Even Satan gets bad customer service

This politically incorrect essay was sent to me by Tshirt Hell's cutthroat writist. I love the style, tone, and unclean feeling it gives me to laugh at his blatant disregard for humanity. It explores the problems of getting help over the phone. It's quite well written, and mean just in the way I like. And - it's about customer service - the theme of this blog.

Please read and enjoy.

Customer Disservice

"Hello and how may I provide you with excellent customer service?"  
Do these words strike fear in your heart, too? There's nothing worse than
trying to get something done over the phone these day.  And nothing
sets my tits on fire faster than when some oily stammering goat herder
in New Delhi wants to start off our conversation with something we both
know is complete bullshit. If they just had the courtesy to begin by
saying, "how may I provide you with barely acceptable customer service"
at least we wouldn't have to start off on the wrong foot.  If you need
to handle something over the phone, you better pop in a porno and pack
a lunch because it will take all fucking day.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. At this point you're nowhere near
talking to a person, yet.  One time I went so long without getting a
person on the phone I ended up talking to a bloody volleyball.  Unless
that was Tom Hanks. Yes, I ended up talking to Tom Hanks.  Bor-ing.  
Anyway, before you get any help you have to navigate through 35 levels
of  voicemail. They always start with the same question.
"For English, press 1: nachos Espanol, sombrero numero dos."
How the fuck did this happen? Last time I checked this was America.
And in America, no one speaks English, but they're certainly not all
jabbering in Spanish.  And besides, how many people in America actually
have a Spanish phone with a numero dos on it?

Nice job setting up the voice mail by the way.  God forbid you should press
'1' to get customer service.  '1' is always some department that no one could
possibly want to speak to like, 'Resource Market Development'. How do they get
to be first?  I blame the Spanish. If you do manage to get the right department,
then you have to punch in every number associated with your life.  Your 48 digit
account number, your social security number, your birthday, how many inches is
your father's cock, how many inches can your father take in the ass? When you're
finally through this maze; you used to get a human being. But now you get a robot.
Like I'm supposed to believe this robot wants to help me?  That sweet sounding
robot just wants to find out where I live so it can tear out my heart and stop
me from fulfilling my destiny of leading the rag tag army of human resistance
fighters. Never talk to the robot.  Never do what the robot tells you to do.
They will eventually let you speak to one of the last humans tucked away in
the back: the ones they're saving for their robot zoo.

Although the human is generally no more help.  Apparently, the robots have
lobotomized the humans so they can only read from a script.  They're waiting;
slowly eating their steaming bowls of curry.  They're waiting for you to mention
one or two key words so that they can give you directions on something completely
unrelated to what you asked them.

This is him:  "Hi this is Steve (or some other phony American name).  How may
I provide you with excellent customer service?"

This is me:  "Hi Saptajit, thanks for helping me out."

Him:  "Out?  If your cable is out, please turn off your cable box."

Me:  "Wait a second."

Him:  "Second?  If you'd like to add a second cable box you need the Sales
department.  Please hold while I connect you.

Me:  Damn you Saptajit!  Don't make me kill your cow!

When they put you on hold they do one of two things.  They play some horrible
easy listening music.  This is a complete misnomer.  This music is anything but
easy to listen to.  They should call it "stab yourself in the ears with an icepick
to make it stop" music.  Or, they play some advertisement for the company
(over the same crappy easy listening music) telling you how happy they are to
have some of your money and why you should give them the rest of it.

When they transfer you., they always give you the phone number of the person
they're connecting you to, in case you're disconnected.  It's 2005. How are we
still getting disconnected?  There is no giant switchboard where they're plugging
and unplugging the lines into little holes?  The telephone was invented in 1876.
I think transferring calls should be ready by now. I eventually manage to get back
to the Billing department.  It's the same guy. He now has no idea who I am.  
He needs to ask me all of my information again.  And then the dreaded question:
what is your password?

That's right:  five years ago when you signed up for this service, you created
a password.  Now, I'm just trying to pay my bill.  I know they have to be careful
in this age of identity theft and other nefarious schemes; but are there really
a lot of people impersonating me trying to settle up my unpaid balance?  
Just wait until the West Africans get their hands on this sweet scam.  
They'll use their unclaimed millions to pay for everything! 

I never know what I used for my password and they won't give you a hint.  So now
I'm giving Saptajit the passwords to every account I have.  Now he can read my
email, access my bank account, and rent movies online.  I find that if I start
insulting them at this point, instead of guessing passwords, they eventually
give in.

Me:  "Hmmm?  Is it, 'you suck?'  Is that my password"

Him: "No."

Me: "Shitbrain? You're brain dead?  Your head is full of sand and fleas?"

Him:  "No, none of those."

Me:  "You sister is the dirtiest slut in Calcutta whose cunt is filled with the
broken off penises of all of the lepers who've fucked her?"

Him:  "(Sigh)  It might be your mother's maiden name."

Me:  "See?  Was that so bad?"

Him:  "Bad?"  If your reception is bad you need Technical Services. Please wait
while I transfer your call."

I was going to go to India and kill Saptajit and his cow.  I would tie him to
four different rickshaws and tear him to pieces.  But there was a problem with
my ticket and I'm not going to call the airline.  Soon Saptajit, soon.

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