TicketMaster Is Evil Incarnate
or stop sucking the life out of me and my mortal desires
Okay, so someone needs to put a hit out on TicketMaster. Seriously.
That organization is truly the Spawn of Satan himself. I jumped online at 10am sharp this morning to procure four tickets to an upcoming Wilco concert via a pre-sale through the very best radio station in the world, WYEP. First the Devilish Dickhead informed me the password was incorrect.
After figuring out the spacing was the issue, Lucifer-light let me in to the crazy word-scramble security check page. You know the one. You're prompted to retype two words exactly as they appear only there's always some sort of black bar/smudge conveniently placed over key letters as to make it nye impossible for middle-aged orbs to decipher exactly what the HELL that jumble of so-called English is meant to be....
Anywho, I finally get to that page in which my secret code is "imbibe steel" and I think, "Alright. Alright. Alright. I'm in!!" because, really, "imbibe"... what more perfect term is there for me than "imbibe"? It's like the computer knows who I am. It's gotta be a good sign, right?
Beelzebub kicks me out with a haughty, "check your password, change your ticket number request, check your underwear for skid marks..." Because if there's one thing Satan hates...it's dirty underwear.
So, of course I keep trying because my buddy, K-Schnikes is counting on me. I change up the amount of tickets requested, the price range, the all-cap vs. lower case password typing... all the while navigating through the gauntlet of security passwords such as
"speed tapped" (another appropriate one for me, the speeding ticket queen)
"bayed at" (obviously an homage to Twilight. Satan is apparently a sucker for inane teeny-bopper lit.)
and "outlive Vance" (why TicketTwit has it in for Vance, I have no idea. Maybe Vance slipped Mrs. T the tongue on New Year's Eve and the Evil-Doer is still miffed.)
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Then that Bastard just got mean and called me "muumuu arms".
Hey! There's no need for name calling. You never make sport of a near 50-year-old's jiggly, velvet flesh, waving triceps.
That was the last straw. So I took out my gun and shot it right between it's evil, red, devil-dog eyes, screaming "this is for all the souls you've eaten in their quest for entertainment... (click click POW!) and this is for the stupid $2800 surcharge for "handling"... (click click POW!) and this is for calling me MuuMuu Arms, Dickhead... (click click POW!POW!POW!)
Okay, so in my head it was a beautiful mass of righteous carnage. Vindication for all of us kicked to the curb from the speeding mini van driven by that maniacal Mephistopheles, TicketMaster.
But, alas... I must try again tomorrow. And it better work.
I've got only one thing to say to you, TicketMaster:
...and everyone who looks like you.