One More Time
The 24-Hour HTML Café
I thought I'd take a minute to discuss some troubling factors with you. First and foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan of yours... your many sides and dimensions are mind- boggling different from beer goggling, which I'll touch upon shortly. Yes, my friend, you always seem to be there when needed -- the perfect post-work cocktail, a beer with the game, and you're even there around the holidays, with a touch of cinnamon, you warm us even when stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings. Yet lately, I've been wondering about your intentions. You see, I want to believe that you've got my best interests in mind, but I feel that your influence has led to unwise consequences, briefed below for your review.
1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity occurs at 5 AM.
2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal, and though cooking is far from my specialty, why you suggested that I eat mashed potatoes with bbq sauce coupled by a veggie corn dog and some stale corn chips (washed down with cranberry juice and topped off with a Kit Kat) is beyond me. Eclectic eater I am, but I think you went a little too far.
3. Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me I need to do yoga more to increase my balance, I see NO need to hammer the issue home by causing me to fall down the stairs. Completely unnecessary.
4. Spelling Bees: Reference point 1 (Phone Calls) above, but even if calling 411 for Courtney Cox's number (in LA, I believe) IS a grand idea, the fact that you temporarily suspended my ability to spell her last name surely amused the operator. Surprisingly enough, she didn't seem to be listed.
5. Pictures: This is a blessing in disguise, as it can often clarify the last point below, but the following costumes are therefore banned from being placed on my head in public: Indian Wigs, Sombreros, Bows, Ties, Boxes, upside-down cups, bras.
6. Beer Goggles: If I think I may know her from somewhere, I most likely do not. PLEASE do not request that I go over and see if in fact, I do actually know that person. This is similar to the old "Hey, you're in my class" syndrome circa 1992 , and should heretofore be rendered illegal. Coupled with this is the phrase "Let's Make Out." While I may be thinking this, please reinstate the brain-mouth block that would keep this thought from being a statement, especially in public.
Further ... the subsequent hangovers have GOT to stop. Now, I know a little penance for our previous evenings' debauchery may be in order, but the 2 pm Hangover Immobility (and the new-found-trend of morning booting) is completely unacceptable. I ask that if the proper steps are proactively taken on my part (i.e., water, vitamin B, bread products, Advil) prior to going to bed/passing out facedown on the kitchen with a bag of pretzels, the hangover to be quite minimal and in no way interfere with my daily Saturday or Sunday (or any day, for that matter) activities.
Come on now, it's only fair -- you do your part, I'll do mine. Alcohol, I have enjoyed our relationship for some years now, and want to ensure that we remain on good terms. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when we just don't know what to do with the extra dollars in our pockets. In order to continue this relationship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above and address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Thursday at 5 pm (pre happy hour) on your possible solutions and hopefully we can continue this fruitful partnership.
Thank you for your prompt attention to these matters,
George, Bob and Fred are working on a very high scaffolding. Suddenly, George falls off. He is killed instantaneously. After the ambulance leaves with George's body, Bob and Fred realize they'll have to inform his wife. Bob says he's good at this sort of sensitive stuff, so he volunteers to do the job. After two hours he returns, carrying a six-pack of beer. "So did you tell her?" asks Fred. "Yep", replies Bob. "Say, where did you get the six-pack?" Bob informs Jeff. "She gave it to me." "WHAT??" exclaims Fred, "you just told her, her husband died and she gave you a six-pack??" "Sure," Bob says. "WHY?" asks Fred. "Well," Bob continues, "when she answered the door, I asked her, 'are you George's widow?' 'Widow?', she said, 'no, no, you're mistaken, I'm not a widow!' So I said: "I'll bet you a six-pack you ARE!'"
There was this Indian chief named Chief Bowels. The neighboring town wanted to build a golf course on his land, and this made the chief very angry, so he sends a messenger to the council office, which was in the same building as the doctor's office. The messenger goes in the wrong door, goes to the doctor and says, "Bowels not move." So the doctor gives him a pill. The messenger takes the pill back to the chief. The next day the messenger is back and says , "Bowels still not move." So the doctor gives him a stronger pill. The next day, same thing, the messenger comes back "Bowels STILL no move." So the doctor gives him the strongest pills he has. The next day, the messenger comes back and says, "Bowels HAD to move. Tepee full of s--t."
ISP Unhappy Customer
1) Americans and Canadians are not the only ones who get poor service from their ISP, cable and/or alarm companies. (NTL is a cable operator in Britain).
2) The Brits probably write the world's best letters of complaint.
WARNING: some adult content
I have been an NTL customer since 9th July 2001, when I signed up for your four-in-one deal for cable TV, cable modem, telephone, and alarm monitoring. During this three-month period I have encountered inadequacy of service which I had not previously considered possible, as well as ignorance and stupidity of monolithic proportions. Please allow me to provide specific details, so that you can either pursue your professional prerogative and seek to rectify these difficulties -- or more likely (I suspect) so that you can have some entertaining reading material as you while away the working day smoking B&H and drinking vendor-coffee on the bog in your office.
My initial installation was cancelled without warning, resulting in my spending an entire Saturday sitting on my fat arse waiting for your technician to arrive. When he did not arrive, I spent a further 57 minutes listening to your infuriating hold music, and the even more annoying Scottish robot woman telling me to look at your helpful website. HOW? I alleviated the boredom by playing with my testicles for a few minutes -- an activity at which you are no doubt both familiar and highly adept.
The rescheduled installation then took place some two weeks later, although the technician did forget to bring a number of vital tools -- such as a drill-bit, and his cerebrum. Two weeks later, my cable modem had still not arrived. After 15 telephone calls over four weeks my modem arrived, six weeks after I had requested it -- and begun to pay for it. I estimate your internet server's downtime is roughly 35% -- the hours between about 6 pm and midnight, Monday through Friday, and most of the weekend. I am still waiting for my telephone connection. I have made nine calls on my mobile to your no-help line, and have been unhelpfully transferred to a variety of disinterested individuals who are, it seems, also highly skilled bollock jugglers. I have been informed that a telephone line is available (and someone will call me back); that I will be transferred to someone who knows whether or not a telephone line is available (and then been cut off); that I will be transferred to someone (and then been redirected to an answering machine informing me that your office is closed); that I will be transferred to someone and then been redirected to the irritating Scottish robot woman. And several other variations on this theme.
Doubtless you are no longer reading this letter, as you have at least a thousand other dissatisfied customers to ignore, and also another one of those crucially important testicle moments to attend to. Frankly I don't care. It's far more satisfying as a customer to voice my frustrations in print than to shout them at your unending hold music.
Forgive me, therefore, if I continue. I thought British Telecom was shit; that they had attained the holy piss-pot of god-awful customer relations; and that no one, anywhere, ever, could be more disinterested, less helpful or more obstructive to delivering service to their customers. That's why I chose NTL, and because, well, there isn't anyone else is there. How surprised I therefore was, when I discovered to my considerable dissatisfaction and disappointment what a useless shower of bastards you truly are. You are sputum-filled pieces of distended rectum incompetents of the highest order. BT -- wankers though they are -- shine like brilliant beacons of success in the filthy mire of your seemingly limitless inadequacy.
Suffice to say that I have now given up on my futile and foolhardy quest to receive any kind of service from you. I suggest that you cease any potential future attempts to extort payment from me for the services which you have so pointedly and catastrophically failed to deliver. Any such activity will be greeted initially with hilarity and disbelief and will quickly be replaced by derision, and even perhaps bemused rage.
I enclose two small deposits, selected with great care from my cat's litter tray, as an expression of my utter and complete contempt for both you and your pointless company. I sincerely hope that they have not become desiccated during transit -- they were satisfyingly moist at the time of posting, and
I would feel considerable disappointment if you did not experience both their rich aroma and delicate texture. Consider them the very embodiment of my feelings towards NTL, and its worthless employees.
Have a nice day. May it be the last in your miserable short lives, you irritatingly incompetent and infuriatingly unhelpful bunch of twits.