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Thursday, February 3, 2011

In Which I'm Caught In A Customer Service Loop Of Lunacy

Okay, so remember last year when I was convinced the bug world had put a hit out on me because the creepy crawly sons of bitches kept ambushing me? Well now I believe automated customer service phone systems are conspiring to Gaslight me.

(Gaslight is a classic 1940s thriller in which Charles Boyer marries Ingrid Bergman and sets about to convince her she's going mad so he can have her committed enabling him to freely search the house for Ingrid's Aunt's (whom he's murdered, by the way) missing jewels. Great Gent, that Chuck. "Gaslighting" someone is pop cultural slang for intentionally tricking someone into thinking he/she is bonkers.)

Last year I grappled with a grizzly gas pump that gave me the third degree, sucking up what was left of my youth by asking me 20 zillion questions before it would entertain the notion of releasing its crude. I had to threaten to throw down before it would allow me the "pleasure" of pumping my own frelling gasoline.


Fast forward to this morning.

Point of fact: I'm susceptible to the allure of the infomercial. It's a job hazard working in television on weekends when filler programming consists of 90% video hucksters and 10% locally produced, mind-melting BS.

Case in point, I got sucked into a Cindy Crawford fronted face care cult regiment. Hey, I'm a gal of "a certain age" whose skin used to be as lush and moist as a welcomed Oasis, but is now more akin to the surrounding arid and dusty Mohave dessert. In my defense, the moisturizers are terrific. Really. They're great, but it's one of those deals where you pay a certain amount every month for a shipment of product which continues in perpetuity, until one day you find yourself unwittingly surrounded by teetering towers of boxes filled with enough of this shit to make the faces of an entire village populace in the Andes feel baby butt smooth.

Like mushrooms they grow.

Well said, Yoda.

Anywho, today I hopped on the horn to suspend my shipments until which time I find myself in need of product replenishment, say, oh...early 2020. Since most businesses refuse to actually speak with customers because, you know, people are icky, they have adopted more of a "just shut up and pay the bill, Round Eye" kind of philosophy by instituting an automated customer service menu. 

Yeah. Yeah. It's supposed to speed up the process by vetting questions in order to efficiently direct your query to the corresponding robotic operator, but I believe it's a conspiracy to send you round and round until you're so confused and frustrated you want to strangle yourself with the phone cord to bring on the sweet relief of death. 

It started off like any other service call.

Evil Automated Chippie: Welcome to Blah Blah Blah. In order to assist you better, please state what it is you need today. For example, say "fill an order" or "check payment schedule". Okay. Go ahead.

Me: Suspend my account.

EAC: Okay. So that was "place an order" right?

Me: Um...No.

EAC: Okay. Let's try a different way. State what we can do for you today. Say "Check on my order status." Okay. Go ahead (idiot).

Me: Suspend my accou... Wait. What did you call me?

EAC: So that was "File a new credit card" right? (asshat)

Me: What the..?! NO! Did you just call me an as--

EAC: Alright clam down, loser. Let's try this one more time because clearly you are a slow learner. I'll speak s-l-o-w-l-y... S-t-a-t-e  w-h-a-t  y-o-u  w-a-n-t  u-s  t-o  d-o. (rolls mechanical eyes)

Me: Hey, what's with the attitude, jerk? And don't think I didn't hear your eyes rolling out of your robotic eye sockets. I'm done with you. I want to talk to an operator.

EAC: Sphincter says what?

Me: What? Oh nice! You're a douche. (pushes "0" a thousand times)

EAC: Ahahahahahaha! I can't believe you fell for that. What a tool. *snort* Hold your knickers, Grandma. I grow tired of you now. Transferring.

Me: (pounds head with receiver repeatedly)

What fresh Hell is this?

Just another trip around the customer service loop of lunacy.

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