the lovely warmth and fall asleep and then we'd have to have roast leg of me for dinner.
And that's all she wrote.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
I've Seen the Future, Brother. It Is Murder.
When I'm not spending my time doing all the things that a jet-setting young unprofessional such as myself does (You know, like eating cheap cardboard-tasting frozen pizza while watching movies on the TV and hollering at the people on the screen as if they can hear me before remembering to call all my friends to remind them that there is a sale going on at the Dollar Store so we best get to gettin' before all the prime plastic knickknacks and badly painted rabbit statuettes are snapped up. Classy shit like that, yo), I'm concentrating on trying to figure out how to raise my children in such a manner that they do not grow up to be on COPS.
I'm not sure if I will mind them being the officers of the law on COPS or not, but I am fairly certain I don't want them to be that guy that runs away and trips over a fence and lands in a kiddie wading pool or that crazy person in the wool hat with the pom-pom on the top that's screaming at a stop sign for being a sinner.
Though now that I'm thinking about it, I really don't think I want my kids to be the heat after all. It would be a shame for them to have to arrest their own dear mother when she's caught shouting at a stop sign like a mentally ill homeless person at an advanced age. Not that their mother would be doing that because she is crazy, though. No, their mother would be doing that because mocking the homeless is fun. And last I checked, this was AMERICA. And in AMERICA, land of the something and home of the...pie? hot dogs? something, HAVING FUN isn't AGAINST THE LAW nor is it POLITICALLY INCORRECT or INSENSITIVE AND POSSIBLY TINGED WITH RACISM. No. Fun is just fun, dammit, so stop trying to act like it's not funny
Right. So, no being on COPS at all full stop.
I have a point here. And the point is this: the children. The children are our future.
I don't really know what I'm talking about at this point and I just wandered through the dining room after grabbing a fresh can of Diet Coke and caught sight of the vacuum cleaner, which obviously frightened me and made me jump five feet into the air. I don't know why it should be obvious that that frightened me or why it even frightened me at all, but it did, and so here are three things about children, none of which are even remotely related to each other or vacuum cleaners or the future at all, except in the context that the future is murder, as was so wisely pointed out once by Leonard Cohen in a fantastic song and do you think this run-on sentence could get any longer at all because I'm almost certain I could drag it out for another 16 lines or so if I was so inclined, but WHATEVER. MY BLOG.
1.) Shoe Diva in Training.
Oh, Meredith. So young, yet you've already succumbed to the thing that will terrorize you for the rest of your life. If only I had seen it coming. I might've been able to stave off its arrival for a little while longer.
Oh, sigh. You are now destined to spend the rest of your life coveting shoes and buying shoes and envying the shoes of other women and feeling satisfied when you buy new shoes for ten minutes until you see another pair you'd rather have and then the buyer's remorse sets in...you poor child. I'm sorry.
Though I must say, they look rather good on you...
...I think you still have a lot to learn.
Namely this: those shoes are mine, so back off.
2.) First Graders Get A Lot of Homework.
I don't remember getting homework in the first grade. My son comes home laden with worksheets and flash cards almost daily.
Yesterday, he brought home math homework. Math. The bane of my existence. Who knew that my mathematical shortcomings would be brought to light so soon in my son's short life? How did we end up at this place? It is so sad, I almost want to weep.
He gets story problems. Word problems, as we used to call them. "Mom, can you help me with this...if there are three goldfish in the bowl and I take one out, how many are left?"
"Well, son. Let's examine this. You say you have three goldfish in the bowl. But are they really in the bowl? Could it be that life is nothing more than a cruel cosmic joke and there really aren't any goldfish there at all? The goldfish were just something you wanted to have there? So if you take one away, it doesn't really matter, since the goldfish don't exist. Does that help?"
"Whatever, Mom. The answer is two."
"I knew that."
3.) Teenagers Are Goddamned Exhausting.
This evening, I had the dubious pleasure of the company of a 13 year old girl for several hours, visiting my home.
I am now wracked with the shakes as I realize that my kids will be that age one day and I just don't think I can handle it.
Teen angst is overwhelmingly tiring. The girl barely spoke other than to emit several grunts of assent when I offered caffeinated beverages and still I am reeling from the horrible sense of dread that accompanied her everywhere she went.
This kid managed to make playing video games seem like a punishment and huffed and sighed in a most put-upon fashion when I suggested that she might want to play some games on my laptop instead of spending the evening exuding a cloud of teenaged resentment all over my living room.
Because, honestly, if there's any resentment-exuding going on in my house, it's going to be coming from me, so shut up and play some fucking pinball, kid.
At any rate, this further cements the idea that I need to prevent my kids from growing up, because teenagers, on a good day, make me vaguely uneasy - and I'd rather not spend many years being uneasy because my kids are wild animals bent on destruction and mayhem.
Oh man. I'm doomed.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I Found El Bastardo! He Was Behind the Couch the Whole Time!
El Bastardo's Rant on the Suckage of Politicizing 9/11
Is it just me, or has anyone else gotten tired of all the bloviating, self-important rants from this fuckwit of a president and his cohorts, trying to gain brown-nosing points by using one of the worst attacks on U.S. soil as a means to get in another few years of ripping off this nation?
Friday, September 15, 2006
Super Happy Fun Time Courtesy of the Spawn of Zombie
You can always tell when school has started back up. No, it's not the slight chill of winter-to-come in the air, nor the start of the leaves fading to brown.
No, you can always tell when school has started back up because your 1st grader with the big brown eyes will come home bearing plague.
So now I am once again having a bout of Ebola. My son sniffled for two days and got over it, but whenever he gets the sniffles (or my daughter, for that matter), I will immediately catch it, and upon it hitting my bloodstream, it will mutate and morph into the Ebola, and then I am well and truly fucked.
Pay no attention to that shivering wretch in the corner. Tis only a fevered Zombie, desperately clinging to her white blood cells for salvation.
Unfortunately, it appears that I have the immune system of a something with no immune system, so those white blood cells I figuratively clutch to my heaving bosom for relief aren't actually plural.
I think I only have one.
I've named him Bob.
And Bob appears to be having a bit of a lie down at the moment. If I am lucky, he will wake up and his kung fu will be strong, because I don't really want to be sick right now. I have too much shit to do.
I just got done sprawling on the floor and watching The Constant Gardener. I suppose it was all right and very pretty to look at, but it didn't come close to being as awesome as the book. I really loved that book. You should read it.
So tired. Time to sleep.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo, In Absentia
Buy a tiger. Buy a monkey. Buy a ha ha.
1.) The View From My Back Door.
My new house doesn't have much of a yard - which is not really a big deal, since we're around the corner from a large and well-tended playground - but what little backyard it does have butts up against the house behind me's backyard.
So, every time I stroll into my kitchen, I am whacked in the face with this:
Wait, now, that doesn't quite do it justice. Let's try this again:
Please understand that the glowy orb thing you see is not some evidence of nuclear waste over there...it was the reflection my flash made when I took the pics through the windows. Though judging by the state of the yard, they very well may have some nuclear waste over there. Maybe it's under all the tarps.
Whew, glad we got that sorted.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Now With 65.4% More Cowbell
Asher is a 1st grader now and I cannot begin to tell you how much this disturbs me.
I can clearly remember when I was a 1st grader, and I suppose it really wasn't all that long ago. My 1st grade teacher's name was Mrs. Yee and she fed us cactus and made paper samurai hats for us. We flew kites and celebrated Chinese New Year with a paper dragon and suchlike.
I also remember her bringing us a casserole dish of her fried rice when my father died that year, but I didn't want to eat it because it had peas in it and peas just aren't right.
I still don't think peas are right.
What will my son remember about his 1st grade year?
His teacher seems pretty nondescript. She wears those sack dresses with the denim top part and the printed fabric skirts. I don't understand what it is with elementary school teachers and those dresses. Is there a law about that sort of thing that I am not aware of? Perhaps it is the long lost Eleventh Commandment: Thou Shalt Wear a Dress of Hideousness, As It Is Pleasing Unto the Eyes of the School Board. The School Board Shalt Not Abide By Any Manner of Flattering Apparel Upon Its Female Teachers.
I don't know, but I will bet you any money that she has holiday-themed sweatshirts (perhaps featuring puffy paint and glitter!) and plastic holiday-themed jewelry. I will know for sure when Halloween rolls around and she is wearing plastic pumpkin earrings. Then there will be the turkey sweatshirt for Thanksgiving and the ubiquitous Frosty the Snowman knitted abortion of a cardigan for Giftmas. Festive!
At any rate, I have a 1st grader. And my daughter will be in kindergarten next year. And I think they grow up too fast. So I am going to maybe put heavy books on their heads so they don't get any taller and therefore not any older. Because that makes sense. Right? Right. Whatever.
It's not my fault that I'm crazy. The wallpaper the last renter put up in my kitchen did it:
Yes, those are apples.
But the crowing glory...
I'm the cock of the walk, baby!
Those roosters march all the way around the border of the wall, there by the ceiling. An endless parade of cocks.
EB calls it the "Cock Kitchen" and says it isn't so terrible. I am now inclined to agree, since I have gotten over the initial shock and horror of it all. Now I think I will get a cow-shaped creamer pot and a Mammy cookiejar and an American Gothic print to put on the wall.
Friday, September 08, 2006
The Weekday of My Discontent
I hate moving.
Cable guy showed up and brought forth the modem and cable box from on high and a beam of sunlight swooped down to rest gently upon my fevered, high-speed-Interwebs-less brow and a choir of fat babies with wings sang and played harps.
Or, no, maybe I am confused about the whole singing winged babies thing. I think the singing winged babies showed up when I got all new pots and pans ON SALE FOR CHEAP, BABY, and now I don't have to use those old pots and pans I had since I was 18 and we all don't catch the dementia from eating spaghetti seasoned with flakes of Teflon. Mmm mmm, good.
Oh, and I have shiny new silverware, too. Kiss my Pfaltzgraff.
I love closeout stores.
I commenced with the Setting Up of the TeeVee first, because ZOMG SOMEONE PLEASE GET THESE KIDS A CARTOON NOW SO THEY LEAVE ME ALONE BEFORE I GO CRAZY AND EAT MY OWN HAIR.
I am a bad mother, as I consider the TV to be an appropriate babysitter and also sometimes feed them ice cream for dinner. I should write a book.
At any rate, after much wrestling with many cables and cords and other intricate nonsense and profuse swearing and kicking of inanimate objects and momentarily nearly strangling myself with speaker wires, I got the television cable-ized and my kids could commence with letting the TV rot their impressionable little brains.
And so I mosey over to Frankencomp and say, "Soon, my precious. Soon, we shall again have the Interwebs access of a regular-type fashion, and all will be well and all will be well and all manner of all things will be well."
I hook up modem and such. I wait eagerly, hovering over the little black box, waiting for its merciful green lights to appear and signal the return of consistent access to the Interwebs.
Well, power light. And PC/activity light. But no other lights. NO OTHER LIGHTS!
The horror. The horror.
I briefly considered flinging myself to the floor and churning my little legs around in a fit of pique, but discarded this idea after weighing its pros and cons.
Pros of Hurling Self to Floor and Churning Legs Around in Unbridled Resentment:
1.) Self will get to fully experience the nice nap of the brand new carpet in her brand new spiffy house, oh so soft and cushiony to the anger.
2.) Self will expend pent-up frustrations re: moving.
3.) Self will get moderate exercise and perhaps expend enough calories to make up for the milkshake consumed earlier.
4.) Self will quite possibly worry the children and become the focus of their therapy sessions later in life. "And then this one time, she couldn't get the Interwebs to work on the very first try, so she flung herself to the floor and kicked her legs around in fury, while making these weird mewling sounds, and now I think I need the Haldol."
Cons of Hurling Self to Floor and Churning Legs Around in Unbridled Resentment:
1.) Self might acquire rug burn, which is only acceptable if acquired under certain circumstances.
2.) Self might tire Self out, thus making it impossible to put away shiny new pots and pans and flatware in shiny new cupboards in shiny new kitchen.
3.) Self might end up having to pay for aforementioned therapy sessions for the children, resulting in even more fits of pique and leg-churning. "And then this one time, I hurled myself to the floor in a fit of offendedness, why, yes, I did make that word up, thank you, and then the kids needed the therapy and now I think my bank account needs the Prozac and I could use some morphine, if you have any handy."
4.) Self will not get the Interwebs to function correctly while lying prone on the floor and gazing with rage at the ceiling fan.
In the end, getting the Interwebs to work trumps all. There's time enough for throwing tantrums later. Like when I try to light the pilot light in my furnace tomorrow and blow us all to Kingdom Come. Yippee!
So, no fits! Just grim determination.
I powercycle. No dice.
I powercycle again. No dice.
I beg a tiny bit. "Please, Interwebs. Please." No dice.
Fine, I shall call the tech support. Obviously, there is something wrong with the lines or the modem itself. This must be resolved.
I get a chickie on the line. She runs through several troubleshooting tips. I humor her and do the powercycling again. And TA-DA...no dice.
She says, "Wait a moment, I will check something," and puts me on hold. I twitch in time to the Muzak on the phone. Muzak is much easier to tolerate when I have the Interwebs working.
She comes back. "I see the problem now. There are service outages all over your area. Just keep powercycling every so often and it should be back up soon."
Right. Okay. Outages. Okay. I can deal. Fine.
Kids and I watch the TeeVee for a while. I make them view a documentary on Prader-Willi Syndrome. "Lookie there, kiddies. That's what happens when you can't stop yourself from eating the Zingers. Better watch it."
Then we play with Asher's Batman action figures and Meredith's Aladdin playset and Cinderella pumpkin coach. In retrospect, this appears to have been a bad idea, because, now that they have experienced the joys of having the Batcycle run over the plastic bodies of Cinderella and her stupid mouse footman that's riding on a magic carpet, they may grow up to write ridiculous crossover fanfics and need even more therapy. "And then this one time, she laid on her belly on the floor with us and cackled with glee when Batman kicked Cinderella's sissy la-la ass and now I write bad stories and I think I need the Thorazine."
ANYWAY. Throughout all this debauchery, I am periodically powercycling the modem. And it is still not working. After a few hours, I again become incensed. Surely my Interwebs should be working by now. Surely.
I call the tech support again, because I am a masochist. New person on the phone tells me there are no outages in my area. I deduce that if it's not the lines that are fuckered, it's the modem itself that is faulty. Good thing Miss Marple was on the case.
Meanwhile, "Why would someone say that?" person on the phone wonders.
"Oh, I'll tell you why, my friend. Someone would say that because the someone in question had no idea how to fix my problem and couldn't be bothered trying to figure it out, so she just LIED HER LITTLE TAIL OFF."
"Oh. Well. Yes. Hrm. Well."
"So fix it. Now, please."
"Well, I'll have to send another tech out and the earliest appointment I have is Monday afternoon --"
"Bzzt! Sorry, wrong answer!" I burst in. "I need the Internet on now. Not in a few days. Not whenver you feel like it. NOW."
"But I can't get anyone there."
"Then I will trundle down to the local office and make them swap out my modem. How late is my local office open?"
"Good," I say, and hang up.
At this time, it was 4:27. Plenty of time to trundle to the local office and swap out my modem.
Only when I get to the local office at 4:36, it's closed! CLOSED! And the posted office hours say "8 AM to 4:30 PM."
OH NOEZ, another technical support person lied to me! Twice in one day! I WILL HURT SOMEONE FORTHWITH.
I stand there, contemplating what to do. If I could control the weather like I wish I could, I'd make lightning strike all over the place, just to express my displeasure adequately.
While standing there, a person wearing a Comcast shirt comes out of the side door of the building.
"YOU, SIR!" I shout. "I need help immediately."
I explain the sordid tale of woe and degradation I suffered at the hands of the lying liar people on the phone. Those scoundrels! Jackals, the lot of them! Jackals!
Fortunately, Man From the Side Door is friendly, or else perhaps intimidated by me, as I seem to have morphed into She-Ra, Princess of Power, and am full of righteous indignation that causes me to wave my arms around a lot and punctuate most sentences with "the almighty christing bastards!"
He gets on his little radio thingie and tells one of the techs to go up to my house right away and fix my problem. Now that's customer service, baby.
Or maybe that's what happens when you happen to pigeonhole a supervisor as he's trying to leave work for the day and rant at him on the street while stomping a foot periodically for emphasis and he's maybe worried you are a crazy person and also just wants to go home, and therefore will do anything to get you away from him.
Whatever. It worked.
And the Interwebs was restored and all was well in my peaceable kingdom.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo, In Absentia
EB's hate will come later. Walk it off, flowers.
I have moved to my new place, which means I need the TV and the Interwebs hooked up again. Wednesday, I spent forever on hold with Comcast, trying to get my cable hooked up. I was transferred to three different people and no one knew their asses from a hole in the ground, and blah blah.
I finally get to a guy that can complete my order. He asks if I would like to pay 25 dollars to have a tech install my modem, or do I want to do it myself.
Of course, I decline, because I am perfectly capable of doing it myself and even I am not so lazy as to want to pay 25 bucks to get some other geek to do it for me.
Guy tells me that's fine. Then he says I will need to go down to the office and pick up my modem.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you are doing a self-install."
"But...can't the cable guy bring it to me when he comes out Thursday?"
"That will cost 25 bucks."
"But I don't want him to install it. I just want him to bring it along with him when he comes to set up the TV cable."
"No, it will cost."
"But he's coming out here anyway. Is it heavy? I can can go out and meet the truck and carry it inside myself, if that's the part that costs the 25 bucks."
"Uh...no. If he brings it with him, it will cost 25 bucks."
"Okay. So. A cable guy that is already coming here anyway cannot also bring along a modem, and save me a trip down to the office, without charging me 25 bucks. Does that make any sense to you?"
"Uh...I don't know. Let me find out." And he puts me on hold.
HE PUT ME ON HOLD. To go find out if something made sense to him or not. I shudder to think how that conversation went.
"Hey, Wendy in the Next Cubicle, does this make sense to me?"
"I don't know, Guy in That Cubicle There, let's ask Phil Down the Aisle. Phil Down the Aisle, does this make sense to Guy in That Cubicle There?"
"I don't know, Wendy in the Next Cubicle. Let's ask Joe..."
And so on. Because dude was seriously gone for 10 minutes, apparently trying to find out whether or not his jackwad company policies make sense to him or not.
When dude came back, he said I didn't have to pay the 25 dollar fee and the cable guy would bring my modem and install kit with him.
"Gee, thanks," I said. I figure he queried a supervisor or something, and to prevent me from being more annoying with my twisty, twisty logic, they just waived the fee.
Fine. Whatever. As long as I don't have to pay 25 bucks for no reason, I'm happy.
2.) PeOpLE tHAT tyPe LiKE tHIs oN tHE IntERwEbS.
That doesn't make you look cool or crazy or whatever you think it makes you look like.
Unless you think it makes you look like a total fucking clownboat, in which case, you're absolutely right.
Ha ha. Clownboat.
3.) People that call me and then ask who I am.
Zombie: Ummm. Hey.
Fuckwit: Who is this?
Zombie: Uhm, no. YOU called ME. So who are YOU?
Fuckwit: I am looking for So and So.
Zombie: Wrong number.
I HATE that. How rude is that? Do not call someone and then demand to know the identity of the person you called. If you don't know, then you shouldn't be calling that number.
If you happen to have dialed the wrong number, fine, everyone makes mistakes...but don't ask ME who I am. Ask for the person you're trying to reach and then we can quickly establish that you've dialed the wrong number. Have some manners. Sheesh.
I hate bananas. Much like it is with the tomatoes, it is not so much the taste of the banana, but the texture.
I do not like the feel of banana in my mouth. It freaks me out. It's so...mushy. If you try to make me eat a banana, I will do one or more of the following things:
1.) Spit it out on your brand-new shoes.
2.) Tackle your ass, pin you to the floor by the neck, and cram the banana into your fat, stupid mouth.
Yes, Zombie has no bananas todaaaay.